As I type this the laptop screen rocks slowly back and forth with metronomic regularity, swaying in time with the desk, the floor and the entire room.

I gaze out of the window in front of me to take in the view: mighty waves slipping by; crests breaking; clouds drifting across an azure sky. And endless, endless water, stretching to the horizon and far beyond.

It’s not the most typical of sights. But then isn’t the most typical of surroundings. We are on a boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.

Having travelled most of the 21,000 miles we have covered so far by land (with the odd ferry thrown in ) we now take to the water, hitching a ride for 15 days aboard a container ship bound for LA, from the far east of the Pacific to the far west.

The Pacific Ocean – the very words conjure up images of ambition and adventure, it’s a byword for the exotic, the far-flung, the unknown. The neon-lit waters of Hong Kong harbour to the to the surf-bound coast of California – sounds far more interesting then Chek Lap Kok to LAX.

No identikit airports and long, dismal queues, no leg-crunching seats and foul, plastic food. No predictable movies or no 9/11 paranoia, no screaming babies or snoring adults.

Just the two of us and a few crew on a big boat. On an enormous blue ocean. With no land for days.

My primal fears still to stir inside. Drowning, shipwreck, seasickness, scary monsters in the depths below and ferocious storms in the skies above.

Too late.

We’ve hauled the anchors now, cast off the ropes. We’re heading out into the unknown, the unquantified, the unpredictable. There’s no way out at sea. No one can hear you scream…

Deep breath.

Take a look at our surroundings. It’s palatial!

As the only passengers we’ve been given the owner’s cabin – a bedroom, large living room and en-suite.There’s a TV, DVD and Hi-fi, plus a fridge, a desk and large sofa. 15 days in which we can live out of cupboards and drawers rather than the cramped confines of a smelly old rucksack.

No dodgy Chinese wiring here, no leaking toilet or dripping taps, no filthy sheets or cacophonous street sounds. Just a gentle hum from the engine, and the steady rock of the ocean. There’s a laundry and mess room, where we dine with the officers. Three hot meals a day, served to us at our own table. There’s a a small gym, with exercise bike, weights machine, table tennis and darts board. There’s a sauna for Lara and even a mini swimming pool.

We’re are treated as honoured guests: the officers go out of their way to guide us around; the crew invite us to sing karaoke (I wisely turned down), play basketball (I was resolutely thrashed) and ping pong (ditto).

In between eating and fraternising we doze on the deck, stretched out on sun loungers or dip into the boat’s impressive DVD collection.

All the time we little moving world sways gently around, sometimes placid, sometimes vigorous.

This can present certain challenges: how to eat soup in a swell for one, and how to sleep when the boat’s rolling and pitching.

Other challenges lie ahead no doubt, but in the meantime I admire another sunset and gaze at the horizon.

I feel like Tintin, my hero, the daring young reporter.

He regularly set off on his adventures by boat, where exciting events would take place: Snowy would get attacked by a shark; Thompsons would wear old-fashioned bathing costumes and Captain Haddock would invariably get drunk on whisky.

And always there was some shady type on board, a stowaway, or a crooked crew member, usually a shifty Balkan-looking type with crossed eyebrows and a dodgy ‘tasche.

Best keep an eye out. After all, anything can happen at sea.

WEDNESDAY

Whenever we lose track of days we usually find it is Wednesday. On this Wednesday we were given an extra day; Wednesday 3rd December 2008 literally happened twice.

The first third of December started like most others on this ship – the alarm went off at 07:45, with breakfast at 08:00. We have recently discovered porridge on the menu, which makes a refreshing change from the fried meat of the last week. It was a warm, sunny day with a large roll factor. The rolliest we had experienced so far which made doing everything either an uphill or downhill struggle that eventually got the better of my digestive system. The swell was in fact so strong that the front of the ship was damaged, but the ship ploughed on.

I went through the usual routine of writing in the morning, eating at midday, reading and snoozing in the sun after lunch followed by yoga and the exercise bike before dinner at 17:45. The regular evening DVD screening was Son of Rambow (****½) and Bobby (***).

