(The continuing adventures of Amelia Bourne-Phipps, studying at the Songmark Aeronautical Boarding School For Young Ladies on Spontoon East Island. Actually, she's staying on Spontoon over Xmas, at the Spontari Boarding House on Southern Island. As ever, her diary is in the never-popular Lexarc School Shorthand, which was obscure enough even then to make a quite secure code.)

December 20th, 1934

   Dear Diary - it's amazing how things can change so in a single day. Yesterday morning we were all at Songmark, myself, Helen, Maria and Molly – all very busy with aeronautical training, whether taking apart rotary engines, or trying to memorise local radio frequencies for navigation.  But all that seems very far away now – as we look out from under the dripping eaves of the Boarding House into deep green jungle, appearing quite untouched by civilisation.
    There are eleven of us Songmark girls staying here,  for one reason or another.  Most of us are from Europe, and either cannot afford the fare back for the short holiday, or have Family reasons for not going home right now.  My Father writes that his inspection tour of Eastern Matabeleland’s  anti-tank defences is going well, and that they are adequate to meet the perceived threat to that corner of the Empire.  Which is gratifying to know,  as a careful perusal of “Jane’s All The World’s Fighting Trenches” makes no mention of them at all ! Ah, if I was home right now,  I could surely put my dear Flying Flea #8 back in flying order after its unfortunate landing on Father’s prize greenhouse,  and (happy thought) perhaps test its performance on skis!
    Looking outside right now, conditions are very far from Christmas-y.  It seems that although the Spontoon Islands might not have a Monsoon in the mainland sense, they try very hard. December is definitely not the tourist season – which is why it might be a very good time to find out what the “real” life on the Islands is like.
    Helen ventured out before lunch, exploring one of the pathways that head up the stream. The Guest House is between the two big hills on South Island, and is at the end of the actual road – but a jungle track follows the stream up, heading East. She reports she got about half a mile, almost to the source of the stream, when the heavens opened. (Drying a wet tigress is a non-trivial task, especially when the Guest House is not built with the roaring fires and steam heaters of home.)
    Anyway, it appears that the trails head on over the crest and down the far side to the coast road, where Helen saw some extensive excavation works in progress. Given a dry day and oilskins, that looks a fascinating place to explore.
    Having spent the morning unpacking my light travelling-chest, I finally have time to write. It looks as if I shall have plenty of time for this, as there seem to be very few things to do up here, a mile from the nearest building down a definitely dripping track. Most of the resort hotels on the Northern bay side are either closed, or operating at tick-over speed  until Spring brings the big tour-boats to Casino Island (though Casino island is little over a mile from us as the Flying Flea hops, the curve of the hill hides it from view.)
    Apart from Helen, only “Soppy” Forsythe  is here from my class,  and the twins Ethyl and Methyl are the only Seniors I have  more than nodding acquaintance with.  According to Ethyl, we will definitely have to “make our own amusements” this holiday – and I certainly intend to try.
    At luncheon,  we met our hosts, Mr. And Mrs. Tanoaho again – a charming couple, Spontoonies by birth although of Oriental descent, having definitely Siamese features. It seems that they run the Guest House as a second string to their bow, as one or the other of them is often away on business trips. Helen had been speculating on exciting smuggling adventures masterminded here, tucked away a mile from the nearest dwelling (unless there are huts in the jungle, which could be fifty yards away and quite unseen). Alas, the truth is far less romantic, and quite innocent – the Tanoahos are involved merely in metal shipping. Tin and copper to Japan, tungsten and molybdenum to Germany, and such like – Mr. Tanoaho mentioned being disappointed last week, having returned to Spontoon to analyse promising-looking ores from a huge deposit on Orpington Island. Far from being the Radium he had been looking for, it turned out to be merely Uranium, only useful for specialist pottery glazes (a market very soon satiated.)
    Happily, the Tanoahos seem to have travelled widely enough to have lost their taste for Poi, yams and cassava, although we have seen the cooks bringing the formidable-looking roots in for their own use.  The menu is quite home-like, and we are promised a full Christmas meal next week. Definitely something to look forward to!
    (Later). “Soppy” Forsythe has announced that she intends to Botanise, and collect a fine collection of dried pressed leaves and flowers (plus probably bugs and logs, if her aim with a collecting-book is no better than her dismal performance on the ranges in out Self-Defence classes.) While I can applaud her preferring to Botanise rather than vegetate for 3 weeks up here,  I have seen very few flowers this time of year, and all the leaves are far too wet to preserve well before they spoil. One wonders if there is a recognised hobby involving pressed compost.
 

