Hello, I have been keeping a blog about my family’s travels around the world.
Last winter, we set off with our three small children to North America and Australasia, funded by selling our entire life in the UK. Gambling the remains of the pot on a new life in the African tourist resort of Santa Maria, Cape Verde, we rolled the dice. And lost.
But we had plenty of fun at the party and it’s not quite time to grab my coat.
We have dined with the Italian mafia and sold slush puppies to the President of Cape Verde, but our fondest memories are the everyday highs and lows, here on our little piece of desert island paradise.
I have taken extracts from different sections of the journey, which are part of a book that I am hoping to publish.
They are my Twelve days of Christmas blog for you to enjoy over the holiday season.
1. An introduction to my family.
Preparing for take-off: Bishop’s Stortford, UK.
Collecting the Campervan: San Francisco, USA .
2. Howdy from the Wild, Wild West: Tombstone, USA.
3. Deepest darkest Mexico: Tijuana.
4. “Danger Box Jellyfish !!!” : Waikiki, Honolulu, USA.
5. On the road to nowhere: Wellington, New Zealand.
6. Bondi Beach bonanza: Australia.
7. Happy New Year, once more: Hong Kong.
8. Our arrival in Cape Verde and first impressions: March 2011
9. Settling into Cape Verde: May 2011
10. The day we realised out business venture was failing: Friday 11th November, 2011
11. Looking for answers: The End of November, 2011
12. Where we stand today: December 2011
To my family and friends, I hope you enjoy my blog.
I don't have an heirloom to pass onto my children. Even a Pandora charm bracelet will be an item left unticked on my Christmas list this year. However, I do have one treasure that I can pass on, which is the account of the year we flew around the world and settled in Cape Verde, Africa. The soaring highs and the naked lows.
It's the story of our fantastic family adventure, a journey that will affect them for the rest of their lives, but they will be too young to remember.
This journey is blogged, not for a yearning to be famous. I just want the ammunition to hurl back at my children when they reach the moody teenage years, and accuse me of adding nothing of interest to their exciting lives. I want them to be astonished at their childhood experiences and proud of our achievements.
We are Channel 4's My Family's Gap Year rejects. We weren't interesting enough for them, you could suppose. I disagree.
To any other readers who have stumbled across the blog, here's an intro to our family...
Me ... the youngest child of working class parents, and upholding the glorious title of "first person in the family to go to university," destined to be a captain of industry. A foreign language/business student, who, inspired by exotic holidays to Benidorm and Torremolinos in the 1970's, became an au pair, graduated to travel rep in Majorca, and finally set off to wander the rest of the world. After dabbling in the dizzy, metropolitan heights of Investment Banking (much to my father's pride), I dropped back into my comfort zone as a travel agent.
Hubby ... Tony. A similar story, except you can swap the words Benidorm and Torremolinos for Weston-super-Mare and Clacton. And he wasn't an au pair. After a clichéd hate-at-first-sight encounter at Bondi Beach, we became best friends and lovers, and finally proud parents to our three young chicks...
Daniel ... the youngest. He started off his round the world campaign aged three and will forget the whole experience, except perhaps the different ice cream flavours on sale in Hawaii and Hong Kong. We call him our "polar bear" - he flits between fluffy and fair-haired to ferocious and feral with surprising ease.
Joseph ... the middle one. Aged six. He adores people and all animals (except cockroaches) and secured the early nickname of "My Little Lamb," as he follows me everywhere I go. He brims full of love and happiness, and then plummets to the depths of despair only a teenager suffers, leading to his more recent nickname of "bi-polar bear."
Holly ... the eldest. Aged nine. Not a cuddly koala, by any means. Tall, sensible, graceful and mature. A constant ray of happiness. "Holly Magpie" yearns for more gold than King Midas. She's disappointed that we have no stashed-away wealth to bequeath her, but the riches, I believe are held in the tale of our amazing family journey.
The following are extracts from the blog…
Preparing for take-off: Bishop’s Stortford, UK
I first heard the word "pre-party" in Las Vegas, as we "pre-partied" with our über-cool friends from Los Angeles. Our friendship began in December 1999, pre-mortgage, pre-marriage and pre-children, at the peak of our invincible twenty-something empire days. We welcomed in the New Millennium with a two week Italian coach trip for under 30's, soaking up the fine architecture and gastronomy of Rome and Venice by day, and bedding down in 2 star backpacker hostels by night. That's us, in a nutshell. We seek the adventures of Jules Verne, but with the budget of Ray Mears.