At 22:30 we crossed the International Date Line, 180° longitude, and the day started again. So when we woke we opened the second third of December window on our World in Slow Motion advent calendar.

It has taken tins of peanuts, circling torches, diagrams and protracted discussions with the Navigator for me to understand why my life will always now be a day longer than stated on the calendar. It’s something to do with standardising time so that night is always dark and day is always light the world over and so that everyone is living the same day as in Greenwich, London. But perhaps more importantly, every step eastwards is now a step closer to home.

The second third of December began like the first. Alarm at 07:45, porridge at 08:00. It was cloudier and windier than the first third of December but the nauseating rocking had subsided. Everything carried on pretty much like it had the first time round except that the reading and snoozing took place indoors as there was no sun.

After the gym the day took an unexpected turn. A note on a chair inviting me to take a stroll to the bow was followed by games in Morse code and signal flags. Then I was led to the edge of boat where surrounded by nothing but Pacific Ocean on three sides Tom got down on one knee and popped the question. I took my chances and said yes.

That evening we celebrated with the Filipino crew who gave us Spanish brandy, a serenade of George Michael and sang love songs to us on the karaoke machine. The German Captain shared his private stash of Nutella with us. You can’t beat that for history repeating itself.

If you want to carry on readying Tom and Lara’s blogs, you can find them here. Loco2 would also like to say a huge CONGRATULATIONS to Lara and Tom on their engagement!

Thumbnail: Dylan Parker

Hue to Hanoi: letting the train take the strain

In Hue we elected to tackle the next leg of our route by train. We were looking forward to getting back onto the rails again, rather than onto yet another bone-rattling, leg-twisting, ironically-named ‘sleeper bus’.

The photojournalist Tim Page, who’s rattled along a few Vietnamese railways in his time, puts this better than me:

Train travel allows the mind to wander, the eyes not really focusing on the passing countryside, the heady clackety rhythm becoming white noise, a mere sound tapestry to meditate upon…On a train you actually have a sense of getting somewhere, denied the traveller sealed in an aluminium tube zooming across the sky.

Inside the small dusty waiting room, we occupied an entire row of flimsy plastic seats, our enormous bags dwarfing the slender locals hemmed in around them. I poked my head around the door to glance at the platform: it was uncomfortably quiet, hardly a soul moved, let alone a train.

As the minutes ticked by and the time dragged well past our designated departure time. Still no train.

The locals seemed unconcerned, dozing in the seats, nonchalantly sipping green tea and gazing at the traffic outside.

Finally, 50 minutes later it was action stations: a guard stirred, a tinny loudspeaker croaked out some kind of announcement and we were allowed onto the platform. People plus baggage began shuffling onto the platform. Hardly a great swarm of people like you’d have to contend with in China, more a trickle of the unhurried.

A group of men crouched down on the platform, lay a battered old briefcase on its side and immediately started playing cards. They fingered their dirty old dong notes whilst others crowded around, watching the gamblers.

A young couple strolled up and settled down on the bench next to us, resuming the cooing they had been so rudely interrupted from back in the waiting room.

And still no train.

I began to wonder what it could be that was causing such a severe delay. Mexican bandits? The wrong type of snow? Richard Branson?

Finally, an hour later than scheduled, the noise level seemed to pick up, passengers stirred and, to much whistling both from its driver and the sundry guards on the platform, a train appeared, its headlights piercing through the descending gloom.

The dusty green carriages hauled up in front of us, the grimy windows obscuring the interior. We quickly boarded, hauling our bulky loads through the narrow corridors as the rabble pressed up eagerly behind us.

Peering into our cabin we found it already occupied: a large family, big enough to fill a small village stared back at us, their grubby kids sprawled all over the beds. Cue frantic hand signals and pointing at beds and tickets before finally the guard came along and turfed these stubborn train gypsies out.

Although ‘soft sleeper’, our cabin didn’t quite live up to our expectations: it held six beds rather than four, crammed in so that each bed had about two and half foot of space between it and the one above. Grimacing as I adopted a contortionist pose I squeezed my slim frame into a bunk at the top, hauling my pack up behind me.