December 21st, 1934

   Considering today is the shortest day, we managed to make the most of it, indeed. “House Rules” are quite strict about our being back for supper, and not leaving the Island without special permission – but apart from that, we are quite free to explore as we wish. Straight after breakfast, Helen and I assembled oilskins, haversacks, binoculars and suchlike outdoor equipage, and headed up the trail beside the stream. It was steep and surprisingly muddy after the rains – but in half an hour we stood on the Col between the two peaks of South Island – the Northern one steeper and rocky-topped, while the Southern summit appears to be crowned with dense jungle all the way. 
    Looking downhill, we could see the beach about a mile away, and the mysterious, uninhabited “sacred” island a mile further offshore. Helen must have excellent eyesight indeed – even at such a distance, she spotted movement there, and we put our binoculars to good use.  Quite a sight! The reef around the steep little island appeared almost unbroken, but moving through a narrow gap in the South side of it, was a little flotilla of “native” boats, rowed by a dozen or so crew apiece. In a few minutes they ran their canoes up onto the beach and vanished from view into the trees, leaving no trace even from the air.
    Watching for half an hour or so, we were about to press forward when a thin plume of smoke rose above the trees – evidently the Natives are having a cook-out or some such rustic celebration. Although – looking at the map, Helen did comment  that the camp-fire is exactly the least visible spot on the island – apart from this very spot and the summit of the Northern peak, it is visible from nowhere except the open ocean, which is utterly empty of shipping.
    Nothing more could be seen after another ten minutes, so we pressed on downhill, the “trail” branching and narrowing all the way, making it very difficult going. Happily, there was little chance of getting lost in the jungle, as we merely had to follow the streams to find the beach ahead – and after another forty minutes, we did so. 
    Fascinating! Although the map shows a few scattered houses on this side of the narrow cultivated strip near the shore, in practice they turned out to be only field-barns and such, making this whole side of the island wholly uninhabited. Looking across to the Sacred island, the smoke was still rising – and looking back to the steep Northern peak behind us, we were fascinated to spot a fire on there as well, though the curve of the hill prevented us from seeing who was tending it. 
    Most odd, certainly. I had noticed that the trail up the stream was far more heavily-trodden than one might expect, seeing that it appeared to go nowhere – at least, it definitely faded out on the far side of the pass. One might almost think that there was another way up from there which we had missed, with all the “traffic” heading up to the hilltop. A fascinating mystery, which we agreed to look into another day.
    In the meantime, we discussed whether to take the Northern route or the Southern one back along the coast. The Northern one would go past the odd excavations Helen had seen yesterday – but in our haste to get off we had omitted to pack lunches, and the prospect of food seemed more hopeful in the villages marked on the Southern bay of the island.
    Two miles uneventful march along the coast road brought us to the first real, postcard-type long-houses we had seen – some of them set in the fields, others visible peeking out of the jungle slopes uphill. Very few fires seemed to be lit, and indeed the place looked half-deserted – possibly  they are out at Church, though Christmas is not until next week.  Still, we found one general store open, run by an obviously expatriate German shopkeeper – a very crowded, but tidy place with shelves piled high with everything from paraffin drums to mouse-traps.
    It was quite jolly, sitting on the veranda of the shop,  eating sandwiches and looking out over the beach. The village proper seemed to consist of about twenty thatched houses, though with doors of corrugated iron. Only the shop had a modern roof – new sheet asbestos, surely much healthier and safer than musty thatching in this climate. One can quite see what Jirry meant, when mentioning the Native roofing needs extensive maintenance every year – in the wet season it grows mouldy, and in the Summer season, it must be rather heavy on Fire Insurance!
    While returning the empty ‘Nootnops Red’ bottles for two cowries deposit, I asked the Shopkeeper where the villagers had gone to – he gestured vaguely Eastwards, and muttered something like “Waldzaubermensch”,  which I must look up in the dictionary sometime. He indicated that it was mostly the more European “natives” who were left to mind the village today – most odd. 
    Helen did ask him about the major excavations we had seen on the far side of the island – he seemed happier to talk about that, explaining that the ‘Thing’ has decreed a special drainage and water supply system be set up on the island, providing employment in the tourist off-season: evidently only native-born Islanders are invited to work on the project.  Quite an enlightened idea, for such a tiny administration. Still, it has been two disappointments in two days, if one were of a Romantic persuasion – our Hosts are mere metal traders, and the hidden earthworks in the jungle just drain-pipes.  Ah well, sometimes things really are what they seem to be.
    We decided to leave the main road (which would have taken us straight back to the Spontari Guest House) and strike out West along the beach to the next village,  and see what else we could find before dark.  We were hoping to find one of the temples we had heard of, tucked away in the forest – but what we found, was something quite unexpected. About fifty yards in from the beach, we noticed a change in the trees, as if they had been cut down years ago along a broad swathe  and not yet re-grown – and a just perceptible trail led into the interior, tempting us to follow.
    The sun was getting lower, and the clouds sweeping in from the South – as we stepped out into a narrow clearing to see a huge cylindrical structure. I first thought it was a submarine, by the shape – we speculated that some typhoon or tidal wave might have somehow tossed it there. But on closer approach we saw the structure was thin plywood, peeling apart under the weather – and then we noticed the torn-off stubs of not one or two, but three sets of wings! Evidently some colossal aircraft either tried to land on the beach and ran out of room, or mistook South Island for Eastern Island with its airstrip.
    There was little time or daylight left to explore, but we marked the place on our maps and returned to the beach – from there to the next village and an uneventful two miles along the road to the Spontari Guest House,  arriving with just enough time to wash and change for tea.