I first heard the word "pre-party" in Las Vegas, as we "pre-partied" with our über-cool friends from Los Angeles. Our friendship began in December 1999, pre-mortgage, pre-marriage and pre-children, at the peak of our invincible twenty-something empire days. We welcomed in the New Millennium with a two week Italian coach trip for under 30's, soaking up the fine architecture and gastronomy of Rome and Venice by day, and bedding down in 2 star backpacker hostels by night. That's us, in a nutshell. We seek the adventures of Jules Verne, but with the budget of Ray Mears.
Forward ten years, forget the pre-party – I just crave a party. Three beautiful children, a loving husband, the dream family home and the stagnant life of a mortgage we couldn't afford in the abyss of the recession. Taking the only option that comes naturally to us in difficult times: we sold up and ran away. We booked a round the world ticket for five, followed by a ski trip to Bulgaria, and topped it off with a stab at emigrating - to a group of intoxicating African Islands called Cape Verde, west of the Senegalese mainland.
In the build up to our round the world extravaganza, we tried to chivvy up the kids into a frenzy of wanderlust. We could swap the Christmas Eve Strictly Final on the telly for jet skiing on a tropical beach. Their thrill was neutralised with worries over whether Santa would know how to find us. Secretly, I would miss the cold, crisp white Christmas, but a little sacrifice would go a long way.
After packing up the final belongings from our rented bedsit, we dropped the keys at the estate agent’s, and set off on our Grand Tour. To Stratford-upon-Avon, on December 3rd 2010.
We had booked tickets to see “Matilda: The Musical” back in May. Mindful of the kids' potential lack of culture in the forthcoming year (we were visiting the USA, NZ and Australia, after all), we thought a theatre production would be a fabulous pre-party introduction to the trip.
Two hours of wafting glow-in-the-dark wands and cowering from Miss Trunchbull, and we headed South, down the motorway to sleep at friend’s flat near Heathrow airport. Twenty minutes into the M40 and the heavens released a treacherous blizzard the White Witch of Narnia would have fought to unleash.
Shuffling down the one visible motorway lane, past three car accident wrecks, I regretted yearning for the white Christmas I would sacrifice. Be careful for what you wish for. We side-stepped the friend’s cosy flat and headed straight for Heathrow's long-stay car park. The five of us burrowed down for a night’s sleep in the Citroen Picasso, shrouded in blankets and rucksacks. In spite of our nestled body warmth, Tony woke up almost hourly to switch on the car heater.
Eskimos we were not.
Early morning, and we slumbered out of hibernation, with the cold winter sun veiled behind the grey mist of dawn. Inches deep in snow we boarded the courtesy bus, unsure if our holiday of a lifetime would be cancelled before it had even begun.
Collecting the Campervan: San Francisco, USA
9 December 2011, San Francisco to Carmel-by-Sea
With the alarm clock set for a punishing early morning wake-up, I enjoyed three hours of training at the gym, working off a fine selection of Ghirardelli chocolates and ice creams. The venue was a converted, old-fashioned theatre in a bohemian suburb of the city. Gilted theatre masks watched me pound away to Body Pump and Combat, followed by Circuit Training. The Dress Circle housed the cross-training machines, like a troop of solemn theatre ghosts, haunting me from their darkness high above. The playhouse stage offered every Personal Trainer his ultimate ego podium on which to perform.
At lunchtime, with rucksacks loaded, we schlepped over to nearby Oakland, eager to meet our 5 berth Campervan RV. The metro train stopped outside the Oakland Raiders American Football Stadium, rival to the famous San Francisco 49ers team.
Fuzzy with memories of Joe Montana from my hormonal teenage years, I gazed up from my map to ask a local resident the directions to the RV depot. He cautioned us to head straight there and keep strictly to the main road; the neighbourhood was way too dangerous for a bunch of tourists. Unruffled, I felt like Dorothy taking her first steps on the yellow brick road, full of the anticipation of adventure and a welcome ending. Gradually, I noticed the graffiti, the boarded up windows and the discarded sofas lying dead by the train track. Thankfully not a flying monkey in sight, but certainly no Gangsta’s Paradise.
At lunchtime, with rucksacks loaded, we schlepped over to nearby Oakland, eager to meet our 5 berth Campervan RV. The metro train stopped outside the Oakland Raiders American Football Stadium, rival to the famous San Francisco 49ers team.
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| Great taste for a teenager! |
We did stand out a little: Pentax camera swinging round the neck, bumbag gripping the waist, white knuckles grasping tiny hands.
In the improvised words of Dory in Finding Nemo, I mantra-ed “Just keep walking, just keep walking…” through the jellyfish sea of hoodies and bandanas we weaved, to the safety of the campervan man.