There was a jolt, and we started moving: ten hours through the night to the capital.

A short night, abruptly ended at 5.30am. Raised voices, doors slamming, a knock at our door: we’d arrived. Hanoi.

THE DO’s AND DON’Ts OF ASIA

Sun, sweat and scooters; trains, temples and tours; bananas, buses and lager. The tourist infrastructure in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand and Laos turns traveling into a wonderful holiday. However, alongside the tourist trade come touts and tricksters to be wary of. So to supplement your Lonely Planet/Rough Guide (delete as appropriate) here are World in Slow Motion’s top tips for S.E. Asia:

Do:

• Take a sheet sleeping bag. There is a curious lack of bedding in these parts.
• Carry plenty of U.S. dollars cash. They are a useful back-up and the currency of choice in Cambodia.
• Drink bia hoi on plastic chairs in the street in Vietnam. 20p for a glass of draught lager.
• Drink fruity drink and coconuts with a straw. You can spot a fruity drink stall by the glasses of chopped fruit to which condensed milk, coconut milk and balls of sticky rice are added and served with crushed ice.
• Eat amok. This creamy Cambodian curry is the among the best food in SE Asia.
• Take the sleeper bus. A bus with beds is a sight to behold and an experience not to be missed, but don’t expect to have a good kip.
• Have a massage at Seeing Hands in Siem Reap or Phnom Penh. These blind masseurs know what to do.
• Help out at Big Brother Mouse. Either chat with the children in English or buy one of their books to help promote literacy in Laos.
• Get up early to see monks collect alms at sunrise, a special sight in Luang Prabang, Laos.
• Go to the flag lowering ceremony in Hanoi, Vietnam. A triumphal affair every night at 9pm at the Ho Chi Minh memorial.Learn to say “no thank you” in the local language to keep the hawkers and touts at bay.
• Stay at Golden Temple Villa in Siem Reap. Excellent value and unlimited free bananas make it a winner.
• Stay at Hong Thien Hotel II, 46 Chi Van An Street, in Hue, Vietnam. Tien at reception is very helpful, but don’t book a Halong Bay tour through them (see below).

Don’t:

• Stay at Greenfields in Hoi An, Vietnam. Poor value and dreadful service.
• Rely on your guidebook for accommodation and eating recommendations. Use the Web, get tips from others and explore by yourself to find some real gems.
• Go on a Halong Bay, Vietnam, tour with Tuan Linh travel agency. These tours are sold through Kim Adventures and various hostels in Hanoi. The boat is broken and the guides lousy. If your boat is called the Duy Tan Junk 02, don’t get on it. Electricity is intermittent and the motor may give out.
• Use the travel services at Victory Queen Hotel (formerly Old Darling Hotel), Hanoi, Vietnam. They take a whopping commission without telling you.
• Buy shoes at Cham H’Mong, 495 C’ua Dai Street, Hoi An, Vietnam. They fall apart within hours.
• Buy your Cambodian visa at the ‘Cambodian Consulate’ in Aranya Prathet, Cambodia, it’s a scam. Buy it at the desk once you’re through Thai immigration.
• Take any price as given – accommodation, food, things – all are up for negotiation. Pay what you think is fair.
• Sleep at the back of a sleeper bus. The bounce prevents sleep.
• Lose your temper with a local. If you cause someone to lose their temper they will lose face and make your life very uncomfortable as they try to regain it.
• Expect a peaceful sunrise at Angkor Wat, Siem Reap. You will be joined by hundreds of tourists all jostling for the same perfect sun-rises-over-ancient-temple photo.
• Wear shorts and sandals in Khao Yai National Park, Thailand. The leeches will eat you for breakfast.

We are sailing…

So, farewell Asia.

After four months on the road and rails across this mighty continent, from the low mountains of the Urals to the warm waters of the South China Sea, we will finally bidding a farewell to this huge, diverse chunk of the planet.

Tomorrow we set off into new waters…literally. For the next two weeks our new home will be the CMA CGM Hugo, a container ship sailing across the Pacific Ocean, from Hong Kong to Long Beach, USA.