    (Later). We asked our host, Mrs. Tanoaho, about the wreck. And quite a tale she told us! At the very end of the Great War, a prototype German bomber had been on trials in Turkey when the final collapse and armistice was signed. Rather than face internment, the crew abandoned their bomb load and substituted all the fuel they could carry, heading East with the target of German Samoa, half way around the planet. Even such a mount, the only “Forsstman Giant Triplane” to see service, could not make that trip in one flight, but by dint of scrubbing off the telltale Maltese Crosses from their wings, they deceived a sleepy Native-run aerodrome in Ceylon that they were actually a British prototype aircraft!  After all, there would be no reason to suspect such an improbable deception, two thousand miles and more from the nearest “front” and the War effectively already over. Another stop in the occupied Caroline Islands (overrun by allied troops, but with German personnel still on the airstrip) found them with enough fuel to get them over the Nimitz Sea.
    Alas for the wily Huns, events had overtaken them, and by the time they were over the Pacific, their radio informed them that Samoa was no longer flying the Eagle flag. One has to admire their achievement, to hit the neutral Spontoon group before running out of fuel – although they hit it in the wrong place, and harder than they might have wished. 
    Evidently, several of the crew are still here, the news from Europe not encouraging them to return. Given the relatively balmy climate (both in weather and political terms) prevailing here, one can quite see their point.
 

