I shall live there in other life

We have to leave Mindoro Island in the Philippines.

To do that, first they must prise my fingers from the door frame, then smother me with chloroform to knock me out, so I can be carried on board the departing boat without the kicking and screaming.

Take that as a recommendation of these beautiful, delicious islands for tourism. The Philippine people deserve to receive your attention and the many denominations of your tourist coin.

It is a crying shame they have had years of colonial exploitation (thanks, sixteenth century Spain), the bombing of Manila (say hello to the USA) and the brutality of occupation (we don't hold any grudges against the Japanese round here).

Okay, so Britain was no guardian angel (occupied them for two years). It's another of those histories we don't teach to school kids.

Well, if we're going to find out about it, let's put on a good face for it: the BBC/Lonely Planet suggests the British occupation actually 'assisted the Philippine movement for independence'. Indeed. Something they didn't realise for another couple of hundred years, and then they had Marcos.

Me, I loved the place. Even though the brawl with the customs officer over the shells which he tried to extract from my clammy clenched fists was undignified.

I still leave in love, thinking how life is too short for all the lives I would like to lead.

Diving lesson 3

Here is my big shout out for the superb organisation that is Action Divers.

I loved them.

As a complete naive, non-diving parent (and the sort of carpet-slippers wussy who swims about trying not to get her hair wet), throwing my precious 11-year old daughter into the brutal surly ocean, wrapped only in a skin of neoprene and protected by an oxygen tank splattered with a death's head sticker, is a big thing.

Understandably, my starting fear has been, Will the ocean kill her?

My phobias have progressed through all water-related scenarios, well beyond simple drowning, to being decapitated by coral, eaten by mutant octopus, and facing naked protean underwater savagery from flesh-eating humanoids desperate to chew off her arms and legs, having escaped from their caves in The Descent.

Reader, in protecting my daughter from these terrors, Action Divers did not fail me.

For three days Shark has been safely scuba'd through hazards procedures, equipment handling, and proper watery skills. Each evening she has dutifully completed her homework. That meant confronting her woeful spelling, doing armed combat with a set of comprehension exercises, and preparing herself for a 9am start. (She probably was also taught how to handle aggressive octopus, wicked coral, and terrible creatures of the deep.)

I have rarely seen her with such determination and dedication.


And I must give a big whoop-de-doo to Simon in particular, who has been a perfect teacher for Shark; unfailingly patient, attentive, and communicating a love of the diving life which has led and inspired her. She has already pin-pointed the list of courses she wants and is now busy plotting her diving career. An eternal thank you.

(Or at least until she drops the idea of becoming a marine biologist and chooses life instead as a beach bum and bar fly.)


But for this experience - first-time child diver and annoying fussying mother - then yes, I totally recommend them.


If you are at the Hong Kong end, simply use Action Divers in Puerto Galera. The beaches are prettier than in Sai Kung and non-divers can amuse themselves by snorkeling without being hit in the head from a sampan.


Hmm. Now I've started thinking about it, maybe we should move out to the Philippines. Action Divers can take over Shark's Maths education as well. They need only represent every problem in terms of fish and coral and together we should crack it.

Diving lesson 2

Shark is occupied in her diving education for the entire day. Text book, talk, videos, wet suits, and sloshing about in sea water accompanied by manly men and oxygen tanks, busy twiddling dials and scouring the reef for puffer fish.


I cannot do the same, more's the pity.

Listening to the barbed comments delivered to me at the breakfast table, I think that daughters number 2 and 3 are becoming a little resentful about the attention that Shark is enjoying. And probably they are irked at how mama seems to have abandoned family loyalty in favour of peering into the sea to catch hopeful sight of grown men gearing up. (Yes, of course I am learning the lingo; how else can I establish my credibility?) Squirrel not very politely reminds me, over the toast, that I am married. You children have a lot to learn, that is for sure.

