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As the day ended today, I went out on deck to once again watch the sunset. Being here in Indonesia, and being out of the sight of land, and as there have been no passing whales, we have to get our entertainment when and where we can. Being on a ship, just south of the equator, in Indonesia sounds so exciting and dramatic. When I fact, the humdrum fact is most days are the same, and after 18 days at sea, nearly 10,000km travelled in that time, we have settled down into something of a routine. The one thing we do, those of who can, is to go up onto deck at about a quarter after five and watch the sun go down. Being on the equator, and being off the beaten track, there are no jet trails to spoil the clouds, hardly any birds even, just the sight of the sun finishing it’s day by turning orange and then red, before finally disappearing below the horizon and turning the rest of the sky a myriad of oranges and red and pinks. And then when the sun had set, it turned the sky the same bright colours before taking an hour to slowly fade to black.

Whilst directly above us the sickle moon came out, in close attendance was Venus, as bright as ever. A perfect evening, really. There are times when I hate this job; being away from home for nine or thirteen weeks at a time, not being home, not being able to do the simple things like going for a walk to the corner shop or listening to the radio. But there are times, like every evening, or when the Blue Whales came past at the weekend when I realise how damned lucky I am. This afternoon, those on nightshift sat on deck catching the sun which had graced us with its presence, those of us who managed to get away from our jobs below joined them; for an hours quiet conversation and to look at the passing waves and maybe the meaning of life.

I have had my share of crappy jobs, like the last one, delivering awful chemicals; 12 hours a day, 5 days a week and for enough money just to keep the bank from my door. And then when I started to stand up for myself, they ‘let me go.’ And I was this close to the bank taking back my house. A really bad situation. Two months later, I was on board my first ship in Indonesia, off the coast of Borneo, amazed had how things change, and how thankful I was that they had sacked me, and that one fateful call to an agency, and here I was. Seeing passing tropical islands, volcanoes, and primordial mountainous landscapes, covered with rain forests and still active volcanoes. Now 8 months has passed by, my life has changed beyond recognition; I have this job, money, time off, and moved in with a very special lady, and at the end of August I can look forward to many weeks at home, some decent coffee, and the love of a good woman.

Not every door that closes is bad, as another, better door might just open. If it can happen to me, it can happen to anyone.

Here we sit, in a 40 year old former trawler, in the Banda Sea off the southern coast of Timor. Our connection to the outside world is a narrow band of ones and zeros that go to a geosynchronous satellite hundreds of miles above our heads. While down here, a series of magic boxes transform that stream of binary code into e mails and pages from we web. That link is very frail, and one mistake, or a failure in any one of those magic boxes, and were are cast adrift, alone on a sea of ignorance; with just the occasional passing whale to keep us company. And so last night, that link did indeed fail, staring at five of said boxes, in my hand just three possible frequencies to tune on of the boxes into. It became clear, that it was more complicated than that; the right height and attitude of our dish as well, vital, and that we had no idea. Except, our party chief remembered an alignment, and set the dish up, and we got a signal, but no net; no phone call, and a very poor e mail connection. The possibility of three weeks with just the occasional daily e mail from home awaited.

As it turned out, maybe the net was undergoing maintenance; or the part of it we use, anyway. Whatever, this morning, we have the net back, we have e mail and we have telephone; hurrah!

All that was an exciting end to a quiet day, the highlight of which was a discussion on who did least work on the ship. The gravity guy won out with his 5 minutes to download 200K of bits and bytes and to transfer them to a central folder; I cam second with my 5 minutes to back up data, maybe sit in for Lee and Panya, and the velocity probe every other day; Paul was third with his 20 minutes every 5 hours or so. Of course, this is when everything goes well, and as we saw the other day, it takes just one bad bit of code to ruin ours and the company's day. Sad to have to share our quiet days with those who i know work far harder than we do, and for much less pay; but what can you do?