December 22nd, 1934

   A fine day for a change! Helen and I are sharing a room, and were awakened by brilliant sunlight streaming under the eaves. Out room is up on the second floor (despite Helen’s insistence it is the third),  and tucked away at the end of the corridor. Ethyl is next door – her room is tiny, but she prefers it to sharing one with Methyl, who is highly volatile at the best of times. It seems they both went down into the main village yesterday, and found the shops all shut – not conducive to improving Methyl’s temper.
    Fortunately, whatever odd Festival the Natives had yesterday appears to be over, as we strolled down ourselves after Breakfast. The main hotel “strip” as Helen calls it, is wrapped along the curving beach that faces North towards Casino Island – most of the shops there are tourist souvenir stalls, all closed up for the Season.  Happily, there is a second road behind there with the everyday shops, including the record and radio shop! We immediately scoured the place for any new “V-Gerat” discs, but to no avail – and besides, the coveted gramophone was left behind at Songmark, being Academy property. (“Soppy” Forsythe has a travelling one, but is no devotee of bold Futurist groups, claiming they sound “Like an accident in a boiler factory.”)
    We did manage to purchase new batteries and valves for our radio – Eastern Island was clearly visible off to the North-East, and the Radio LONO tower should still be near enough for even our improvised sets to pick up.  Helen and I were leaving, when I spotted a bundle of newspapers being thrown out – amongst them was a copy of my dear old Barsetshire Chronicle, only a month old! I immediately acquired it, and spent a pleasant hour immersed in the “real” world of harvest festivals, country fairs and traditional Manor-house murders. It seems all a very long distance away – and yet, someone must have air-freighted this copy out to the Island groups, or it would be at least two months old.
    I had scarcely finished reading the latest scandal (the murderer turned out to be the butler – in the library – with the candlestick) when a roar of aero-engines overhead heralded a splendid new China Clipper heading in towards the seaplane landings at Eastern Island. Alas, South Island is definitely short on all things aeronautical – if we are to make any practical headway at becoming polished Aviatrixes, we shall need to take some trips elsewhere. 
    I fear Helen knows me almost TOO well by now – she spotted my gaze at the Clipper going over, and my expression whilst reading the newspaper from Home – as I walked along  the esplanade counting paces,  she correctly spotted that I was measuring it in terms of a Flying Flea takeoff! I fear I DO harp on about the dear little aircraft a little – and indeed, one would be quite handy right now.  Despite enquiries, I have been told none have been seen in these Islands, having not a fraction of the range necessary to get here from any other island chain. (Memo to myself – Flying Flea #9 to be the first Water Flea ? Floats would be handy in the unlikely event of it ever needing to force-land.)
    After a stroll to the northern tip of the island, we repaired to the “Pie-Shop of the Sacred Steak and Kidney”  for luncheon.  A most excellent place, indeed! These islands are very cosmopolitan indeed, managing to serve up a substantial meat pudding that would not have disgraced my old school, St. Winifreds.  Helen sampled some native fish dish, the poor girl seemingly having an aversion to suet pudding. Which would be less appetising in tropical heat, certainly, but makes the perfect restorative after a hard-fought morning on the hockey pitch, with the mud freezing to one’s fur. (Is it really a whole year since my staunch team beat St. Herod’s Reform School 9-7, despite taking six casualties in the first half ?)
    (Later) With the new batteries, we both put our radios back in commission – and while Helen sat on the window-sill with the headphones on listening to Hawaiian “swing” bands, I set up my transmitter. The aerial could not be easier to rig: a lead weight on the end of the wire, and carefully drop that end out of the window!  “Soppy” Forsythe should have kept a sharper look-out, is all I can say. (The weight was not particularly heavy, but I discover she knows some words not commonly associated with a Quaker upbringing.)
    After four days, at last I was able to send my “Osprey” call-sign out, at the arranged time and frequency – and was most gratified to hear the fairly immediate response from “Plantain” – Jirry being a most alert and appreciative gentleman,  and by all impressions, very pleased to hear from me.  Naturally, one does not simply arrange a meeting without regard for one’s Reputation – Helen can chaperone me, and if Jirry brings along his brother Marti, I will gladly perform the same office for her. One has a name to keep up, after all !

