Unlike 13,000 other Nepalese, Tika cheated death at the hands of Maoists, and now peacefully runs the Gurkha Village restaurant, in Chatham, UK where I ate with a friend, Ingrid.  (Excellent Gurkha / Nepalese cuisine!) He escaped from Nepal when Maoists said he must join them or die.  I also ‘escaped’ through Himalayan Mountains from armed Maoists near a battle.  We swapped stories.

In the early 2000s I raised funds from friends to rebuild eight schools in the foothills of Everest, schools that were so dilapidated, they made me cry.  That’s another story.  But then the Maoist’s armed rebellion started. 

‘Do you know how your royal family died?’ I asked.  Tika nodded.  He’s unsure of what I know.  He wasn’t about to talk, so I continued.  ‘I was in Kathmandu just after the royal family murders, meeting different friends who live near the royal palace.  All said they witnessed a massive battle.  There weren’t too many Maoists at that time, so to be able to defeat 5,000 soldiers who defended the palace, friends said attackers must have had help from the Chinese army.’  Tika nodded again.  'After the battle everyone nearby was warned not to tell, or they would die too.  My friends checked around them before telling me what happened.’  Tika knows this.    

‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘how Nepalese know your royal family’s murder happened, is totally different to how Western media reported it.  Western media just said a member of the family lost control, murdered everyone in his family, then killed himself.’  Tika nodded again, knowingly.  It seemed he wanted to hear my words first. 

‘I believe my Nepalese friends, not Western media,’ I said.  ‘For example, other friends live overlooking the river in Kathmandu where funeral pyres are built, and ashes are sent downstream to release karma.  They witnessed piles of bodies being burned non-stop.  After three days, the many bodies still left were starting to smell.  So trucks took them away.’

Tika spoke at last.  ‘That’s all true,’ he said. 

‘What I don’t understand is why Western media did not report the huge battle at the palace, or the masses of funeral pyres.  Especially when all local Nepalese witnesses know what happened.  Why report battles in other countries, and not in Nepal?’

‘I agree,’ Tika said briefly.

‘I temporarily stopped rebuilding schools,’ I said, ‘because of three situations.  First, whole classrooms of children were kidnapped, and taken to jungle camps to be trained as Maoist fighters.  Second, I was being driven up mountain passes at night, when a gun battle echoed nearby.  As we slowed at a u-bend, men armed with rifles stopped us. They talked aggressively at my three Nepalese companions, who refused to speak to me after, except that there was a big danger. Third, I heard later the Maoists had said anyone caught collaborating with foreigners for infrastructure projects, including schools, would be shot.'  

Tika was a man of few words.  ‘Yes,’ he said.  ‘Those things happened.’

‘I did not want anyone kidnapped or shot because of me, so have been waiting for the civil war to end.  Now there’s been peace for two or three years, I was thinking of going there this year, to finish rebuilding the schools and...’

Tika interrupted.  ‘Don’t go yet.  If Maoists most recent demands in parliament are not met, there may be fighting again next month.  Don’t go yet,’ he repeated.  'There might be dangers for you, schoolchildren, and adults who help you.'

Tika had hardly said a word.  So his warning was powerful. 

‘Thank you,’ I said.  ‘I won’t go yet.  I just pray Western media report any fighting so I know whether to go, or not...'  

Sometimes life throws us a dilemma, and we need to look for a synchronicity of three, to catch the right choice.  The woman’s voice on the phone sounded caring, gentle.  ‘I’d like you to teach me Reiki,’ she said.

‘I’m really sorry,’ I said, in a caring, gentle voice back. ‘I don’t advertise classes any more.  I’m travelling the world, staying with friends, and writing more books.’  Something’s not right with my answer.  ‘Where do you live?’

‘Just around the corner from you in Margate!’

Oh.  I’m known more in Malaysia than Margate.  From the outset of my teachings and healings I chose not to advertise locally.  Patients and students travelled to my Centre, Heaven-by-the-Sea from all over the world. But rarely from Margate.  Is this synchronicity?  I’ll look out for three.        

‘I knew I should have studied Reiki with you,’ the woman said, ‘when I saw you 12 years ago on BBC TV.  Instead I studied with two others because they were cheaper.  I learned almost nothing.  Please may I re-study with you?  A few friends would like to learn too.’ 