Three weeks today, I arrive back in olde England, which does not seem so long now, sounds much better than the nine it was when I left a cold and wet Heathrow nearly seven weeks ago. Oh, and Kevin in the office is hoping that Panya and I want to doa third month, and then maybe another two and a half weeks after that to see the end of the job out. Coming four days after I sent him an e mail to let him know in plenty of time to organise a replacement to come out. Cheeky git! No way I am I going to be on here when the good ship Hope sails out of Kupang on August 24th.

woke up this morning, unaware that just by looking at the date, it would cause me to think of days past. Well, it is the 8th of August, and I looked at the date and thought that something important happened to me on this day in the past. A few moments to clear the cobwebs out of the old grey matter, and BING! There it was, a wedding anniversary: My first marriage in fact. We got married on a Saturday in 1992, and what a day that was. Andrea was from Yugoslavia, and had met my parents whilst both families were on holiday in what is now Bosnia. She wrote to my Mum, and came over one year for two weeks. And in 1991, failed her exams and asked to come over for a few months to study English so she could enter language college back home.

Anyway, that was the story; what it was really about, when she came over a few years before, liked what she saw, and decided to try to get to live here, one way or another. So, there I was, just joined the Air Force, stationed near home, and able to get home every weekend. Mother would say, would you take Andrea out with you tonight, she has been bored this week. And so, I did. Can you see where this is heading?

Within two months we were a couple, or a secret couple, and even when my parents found out, they seemed pleased. A few months later, she dropped a bombshell; she would have to go back home that summer unless she could find a way to lengthen her visa, but even then she was running out of money. So, the choice; risk everything and do the decent, honourable thing, or let her go back. I sank to my knee.

My parents were horrified, and made both our lives misery. In fact my Mother was jealous, very jealous, and tried everything to get us to split up. I can’t say that she showed herself in the best light for those months. We even toyed of running away to Gretna and getting married there without telling anyone. But we didn’t. Instead, we decided to pay for the whole damn thing ourselves, so we didn’t have my parents using that to beat us with later. It was hard, but the wedding, every part of it, was ours. We got to invite who we wanted, organise the flowers, etc, the cars, just what we wanted; or what we could afford. But it was our day. The day itself was glorious, really bright sunny day, and her parents had come over from Yugoslavia, they were so happy. My parents just glared. The night before I got out of the house just to be away from them; I spent the last night as a single man, alone in a bar.

The ceremony went well, just a quiet registry office thing, opposite the exit from Somerfields supermarket is the romantic location of the office in Lowestoft. We went to some picturesque gardens for the formal pictures, and had what turned out to be the last time my family had their picture taken. Many happy faces, and two, my parents, scowling. That night, we had a ‘disco’ at a small pub in the town, some of my friends from work had come; even after travelling down from Scotland from the funeral of someone who we worked with. My family just sat in the corner, nursing one drink, and looking miserable, the atmosphere was terrible. We tried to make light of it, but to have ones own Mother kick up a hissy fit because she was not thanked in my speech, instead lamenting the friend who could not make it because he had died, decided to act like a bitch instead. After some two hours of this, Andrea and I decided to walk out of our own wedding reception. We called for a taxi, and went to the hotel we were going to spend that night.

Sadly, our marriage was not well starred either; it turned out she had married me for a passport, and so after a year or so began to really hate our relationship, and things got very bad, quite quickly. The really sad thing was that I was head over heels in love with her, and was for a long time; and then one day, I realised I didn’t even like my wife as a person. From then on, it was just a matter of time before I gave in. She realised too late how bad things were, and how I felt; and all sorts of promises were made to change, not to act the ways she had been. But it was all too late.

I walked out on May 1st, 2005; and never looked back. I knew right away it was the right thing to do, and I could never go back. And yet I did not have the strength to tell her. She did guess in the end, but her main worry was what to tell her parents, and then, what about her passport, as she still did not have it. I last saw her they day before my Father passed away, she spat at me, as I had divorced her and got on with my life. Strangely enough, she has tried to contact me this year, seeing if I would take her and her two children, as she was unhappy with her current husband. She also admitted to sitting outside my Mother’s house one weekend last year in case I visited. I told her, via e mail, in no uncertain terms, I would never have her back, and listed the reasons; or some of them.