December 23rd, 1934

   (Morning). Mrs. Tanoaho announced at Breakfast, that we would be “invited” to help with the Preparations for Christmas tomorrow, helping the domestic staff with the food. Methyl objected loudly to this – but I should think this applies in the same sense as my dear Father’s butler McCardle “inviting” an untidy groom to scrub the stables with a toothbrush. Needless to say, we shall be cooperating.
    Still, today will be the last day till after the festivities that we have to ourselves – so after a full breakfast and a trip to the kitchens for luncheon supplies, we equipped ourselves for exploration. Helen has an old canvas drill knapsack that had been her Father’s, when he was a “doughboy” in Flanders. My own equipment is new, my own Father having given me a free choice and liberal allowance to spend at the Army and Navy Store, on condition I was on the way within the week.  Alas, I had not been expecting mud and rain, and have had to make do with the Songmark issue oilskins, which are tailored for a girl of quite different size and species. My Solar Topee remains in its box at Songmark, where it attracted some ribald attention. Dear Molly had asked if I had a Lunar Topee for Night manoeuvres, though I suspect she might have been making light of me.
    Although it might not be on the curriculum for Aviatrix training, we put my Girl Guide experience to good use, “tracking” the footsteps on the trail heading up towards the pass. In a few places, trees had shielded the tracks from the rain of the last two days – revealing quite a large selection of bare paw prints both arriving and departing the hilltop path. A careful search showed what we had missed on Saturday – a long ridge of exposed rock leading down towards the stream, had concealed where the mysterious crowds had turned off the main path and headed to the Northern summit.
    Ten minutes’ stiff climb brought us through the remaining jungle, and out onto a surprisingly grassy summit, crowned by large rocks. The view was superb, with every one of the Spontoon Islands in full sight – we spent a good half hour using our field-glasses, checking the scenery against the map. (Alas, the only map we had is a “tourist guide”, good for resort hotels and scenic attractions, but with nothing to say about native trails and temples.) Producing my own map might be a worthy project, especially if we will be using the reconnaissance cameras next term.
    There was indeed the remains of a fire on the summit – but had we not been searching for it, we would surely have missed it. There was only a large discoloured patch, but not a single piece of charcoal – even the ashes seem to have been carefully removed. Certainly, whatever celebration picnics take place up here, the Natives seem very diligent about tidying up.
    After a thorough search around, we returned to the main path, climbed to the pass, and nearly lost ourselves in the maze of minor paths branching down towards the Eastern side of the island. This time, we headed North, towards the excavations. They proved quite hard to find, until we almost fell into them – an absolute minimum of tree clearance has been done, and in a few years the site will be quite invisible, even from the air.
    Well ! Though drains are hardly matters of immense interest, there was nothing else to look at except for damp jungle, of which we had already seen a sufficiency.  They appear to be laid awfully deep, ten or fifteen feet – and exceedingly large, the pipes being five feet across, quite big enough to walk inside.  Helen seemed a little puzzled, somehow, and made a few sketches. She paced out the spoil heaps, and measured the hole quite diligently – then counted the number of piled-up pipe segments about three times.
    A slight noise from down the trail alerted us, and we hurried on, somehow feeling unwelcome here, as if we were disturbing something we were not meant to see.  A very strange feeling, for the circumstances! But as we emerged onto the road, we noticed that it was closed off to the public, with “Danger, deep Excavations, Do Not Enter” signs. Most odd, as we could clearly see the whole road length from the hill top, and none of the diggings  were anywhere Near the road.
    (Later).  After supper, Helen got out her sketchbooks, and enlisted my aid and arithmetic skills in a rather curious problem.  As she said, somewhat quaintly, “I didn’t figger much on geometry, but I seed a lot of pipelines bein’ a-laid down in Texas”.  And her gut feeling is certainly right – having measured the spoil heaps, they are much too big for the holes they supposedly came out of!  Perhaps the local soil expands when exposed in the rain like rice, or something of the sort. But that hardly explains the rather large number of pipes stockpiled ahead of the trench – at least twice as many as needed. (My Great-Aunt Edna had a similar conviction that buying in bulk was cheaper, and laid in several lifetimes’  supplies of coal shovels, tin baths and ear-trumpets.)

December 24th, 1934
   A busy day! Though fir-trees are at a premium in these islands, Mrs. Tanoaho has brought in a tree-fern that is much the same size, shape and colour – “Soppy” Forsythe was happily pressing discarded leaves, while the rest of us decorated it with cotton-wool in lieu of snowy decorations. The Staff have the day off tomorrow, so we were all put to work busily cleaning and cooking, with Island fare approximating to whatever cannot be obtained in the Traditional menu. Sweet potatoes will fill in handily for parsnips, and we are promised a major fish to carve, that currently is residing in the big icebox (Ethyl and Methyl were co-opted to carry extra ice up from town to last us  through the Holiday. Seeing Methyl wielding the ice-pick with undisguised glee, one is reminded of dear Molly – in Chicago right now, a lack of ice is one problem they are unlikely to have.)
    At last,  we can put away the coveralls and exploring costume – though I dearly love my neat and efficient jacket and breeches (tropical twill, tailored by Proctor and Jermyn of Saville Row), it makes a definite change to put on a party frock! Helen looks quite unrecognisable, having been brought up almost in the cockpit, or in rough boom-towns where she tells me wearing such a dress would give the locals Quite the wrong impression as to one’s career and intentions.  Alas – I will have to take out my one frock in most directions, should I wish to wear it next year – with all this fresh air, good food and hard exercise, I am putting on about an extra size,  mostly in muscle!  Helen almost stopped looking embarrassed at her own appearance, and assured me that should St. Herod’s ever challenge me for a re-match when next I return Home, they would do well to have the ambulances arranged before the hockey match commences.
    One might almost think that dear Molly has been having an Influence on her.