Oh dear, a dilemma.  Can I help others in need, and honour my new way of life of travelling and writing too?

The woman continued talking.  ‘I attend a group for fibromyalgia and ME.  I lectured on meditation last year.  We raise just enough money to hire the room.’ 

There’s the synchronicity of three.  It’s not just Reiki that’s wanted by her.  Reiki is wanted by her friends.  And others need ME healing, a subject I may have more knowledge on than most UK doctors.  Here we go...‘I am not currently advertising courses, clinics, or lectures.  But if something crops up and feels right, I’m happy to help.  Would your group like a free lecture?’

‘I’m an atheist.  I don’t believe in God, or an after-life,’ said the man in the seat next to me. ‘Do you?’  Severe  turbulence had hit our plane from Barbados to Gatwick.  Passengers gasped audibly as the plane plunged.  My stomach turned, like being on a big dipper.  

‘No, I don’t believe in God or an after-life either,’ I replied. 

He paused, so I continued.  This should spark thought, as usual.  ‘I don’t believe, I know.’

‘How can you know something science hasn’t proved? Most scientists don’t believe in God.’

‘Maybe most scientists need logical evidence, whereas other scientists’ believe because of personal experiences.’  He doesn’t understand ‘personal experience’ of God or an after-life.

‘I don’t accept that.  How can you experience something that doesn’t exist?’

‘That’s the whole point.  Unless someone believes because their family or culture believes, you can’t believe until you have a mystical experience.  You haven’t had a mystical experience, so you don’t believe.  That’s fine.’

He thought for a while, then asked, ‘So why do you believe?’

‘Because I’m a priest,’ I replied.  Oops, that shocked him.  ‘And because I’ve had so many mystical experiences I have no choice but to believe, or know.’

‘I try to be good,’ he replied, ‘and I’m an atheist.  Why aren’t all priests good like me?’  The plane swung from side to side then dipped, twice.  More loud gasps from passengers...  

Barbados Hilton is on a lush tropical peninsular.  Two pristine beaches with beautiful white powdery soft sand are lapped by the crystal azure Caribbean sea.  Our open air balcony overlooked this paradise; and a peaceful pool complex fringed with palm trees. 

Lunch of blackened barracuda and flying fish, washed down by rum cocktails, was as tasty as the conversation.  Mark Sutherland is a bean counter, the name for an accountant, with deep interest in mystical knowledge. His partner, Prunella Parris, helps at Janice Worme’s Natural Energy Clinic.  www.naturalenergycentre.com And Cassandra is director of the Centre for Spiritual Development.  Their variety of life experiences led to lively conversation.  Until Samantha talked of a mystical problem she couldn’t solve.  

‘When I was about two or three,’ Samantha, a nurse, said, ‘I woke, scared. A white woman stood over me.  She wore a black top with a hoodie, and had piercing eyes and long pointed nose.  She operated on me, took something from my stomach, and sealed it in a clear vial.  I’ve been scared of her ever since.’

Hmm, doesn’t feel bad. ‘Have you ever considered she could be your spirit guide?’ I asked.  She looks surprised. ‘You see, spirit guides are usually only dead people.  They don’t have to look beautiful.’  Her understanding is only flickering. I’ll give an example.  ‘One of my patients was frightened when she saw the spirit of an ugly man with scars down his face.  He held a symbolic red rose to show he loved her.  But she was still frightened.  It took years, but eventually she accepted he helped her life path in loving ways.’

‘I hadn’t thought of that, but accept it,’ Samantha said. ‘I won’t wait any more years to accept.’

‘Good.  Your lady did not put something negative into you, she took something out.  And she did not take out something good, like your soul.’

‘Oh no, my soul’s fine.  She took out something bad.’

‘Exactly.  And because...’

‘But then,’ Samantha interrupted, ‘about five years ago I went to a therapist.  ‘During therapy we both saw scary things leave me, including insects, a coin, and that woman’s face.  The insects and coin disintegrated.  Then an axe came out of my head and disintegrated too.  Then mud came out of my fingers until they became bright white and crystal.’

Sounds good to me.  ‘Therapy leads to positive change or cure.  Some people, not many, see the change or cure symbolically.  For example, a coin might be symbolic of your monetary need or greed at that time.  An axe might be symbolic of a past life death.  And mud from your fingers could be symbolic of ‘rubbish’ collected from negatives of life.  If they disintegrated or changed to light you received wonderful healing!’