So today, I celebrate, not an anniversary, but the fact I am happy, as happy as I have been as an adult. Have a good day.

When you have been at sea for four weeks, although that is not a long time, the shock of arriving in a bustling port is a shock. Maybe even more so in Indonesia, where the arrival of any ship is a possible money making exercise.

To approach Kupang, we have to travel down an ever narrowing channel, as usual, the sun is out, and the side of the channel shelter us from the strong breeze we have had the last few weeks; the result is the temperature out on deck skyrockets. As the jobs that are needed to be done are finished before we get to port are completed, more and more of the crew come out on deck to watch the approach of civilisation. Into the rising sun, a chemical plant can be seen, throwing thick black fumes into the azure sky. Small fishing boats head out at the start of another day, whilst on shore as we pass small villages, the cooking fires are already sending thin wisps of smoke into the heavens. Kupang is the main port in West Timor, the Indonesian part, and once was a haven for back-packers from Australia and New Zealand on their way to Asia and beyond. Since the was in ’99, few tourists now come here, although there are bars, hotels and all the things needed to have a great holiday. The only thing really giving the game away is the faded colours and the peeling paint. The locals are so friendly, and so welcoming, and they just would love to have more visitors, but they know it is unlikely to happen.

The arrival of a ship, especially one registered in Europe attracts a small crowd, lines are thrown as we near the dock, ropes are attached, and slowly we inch to the dockside. Customs officials and Naval officers come aboard and check that we have been where we said we have, and then the usual jobs of a port call swing into action; refuelling; re-supplies and crew change. Street vendors come down, laden with fresh food, newspapers and sweet tea. Others come down with shoulders full of carpets and rugs, these people walk the length of the town trailing the trickle of tourists that still come here. These are a sad bunch of people, right at the bottom of the pile; one has some strange mouth infection that makes his gums appear orange: we see him everywhere we go. Of this I promise, if I see him at next port call, I will buy something from him; his eyes haunt me even now. As we wait to OK to be allowed some shore leave, a ferry arrives in the next dock. Large crowds await it’s arrival, and all on the side facing the shore, the passengers eagerly look out for friends and family, sometimes four or five people deep. The ferry slightly lists to one side due to the passengers. At least form a distance this ferry looks in quite good shape, and seems to have plenty of life rafts; it is not always the case around here, as sadly we know.

At last we are allowed off, a quick walk past the locals and out onto the main road out of the port, and we wait the arrival of one of the thousands of small taxi vans that get the people in Indonesia around. One pulls up, a teenager hanging out of the open door agrees a fee of 5,000 rupiah to take us the Teddy’s Bar on the beach near the centre of town. Each taxi ahs room for maybe 8 small people, it is usual to see sometimes nearly double that, with others hanging out the door.

The drive into the town takes us up the hill overlooking the port, past the chemical factory, past shacks erected in groves of trees, and past more permanent houses. Every mile or so, the taxi stops to let more people on, or some off. At first we thought we were sitting on seats, but as Bob Marley is pumped out, we realise they are bass speakers. The driver turns round and gives us a grin and with the universal sign two thumbs up, asking if we liked the music. Each taxi is decorated differently, many with western women in various states of partial undress; some with names of leading western brands, many with un-necessary spoilers, go-faster stripes and super wide wheels. We pass many more houses, and small shops, each selling small bottles of cooking oil and cigarettes, some with larger colourful banners showing westernised Indonesians with the branded product; whilst underneath, the truth is what the product is being sold from is akin to a garden shed. We all aspire to something, I guess. As the hill flattens out, we head down to the beach, more houses and shacks are there, in-between the coconut palms and other tropical trees. A small bridge carries us over the river, littered with small fishing boats and huge amounts of trash that is just thrown there. Just in case, we hold our breath too. Over the bridge we pass down a one way street, lined with small shops selling phone cards, jewellery and hundreds of other gaudy and bright things. Walking along the side of the road, you have to be careful of taxis pulling up and nearly running you over.