December 25th, 1934

   Merry Christmas!  Though these islands never see snow by all accounts, a definitely chilly North wind made it feel quite festive. Helen gave me a fine brass compass, and I had selected for her a copy of “Jane’s All The World’s Fighting Dirigibles”,  which will make good reading for these dark evenings. I opened and shared the tinned fruitcake which had arrived from Home last week – I know the brand was called “Canned Popularity” back at St. Winifred’s,  but it seems genuinely appreciated here.
    Half of us were drafted to help the Tanoahos prepare the dinner, and the rest to put the finishing touches to the decorations – a merry meal was had by all.
    (Later) Ethyl and some of her friends invited us to pile into their room to partake of some festive spirits, a bottle of which they had smuggled in and cached in the jungle till now (house rules being strongly against it, but this is Christmas.) I was introduced to three third-years,  Erica (German, light-furred Alsatian), Conchita (New Mayan, guinea-pig but definitely ferocious-looking) and Noota (Aleutian Isles husky). They regaled us with tales of how they had spent their Summer, not going home at all but on an expedition to Yap Island. An intriguing place! They showed us their photographs: the ancient canine culture on the island do not use regular money for “real” transactions, but giant pierced gritstone discs, some a yard and more across.  As there is no gritstone on the island and it must be rafted in from another island a hundred miles away, Inflation is kept very low.
    Or at least, they complained, that had been the case. However,  a disturbing recount of the stones on the island this Spring, revealed there were more than could be easily accounted for – and that some of them were forgeries! How anyone could forge such a thing, is quite puzzling. Certainly a mystery to think of over the Holidays.
 

December 26th, 1934
   Dear Diary: I must make a New Year Resolution,  to be more moderate in sampling island-distilled beverages. I wish Erica had told me yesterday, that the triple-distilled “Arak”, date derived, is featured in Schneider Trophy fuels! Alas, it tends to wreck engines if run as a regular fuel – and by Helen’s expression, she too is discovering how the engines must feel.
    Still, it is one more Experience to record,  and cross off the list. “Soppy” Forsythe appears to be practising her Virtuous look,  having been out yesterday afternoon and evening to Church services on Casino Island. Definitely, we will be petitioning the Tanoahos to let us attend the New Year festivities over there – though the Guest House is very nice in its way, the bright lights are beckoning us. Certainly, we shall have little enough time to explore there when Term starts, and we return to hangars as surroundings and castor-oil spray as a major item of diet…
    Some fresh air was certainly called for, so after a frugal breakfast (dry toast and a pot of tea was all I could face, while Helen seemed to be intent on stimulating the Brazilian economy with her coffee consumption) we headed out again, up all the way to the North Peak. The hill must surely have a name, but not on our Tourist map.  It is most odd, that we have seen no accurate maps of the island for sale – the air charts are no doubt accurate, but on too large a scale to be of any real assistance. Even stranger is the fact that although quite expensively produced, all the publicly available maps seem to be quite wrong – as a morning with binoculars and sketch-book could quite rapidly confirm.
    One has to admire the Islanders, they are as far from the stereotyped “Sleepy Pacific Native” as one can imagine ! Or at least some of them are – we could quite clearly hear what sounded like large concrete-mixers working below us on the excavations, the sound carried on the wind.  Mrs. Tanoaho had professed to know nothing about the project – which is odd, as judging by the disturbed ground being carefully re-forested or re-turfed, they must have dug within half a mile of the Guest House last year.
    With our binoculars, we could keep quite a close eye on the airfield on Eastern Island, little over two miles distant. Very visible was the great shape of the Soviet bomber we helped to land, the Kalinin K-7. One wonders what they are going to do with it – and if the crew are still standing guard around their charge!  Somewhere on these islands, one presumes, the Pilot is hiding out, having nothing good to look forward to should he return home to face the wrath of Joseph Starling, the “Red Bird” himself.
    (Evening) After getting the cobwebs decidedly blown clear, we both recovered enough to start making more plans. As before, the transmitter aerial was dropped out of the window, the circuit grounded to the water-pipes, and soon we were getting the latest news from Jirry.  No wonder the reception is so clear, his family is back on this very island, just over the hill! It seems they are working on renovating the family huts for next year, being too busy working in the Tourist season.  Certainly, we should have a lot to talk about, and since Helen and I will be chaperoning each other, tomorrow should be interesting.
    Oddly, Helen has been asking where I packed my jungle survival kit, and if it is fully stocked. Surely South Island is not that far from Civilisation, for us to need to worry about carrying mosquito nets and water purifying tablets on a rendezvous!

 © 2002 Simon Barber