Beyond the ocean lie the delights of another continent: North America?

But first we have the small matter of a large pond to cross.

Laying my trusty Michelin out last night I realised that the Pacific covers a good third of the planet. It’s going to be a long and (hopefully) fascinating voyage.

See you on the other side…

Loco2 – England to Costa Rica by Cargo Ship from Rosa van Wyk on Vimeo.

After day 11 Kate didn’t take any more videos, probably because she started having too much fun, and didn’t feel the need for so many diary-room contemplations…

This is the second of five video diaries she made during the three-week crossing (the first one she talks about wasn’t on the CD she posted back). Please make sure you come back and check for the next instalments!

Kate’s 5th day video blog from Jamie Andrews on Vimeo.

Fear not dear readers, my madness had not escalated to delusions of grandeur. I was not under the impression that I was divinely ordained to save you all from a natural disaster. I had not secreted two of every species of the animal kingdom in my backpack (only a couple of badgers). But I could see land for the first time in weeks, and I liked it.

Pelicans soared overhead as we rounded the corner into the Port of Guadeloupe. Dolphins swam ahead announcing our arrival with underwater megaphones; a solitary dove flew above us, carrying the twig of hope. And then the sea parted to reveal volcanic beaches, looming mountains, palm trees, and people! Enter the Caribbean.

I only had 6 hours to spend on this lovely island so there was no time to waste. I dashed around at a very un-Caribbean pace, flitting between the brightly coloured buildings like a humming bird. From Colonial era buildings that were crumbling on their shaky foundations, to open front patisseries and boulangeries that laced the air with the smell of freshly baked bread, the evidence of the French was everywhere. I’d travelled for a fortnight and found myself on a tropical island, but still in the EU.

This is a weird and wonderful feeling let me tell you. 28 degrees in the shade, sipping an espresso and eating a croissant that was paid for in Euros, butchering the French language, and watching waves lap against the dock as bizarre birds dashed between the trees. It was a lazy Sunday morning and perhaps the best possible introduction to the laid back life that we all associate with this part of the world.

The main export of Guadeloupe is bananas and back on the ship they were busy loading the cargo. But more than that, we were also unloading some of our freight onto the island. Sadly, thanks to years of exploitation, Gaudeloupe has become dependent on its parent country, and as an official overseas region of France Guadeloupe now receives significant imports from it’s European sugar daddy.

But there was no time to think about all this global trade, import-export, exploitation jazz. Before I knew it the sun was setting and we were due back on the boat. Cradling a bottle of rum that some of the crew had requested, I returned to my cabin, feeling very pleased with myself about making it this far.

Next stop, Columbia: a strange port where enormous barges sidled up to our ship to load their cargo and we were unable to disembark. This was one part infrastructure, there being insufficient depth for our boat near the shore, and one part security. The captain informed us that, perhaps unsurprisingly, Columbia is renowned for drug smugglers sneaking aboard to get their wares north of the Panama Canal.  Sneaky sneaky. That night was spent peering out of the window at the giant cranes as they effortlessly placed 10 tonnes pallets in the hold, and considering where I might hide all those woodland animals I’d smuggled from the UK.

Only three sleeps later and we were in Costa Rica. And true to my hypothesis, the journey really had been more important than the destination. I arrived with a great sense of achievement, and waved goodbye to my friends amongst the crew with genuine sadness. Bring on the proverbial cheese! The next stage of the adventure was waiting.

Little did they know that I had spent half the morning choreographing a jigsaw puzzle celebration dance, and the other half doing cartwheels in a boiler suit I found under my sofa. Boredom can drive you to some terrible things, but none were so bad as my decision to read a Danielle Steele novel.

My lovely sailor buddies, Viktor, Alex and Andrev, from Russia, Lithuania and Ukraine respectively, were bringing me great joy and I was slowing developing a social life on the boat. I had a phone in my cabin and I would let out a squeal of delight whenever it rang. Viktor called to say he’d found another Abba DVD; Andrev could see a whale from the bridge and wanted to know if I needed to borrow his binoculars, and Alex pretty much just phoned for a chat. However, this social life only occurred after they finished work and so I was forced to spend the rest of the day with myself.