The taxi stops at one end of an alley, at the other end you can see a square open up, and on the other side, palm trees and bright banners advertising the local beer, Bintang. Bintang is a beer, it’s served cold, sometimes, and has an odd taste; but when you’ve been at sea for four weeks, the first hit of that beer is something else. It also comes in family sized one and a half pint bottles, which don’t seem to last as long as they should.

This time, the numerous tables around Teddy’s are crowded with what looks like Europeans, but are in fact Australians. It seems a regatta is due in port today, after covering the 450 miles from Darwin, the Aussies have the same idea as us, and head straight for the bar. New friendships are quickly made, jokes made about accents and the universal sign of friendship; can I get you another beer? Last time we were here, it was dark, and so nothing could be seen outside the bright lights that illuminate the seating area; but now in daytime, we see it’s in a prime location, right on the beach, a line of palm trees mark the promenade. Whilst just off-shore, dozens of yachts and motor launches are at anchor whilst their owners, sunburnt from the journey, re-hydrate in the bar. As the sun goes down, we walk to the beach to watch the great free show, the sky turns a millions shades of reds, oranges and pinks before turning to deep blue and then black. To the left, kids jump off a cliff, as we look on, the sun sets right behind them.

After a few beers, we think about something to eat. A local ‘fixer’ named Charlie can organise private cars, taxis to wherever; would we like a massage? Sexy girls, very cheap? We say we would like something to eat; we had heard of a good fish place Moche Moche, does he know it? Yes, and he can get us there, no problems, for 50,000 he organises two 4x4s and off into the night we go. Night time brings out more street vendors; people with handcarts filled with satay and other wonderfully fragrant foods are wheeled out. Each cart has either a small generator and sets of festive lights, or a couple of hurricane lamps to illuminate for the customers. Large crowds of people wander in and out, looking at what is on sale; whilst at some of the larger stalls, seated areas are provided, and families eat together; all on the side of the street.

Moche Moche is a fantastic place, outside braziers of hot coals on which the fish are cooked, split in half in wire containers: to one side, a small, guy with a knife half as tall as he is, splits the fresh snapper and quickly guts them. We select a fish each, and a dozen or two huge shrimp, and find a table. The owners wife comes out and takes our order for rice and drink. Not surprisingly, more Bintang is required. In the corner, an ever-present karaoke machine is powered up, and the owner gets up to sing some Frank Sinatra songs. One time, I look up, and he is looking at me and shouting Danny something, and holding out the mic. I realise, he wants me to sing Danny Boy. Not being Irish, it’s not a song I know, and I say I don’t know the words.

Once the fish is cooked, it taken behind the counter inside, and a mix of herbs and spices are put on each side of the fish, before each one is brought to our table. The snapper is wonderful, not quite sure what the herbs are, but it is just fabulous. I ask where the bathroom is, and are pointed towards the stairs down at one side of the room. Once at the bottom of the steps, I find myself in the family’s living room; children are watching cartoons on the TV; it is a normal living room, sofa, pictures on the wall, nice carpets: and at one side are the public toilets. The children don’t even look up when customers wander down the steps any more.

Charlie is waiting outside; he knows a karaoke disco bar if we would like to go; for another 50,000 more 4x4 arrive and whisk us to a ‘hotel’. Inside are more westerners, including more of our crew, and it is clear it is some kind of brothel. Girls are dancing on stage in their underwear, and we are encouraged to join them. We head to the bar; more Bintang, and just stand and watch the scene unfold. Those who had started to drink at breakneck speed were slowing down, and one has fallen asleep against one of the speakers as more Sinatra booms out, accompanied by a local singing along.

I have no idea how late it is, I know I need my bed. I ask at the door if I can get a taxi. He waves, and another 4x4 pulls up. I ask to take me to the port, and for another 50,00 he will take me. The streets now are empty, no street vendors, no food stalls; nothing. Oddly, for a port, there is no security, just during the day, and so we drive onto the dock, beside the gangplank, and I get out. Tomorrow is a new day, and we sail at midday. Another four weeks at sea, no beers, no crowds and no karaoke.