(PART 2) ...because the voyage of the damned continues...

Being in the cabin is exactly like laying down on your bed when you're cousin-fuck drunk and the room starts spinning in preparation for take off to the country of "I'll never drink tequila again". Did I get seasick? Well, there was a moment when I would have thrown myself overboard if I was in any fit state to get up from the deck. With all the time they spend lurching about on the ocean, no wonder the folk in Greenpeace are green. Initially there's always the spectre of nausea, but I eventually get used to the way my fellow passengers are dressing and it goes away.

The next morning kicks off with another simulated general emergency. This time passengers and entertainers are exempt from the drill. We carry on having a holiday while the Greek crew rehearse running for the lifeboats. A while back this happened for real on a liner in pretty much the same waters, so those of us travelling Cattle Class can be forgiven if the sight doesn't have the reassuring effect it normally would. But the day provides plenty of other entertainment, the highlight being a game of Noot Vir Noot between passengers. A Crowded House number keeps repeating in my head. "Everywhere you go, you always take Germiston with you."

NOTE: For those not familiar with the Afrikaans language, a.k.a. creeping phlegm, Noot Vir Noot is a musical game show on local TV. If you do know the programme, pause now and smile as you take stock of yet another reason why you emigrated.

And then the magic happens. This jol may have a whole dick's worth of cheesy atmosphere, but the beauty of the sea is irresistible. Plus, we're on a floating, luxury hotel. Then again, considering the seaworthiness of your average luxury hotel, it's probably better to keep focussed on the view... through the bottom of a triple gin and tonic. The bar staff don't speak much Anglo, but luckily my Greek improves as I get more pissed and I become matey with guys called Ioannis, Humus or Androgynous. Everyone seems to have names straight out of the Roman legions in Asterix comic books. The captain himself is Spuriousdubious or something. And, while I'm being culturally insensitive, the whole crew sport single, thumb thickness eyebrows that are just plain scary, especially on the cleaning lady.

After days at sea we visit Mozambique Island. Four hundred years ago, our exploring cousins, the Portuguese, took one look at a place that truly delivered what Club Med posters only promise and decided, "What a romantic setting for a prison!"
Then they added guest accommodation for about ten thousand slaves and introduced the local people to all the benefits of western civilisation including Christianity, syphilis and genocide. (Thank God they spared them cricket.) Slavery has been banned since the mid eighteen hundreds, although nobody seems to have told Joào, the local stall holder, who repeatedly tries to sell me his sister.

A few years ago, a twaddle of American Christian missionaries launched a new invasion on Mozambique Island. They brought with them a cruise liner full of clothes and supplies and distributed the stuff amongst the local people. The only catch was that before you qualified for your free shirt, you had to declare your love for Jesus. Consequently, on our walking trip around the island we are followed by hundreds of people who tell us that they love Jesus and then want our shirts in return. Looking at these poor fuckers, I get the unique new experience of suicidal depression in a tropical paradise. I realise I'm part of an expedition of porky fashion victims trampling over this place, moaning about the fate of the indigenous turtles while we flick human kids off us like ticks. All we needed was Whitney(Never-sing-one-note-when-twelve-will-do)Houston to pitch up and declare herself back "home", so we scuttled back onto the ship and pulled up the gangplank in case she did.

Reality never intrudes for long on a cruise. I'm ashamed to say I forgot about the people of the island by "sundowners on the back deck" time. As we head home to South Africa, the weather remains fine, except for a Force 5 hangover gusting above moderate levels when we discover that the martinis at the captain's cocktail party are free. Suddenly, "Lights of Durban, ahoy!" Cell phones start to ring and it's with a feeling of sadness that we say goodbye to our shipmates at the quayside. They seem touched too and I suspect there are a few red eyes under their collective, caterpillar unibrow.

This trip has been quite a mind fuck. I'm filled with mystical camaraderie and goodwill towards my fellow man for at least a minute till I'm greeted by the attendant at the parking lot where I left my car. He cheerfully informs me that I owe him US $800. Then he hears my local accent and changes the price to R320. That's the best rand/dollar exchange rate I've heard in years, so I give him all my money to convert into foreign currency and he hurries off. I'm sure he'll be back soon...

So, I've hoisted the Jolly Roger, spent time before the mast, rounded the horn and manfully resisted making the obvious wank puns about it all. Let me pass on some salty dog advice to all you landlubbers. When you're on a ship, show some respect for the wiles and unpredictability of the sea... Pee sitting down.