On arrival I’d begun by exploring the boat. It was two hundred metres end to end, with cargo stowed above and below deck. There was a teeny tiny swimming pool, a dartboard without darts, a ping-pong table and a library with a wide selection of Polish literature.

Although the entertainment facilities left a little to be desired, my cabin was lovely, far better than I had expected and a pleasure to be in. Twin beds in one room, adjacent to an en-suite bathroom, complete with miniature soaps. Next to that was my own private day room with a desk, sofas, calendar (to count down the days) and plenty of space for important time-fillers like prancing around in my lifejacket.

I read my book during the day, taught myself some Spanish, attended the frequent meals (brunch, elevenses, afternoon tea) and slaved away over my 1000 piece jigsaw. I visited the TV room and enjoyed a private screening of Miss Congeniality, and part 4 of 5 in a VHS box set on the history of the Great British Railway. Why this video was there remains one of life’s great mysteries, and thinking about it kept me occupied for some hours. But even with this weighty issue on my mind, boredom started to creep in.

By day ten my jigsaw dance was second to none, my tan was coming along nicely and I was quite sure I could pinpoint our exact location on the map. I’d had a go at steering the boat, studied the weather reports, and begun to identify constellations from a celestial sailing poster on the bridge. All things considered I was having a jolly good time. But then something terrible happened.

As if possessed by some crazed housewife, I found myself in the library plucking the solitary English book from the shelf: a Danielle Steele romance. The name of the book escapes me. I think I’ve blocked it out. But the cover was pink, I should have known better.

But with time to kill and a lack of entertainment I was fooled into thinking it was a good idea. Boy meets girl, girl is secretly a princess, love ensues…what did I expect?! As I finished the novel a fit of insanity took over me. I abandoned my stance on littering and sent the book flying into the depths of the Atlantic. I felt I had done the world a great service.

As I watched the book float away, its pages already under attack from the corrosive salt water I felt my sanity return. Somehow by throwing that book to its watery death I had freed myself from the boredom. Suddenly the time was flying past. Time flies like an arrow, fruit flies like a banana. Day 14. Land was in site!

I had discovered that I only increased the load of the ship by 0.001%, a delightfully small number, unlikely to have any discernable impact of the efficiency of the engine. I’d also worked out that the ship could carry the equivalent of 100,000 passengers, substantially more than your average Boeing 747. However, due to limited space and the lack of reclining seats they would probably have to forgo the in-flight movie, and may or may not have to be vacuum-packed.

As you can see, I’d given rather a lot of thought to my carbon footprint. And I was delighted by the ludicrous calculations I had executed. What I hadn’t considered was what the journey would actually be like!

“These lot English are they?” asked my taxi driver as we pulled up alongside the ship that was to be my home for the next twenty-three days. “No,” I said, as I looked up at the faces of forty sailors who were peering at me from the deck. “I think they’re Russian”. “Pretty thing like you, good luck!” And with that he got back in his cab and drove away! At which point I burst into tears.

For the first few days I was largely on my own. I was the only passenger on board and indeed the only women. Thanks to my good friend the cabbie I was not only lonely but also plagued by nightmares of sex-starved Russians knocking down my door in the depths of the night. And so in the interest of honesty I will admit, with my head held high that those first few days were without a doubt the most nerve-wracking of my entire life.

I cried my eyes out, wrote some self-pitying drivel to my poor family, and went to bed without any dinner.  I still felt uneasy the next day, and the day after that. On day three I finally plucked up the courage to introduce myself to these terrifying pirates. And before I knew it I had been crowned Queen of the ship and was in a ping-pong tournament with the crew, who took me under their wing like a giant Russian albatross.

I leant a little Russian (including useful words like belly button), sampled the delights of Eastern European cuisine (such as calf’s tongue and salty cured fish), and was regularly engaged in dance offs with my good friend Viktor, aka Mr Frozen, a big fat Ukrainian refrigerator engineer who had a penchant for Abba. My initial fears were totally unfounded. It was to be the single most brilliant journey of all my travels.