Collecting the camper was a breeze, if you’re a pro with petrol tanks, water tanks, grey waste, black waste, gears, brakes and lighting. Ahem. The only setback was the missing GPS Satnav – a minor glitch in our 3,000 kilometre road trip.
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| OK this is Las Vegas, but it's a great photo of the camper |
So, we rocked up to the local Wal-Mart up in a spanking new RV. It was a regular Tesco Extra scenario, no problems there, just imagine the scene at 1a.m. on a Saturday morning, down the Bacardi Breezer aisle. These guys were most definitely too cool for school.
Tony began by flashing his NatWest credit card to purchase the Satnav and was immediately swamped by interested piranhas.
Taking the easy option, I grabbed a trolley, ready to buy grocery supplies. Personally, when we pop to a new country, I relish poring over the dazzling brands and novelty products on the shelves. Pretzel-flavoured M&Ms, let me at ‘em. Baby Ruth’s, yes please! 3 Musketeers choccie bar? – whatever, it’s still going in the trolley.
Today, I would have trounced my competition on Dale Winton’s “Supermarket Sweep.” Two minutes into my trolley dash, and a swift tut and reproach from a ginormous “lady,” bellowing for me and my kids to get out of the goddam way, I pretty much grabbed anything to hand. Milk. Check. Orange juice. Check. Ovulation kit. Check.
A chatty shelf stacker asked us where we came from, with our quaint accents (Romford??) and have we ever met the queen? A respite of calm in the eye of the storm. Suddenly, with the drama of a Hollywood blockbuster movie trailer (but without the macho gravelly voice), she sombrely warned us to grab the kids and get out of there. A local teenager had been shot dead the previous week by white policemen and tension was crackling in the air. They were literally gunning for retribution. “Just keep shopping, just keep shopping…”
Nearly home free and out shrilled the immortal words, “Mummy, I need a wee!” Let’s find Daddy. He corralled the kids as I braved the longest check-out queue, ever. I could empathise with the agony of a drug-smuggler passing through Customs. Tick-tock, keep breathing. Tick-tock, casually mop the sweaty bow. Tick-tock, Come on, COME ON!!!
Mercifully, my credit card PIN was accepted and we stampeded to the exit doors. We swung round the corner and both turned to where the camper had been parked. With utter relief, there she stood, shining valiantly, vulnerable and inviting, with all four wheels attached. So, we didn’t even put the milk in the fridge, just plugged in Ms Satnav (we hilariously opted for the New Zealand accent) and got the hell out of there…
Tony triumphed splendidly as my designated driver – a veritable King Arthur, questing out into the unknown. Following a monster of a day so far, our plan heralded a pleasant jaunt down the Big Sur ocean drive to Monterey, taking in some world famous Monterey Jack cheese for dinner. And, if we felt like it, a little extra effort would take us to Carmel-by-the-Sea (of Clint Eastwood fame) by bedtime.
Let’s re-edit events, shall we? The camper crawled along the jammed motorway for three hours, and passed straight through Monterey, the two grown-ups guffawing at Otis Spunkmeyer’s cookie van, (see attached photo). We found the Big Sur by nightfall and drove round in circles in a pitch-black Carmel. We couldn't find the campsite, but managed to whack the roof of the camper many, many times, driving down the leafy residential lanes. Exhausted, close to tears and determined to prevent any further damage, Tony parked up for the night in a car park at 11pm.
Not quite the idyllic “eating farmer’s market cheese and grapes with freshly baked bread at sunset” dinner we had hoped for, but we would be more organised tomorrow.
Not quite the idyllic “eating farmer’s market cheese and grapes with freshly baked bread at sunset” dinner we had hoped for, but we would be more organised tomorrow.
“Put your pants on, sir” boomed through the loud-speaker. Tony flung open the camper door to a gruff-and-ready police officer. Amusingly (to us), we had parked in a High School car park. We sustained a stern ticking off and count-yourself-lucky chat with our friend in blue.
He advised us to park at the Wal-Mart about 20 minutes drive away, as it has a Good Sam agreement. This means it’s the only free legal parking spot for campervans in the USA. “Thank you for all your help, Officer and goodnight.”
At 1.30am, we parked up in a Home Depot store (B&Q) and took our chances for the night.
Carmel by Day Carmel by Night
I know it sounds ridiculous, but this was one of the best days of our travels. It was like starring in a real-time series of “24.” But that’s what made it fun. Challenge after challenge, our expectations were blown apart and switched for experiences we didn’t actually choose.
I smile with truly fond memories, particularly at the Wal-Mart shopping episode, and I don’t know why. But I hope this continues.
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