Well, I give in to my miniature morality custodians. Really, I have not much choice. The Philippines has slapped me about something rotten, so I am not much of an eyeful. I have sun burn on one shoulder, carry a headache the size of Manila, limp on a left leg eaten by mosquito, and the rooms at the Portofino Hotel come with the wrong sort of mould, so my eyeballs have swollen up like a couple of watermelons.

Then Aunty Dee says she must buy a post card, and Tiger says unless she sees something interesting she will never travel anywhere again. So there is nothing else for it. I must dutifully occupy my custodian daughters 2 and 3 in a day of constructive and improving education. While Shark is having fun, I conduct a geology lesson,


become a cooperative tour guide for the local town,


describe Philippine cuisine from the contents of the local grocery store,


go oooh and ahhh with the marine biology,


and equip everyone for an afternoon's snorkel.


By bedtime I am chastened and promise to behave myself.

(But I keep my fingers crossed behind my back when they make me promise not to strip down to what looks like my underwear again and run about the beach pretending to be Bo Derek.)

Diving lesson 1

I totally understand why Shark wants to learn how to dive.

It is a sport full of attractive men who strip down to their waists, show their chests, and stride about, dripping in slinky black wet suits.

I completely endorse her choice. I will support her all the way, drive her wherever she wants to go, and be by her side in all conditions, especially the tropical ones where they don't bother with the wet suits at all but just the trunks and I bet they are tiny.

Dig says most male divers are probably gay. I say I overheard the demi-god with the chest comment only this morning on his diving life, and his exact words were 'I chill out at the beach everyday and watch girls'. That doesn't sound like gay man talk to me, Dig.

Then he says he suspects they are closet gay.

Nonsense. It would show somewhere, like pink wetsuits and disco music and underwater whistles. I see none of that. Just a lot of lovely men striding about semi naked and wet.

It's a sport I'm going to get into, you can be sure about that.

Shark is foolishly oblivious to the attractions of diving. She is all fish this and fish that.

I say be quiet about the fish now, I need to see if I can perfect my chat up routine on the men at the dive school. I am a woman aged 51 with not much time left.

Dig's day

Took family to Philippines. Hired car and driver to detour to Taal Volcano. Boat transferred to Puerto Galera as requested.

Priorities: contact Sweden before 10pm HK time. Arrange contract with Brazil.

See? That would be it, if this was dig's day. If it was grit's day, it would be,

Cebu Pacific Airlines? Do they seriously think selling you life insurance for the duration of the flight helps you feel confident?

And the way the crew demand that you all sing? Something should be done to stop it. Enforced choirs of Gloria Gaynor at 20,000 feet is not 'happy food for the soul'. But at least they didn't make us clap and cheer when the pilot landed, like they did on the flight with Air Portugal. As if it was important to mark the day he got it right.

I thought the transport horror had finished until we got in the car, where the driver said 'My daddy, he is in heaven', laughed like a wild man, and plunged us down the side of the volcano while the windscreen was totally obscured with a swinging painting of Christ. I spent the rest of the journey trying to figure out which side of the road this country drives on.

But I have to say, this boat business works well. I'm not sure about the wisdom of splattering 'God bless our trip' in front of the steering wheel. And I don't understand how the driver can see anything when he sits at the back wearing sunglasses with his feet up, but Dig says that man up front in the tee-shirt is lookout, so they probably have hand signals.

Then we arrive and I have to say, the Philippines? It's like paradise. So what is the matter with Kid A? Why is she so bloody miserable? Is it necessary that within two hours I am held hostage by some sodding tomato sauce? There was nothing wrong with it. I wouldn't have weakened like Dig, with an emergency cheese pizza.

And Kid B forgot her swimming costume. Typical. How many times did I say it's a beach holiday?

Kid C is a paragon of virtue of course, considering this trip is mainly for her. All the obvious delight is doing no good for sisterly love.

Aunty Dee? Same as ever. You can take the girl out of Morpeth but you can't take Morpeth out of the girl. She claims 'Mindoro Island is just like Northumberland. But with more sun'.

I shall leave the day's diary here, but I will end on dig's day, with

She wants photos of the boat to Mindoro Island. I don't know why. I mean, it's not like they're providing an income stream.