‘Phew.  But what about that woman’s face appearing again?’

‘If she’s your guide, she’d appear to help the healing process.  She might even have helped guide that therapist to heal...’

Samantha interrupted again.  ‘Thank you.  I understand.’  I feel another ‘but’ coming...  ‘But, last month, my husband said that during the night, while asleep, I cried out “that woman is trying to kill me.”  Every time she touched my hair, my head hurt.  I’m scared.’    

She’s afraid of her guide.  I’ll use another story to explain.  ‘If you were in a deep dark forest, and thought you were alone, and suddenly your best friend in the world came from behind and touched your head, how would you feel?’

‘Scared.’

‘Exactly.’   By George, I think she’s got it.

‘I think I’ve got it,’ Samantha said.

Hooray.  ‘Yes.  The likelihood is she touched your head to heal.  Pain was the healing process, or perhaps your unconscious fear of her.’  Time to summarise.  I’ll end with punch-lines.  ‘If she was truly evil, you’d be dead by now, not director of a company promoting spiritual enlightenment. Just swap one letter in ‘scared’ and you’ll be ‘sacred’ instead.’

Samantha breathed a huge sigh, and released fear she’d had since childhood.   

Mark kindly paid for the blackened fish and rum cocktail lunch, and we dashed back to the ship.  I had less than 15 minutes to catch the coach to the airport for the flight to England. 

On the way I thought of Samantha.  Too many people fear mystical experiences.  They’re even afraid to tell family or friends for fear of being scoffed at.  It’s a vast pity Carl Yung fell out with Sigmund Freud in 1913.  Yung’s mystical experiences, described in his “Red Book”, weren’t released by his heirs until 2001.  If they had been released earlier, or incorporated by Freud, common mystical experiences would now be shown to be normal and positive.  Then countless patients would not need to suffer, because they’d realise they were normal, and positive, too.

In 2000 I was ordained as a priest.  My lineage goes back from bishop to bishop to AD 1566, including the renowned and well-published Bishop CW Leadbeater in the 1920s.  So I belonged to a well established church.  I followed Bishop Jonathan Blake, an ex-Church of England vicar, when he started The Open Episcopal Church, to embrace and help all in need, in any way, including gay weddings and women bishops.  I have conducted Christian weddings, baptisms, blessings, and funerals in UK, Denmark, and Mexico.  Yet I still embrace Jews, Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs and so on as equals, with love.  The OEC genuinely loves and helps everyone, everywhere, under every circumstance.  

The OEC now wishes to recognise, honour and inspire children aged 10 to 18, whose goals and aspirations are similarly as selfless as the OEC.  We pray this in turn helps re-awaken society to the virtues of a life spent unconditionally in the service of others.

Here’s the call.  

1. Do you know a remarkable young person who ‘who cares for those who suffer’
Discrimination / the poor / homeless / refugees / sick / elderly / housebound / animals / environment, etc,  

2. Do you know a remarkable young person ‘who achieves positive effects in community relations’  Peace / reconciliation / justice / inter-faith relations / cultures / ethnic groups / persuasions / circumstances etc

The Open Episcopal Church is a respected member of The International Council of Community Churches, and of the World Council of Churches.  For terms and conditions see:

http://www.openepiscopalchurch.org/organisation/kite.html

Let’s honour our youngsters’ achievements to share love with our needy world.

What did Friday the 13th bring for you?  For me it brought a patient.  Marcus (his pseudonym), was speaking with friends on the ship over supper, when he suddenly seemed startled.  Supper’s not that bad, I thought.  Marcus turned to a friend, Bert.  ‘Can you heal my knee?  Pain suddenly started.’ 

Hmm.... feels like advanced healing is needed.  ‘May I have a go?’ I asked.

I placed my hand on the precise knee-pain spot.  ‘Gosh, I can feel heat,’ Marcus exclaimed.  ‘All over.  I’m really hot all over.  Ow!  The pain just moved to my elbow.’

I repeated the process and placed my hand on the precise elbow-pain spot.  ‘Wow, that heat is boiling,’ Marcus said.  ‘It’s like hot water flooding me everywhere.  Ow!  The pain just moved to my neck.’

Oh no, my least favourite healing need – a pain that moves anywhere in the body, fast.  This type of pain is tough to heal because it seems to ‘consciously’ and deliberately escape from the healing.

‘This might take longer than normal,’ I said.  ‘Would you mind coming to my cabin?’

Marcus sat looking out of the cabin window at Barbados docks, where giant cranes picked huge containers from a ship, and swung them ashore. 

I need a giant crane to lift this energy out, I thought.  This pain feels like a long-term problem.  ‘It’s not a problem,’ I reassured.  ‘How long have you had it?’

‘About 40 years.  It’s a long-term problem.  No therapy helps because the pain just escapes out of the way to a different part of my body.’

As expected.  Oh dear.  Friday the 13th and I find a semi-intelligent energy. Marcus is its host body.

‘Nothing’s living in you.’ I reassured again.  No point in scaring Marcus further.  ‘May I ask, were you sexually abused as a child?’

‘Yes,’ he said matter-of-factly, and cried.  ‘40 years ago my parents died in a car crash and foster parents sexually abused me.’  He cried more.  It’s terrible that last year a study showed children suffer more abuse in foster homes than they do at home.  ‘I had the pain ever since.’

As expected.  Every case I’ve had of such moving pains started with sexual abuse as a child.  As if semi-intelligent energies are attracted by that type of negative energy.  ‘The good news is,’ I said, ‘that if we get rid of it, you’ll have an instant cure on many levels.  Because that pain-energy may have held you back in life.’

‘It did!’ Marcus exclaimed.  ‘I was bedridden for years, because the moving pain debilitated me.  It affected my thinking, my relationships.  When I think or do goodness, pain starts again, badly.  No doctor or therapist can help.’

Yep, a tough case on Friday 13th. That’s how it is. I’ll try Saturation Therapy. 

After 50 minutes of intensive work, Marcus smiled tentatively, unsure how he felt.  ‘I feel great,’ he said at last.  ‘Peaceful and calm...  No pain anywhere.  Phew!  I’ve not been pain free in 40 years.’

‘Return to your cabin and rest,’ I advised.  ‘After 40 years, let energies consolidate and integrate fully.’

‘I will,’ he said, ‘except Bert wants me to drink with him.  He goes home tomorrow.  It’s our last night on the ship.’

Oh no, here we go.  Intensive Saturation Therapy should cure him.  But he won’t rest, to let the energies integrate.  Bad luck on him, maybe. 

‘You coming for a drink too,’ he said as he left cheerfully.

‘No thank you,’ I replied.  ‘It’s Friday 13th.’ Unlucky for him, if he doesn’t let the healing work deeply enough.

‘Where do you want to go?’  The bus station heaved with dozens of 12-seater mini-busses, and hundreds of people. 

‘I don’t mind,’ I replied.  

‘This bus goes to Gouyeve, on the other side of island.’

‘OK.’  I sat in the one vacant seat, and paid the $1 fare.  The bus was full of black women laden with shopping, returning to their villages.  I didn’t know what was in Gouyeve, just knew I’d return before the ship left.  

It was the most spectacular hour journey I’d ever taken.  The women laughed and moved dance-like as Reggae music blared.  We hurtled and rattled around hairpin bends, beside cricket matches, up volcanic mountains, past pretty harbours, through tropical rainforest, by steep waterfalls, down into jungle valleys, over rivers and streams with rock pools where people bathed, fished, or dived, and alongside bare beaches with see-through seas.  Now and again, a passenger knocked loud three times.  The bus stopped, to let them out by a small village or their home.  Eventually I felt strongly I should knock too.  Surprisingly, I alighted beside the biggest nutmeg spice factory in the Caribbean, not far from a fabulous fishing village ghetto on the beach.

The nutmeg factory produced 1½ million pounds of nutmeg powder in three grades, for fine cooking, coarse soups, and health/cosmetics.  That’s half the production since destruction caused by Hurricane Ivan.  Outside, Dorothy, a sweet loving lady gave me a Sappe, a large nut the size of a golf ball.  ‘It’s a rare spice,’ she said.  ‘A bit like vanilla.’ She’s genuine.  She doesn’t give gifts to make sales.  Her love gives gifts.  I’ll buy something. 

‘I don’t give gifts to make sales,’ she said, as I picked up a basket of spices.

‘I want to,’ I said.  

‘OK.  Then the usual price in town is $10.’  That’s true – I saw the prices.  ‘But you can have it for $1.’  

'That's not fair,' I said.

'It is for me.'

I bought spice necklaces too.  ‘They include,’ Dorothy said, ‘clove, saffron, ginger, cinnamon, cocoa beans, love beads, bay leaves and so on.  Hang them as an air freshener.  After eight months, boil the necklace for five minutes, and they’ll refresh.’  I paid her well.  But she’d only take $1 for each item.  ‘It's too cheap, I said.  I still don't think it's fair you won't take more money.  You have a loving soul,’ I said.  You sell truth and love.’  She nodded slightly and smiled happily.  

Contrast that angelic way with the next encounter at the fishing village ghetto on the beach. Ramshackle huts seemed strewn around by Hurricane Ivan.  Young black men and women played cards, dominoes, or draughts, to loud roars at good or bad moves.  That was, until they saw me.  ‘What are you doing here, white man,’ a black girl asked.  

She's wearing a t-shirt that reads "I kiss better than you think."  She must like a joke.  She's a pretty girl.  There's probably not many men who haven't thought she'd kiss well.    

‘I like dominoes,’ I replied jokingly. 'Fancy a game, black girl?' 

‘Don’t you call me a black girl.’

‘You called me a white man.’

‘Yes, but you can’t call me a black girl.’

I don’t think she’s serious.  ‘Why not, I like it.’  

She smiled, ‘OK, but don’t you call me a black girl again.’

‘What are you doing here,’ said a man in his 20s.  He held up a machete.

‘I’ve no idea,’ I said.  

‘Then I’ll show you around.  My name’s Kellon.’  He beckoned me to follow through semi-derelict buildings to the beach.  Ghetto people stared at my every step.  Most held a machete.  With as many as possible I touched their knuckles and touched my heart, the local friendship greeting.  ‘I’m a fisherman,’ Kellon said.  A tall man came over.  ‘This is my cousin, Shondel, and this is his boat.  We row out to sea for jacks, marlin, oshange, and yellow fin tuna.’  Shondel stepped towards me, and held up a large machete.    

‘You’re not about to use those machetes to rob me?’ I asked.  If he is, his face and body response to the question will warn me. Then it's prayer time.  ‘There’s so many machete’s here,' I said, ' I thought you were waiting in this ghetto to battle pirates.’

‘This is a ghetto,’ he replied calmly.  ‘But we’re a peaceful fishing village.  We use machetes to kill and gut fish.  Look,' he pointed.  Even one of our boats is named, "God is Good."’

His energy is peace.  Thank God.

The fishermen were proud of their small rowing dinghies.  Each was maintained as well as the cruise ship, painted brightly.  The difference between boats and homes was stark.  Maybe Japanese pay for boats, but not homes.  Last year, the Japanese built a modern pier and fish factory and sales room 100 meters up the beach.  ‘They buy all our yellow fin tuna,’ the fishermen explained happily.  I’m not happy.  The Japanese spend fortunes on posh sushi dinners, and let poor fishermen live in squalor.  It doesn’t seem fair.

‘Be fair,’ Kellon said.  ‘I’m hungry but I don’t rob or steal anymore because I’ve been in prison three times and don’t want to go back.  I just beg sometimes now.  Be fair, buy me dinner.’    

He’s been my ‘guide’.  ‘That’s fair,’ I said.  Soon he munched chicken, while I munched fried chunks of Osange fish, saving some for Shondel.  I helped Kellon a bit more before leaving.  

There was no regular bus back, so I caught a school bus, full of well-behaved boys and girls in blue uniforms.  What is fair, I thought.  Is it fair for Japanese to build a fantastic factory and not a dozen homes?  Was it fair of me to buy dinner for only one man in a ghetto full of needy souls?  The problem is, there’s too much suffering to relieve for one company or one tourist.  We all help what we can, wherever we are, while knowing we can never help enough.

Most cruise-ship passengers took guided tours to find their idea of tropical paradise.  But St Lucia is no Saint Island.  Police patrol in pairs and bulletproof vests.  I’ll seek the big man who tried to rob me last month I thought. 

‘Can I help you?’ a big man asked.  Long black and grey dreadlocks on head and chin...  A deeply fissured face showed he has trod both dark and light sides of life.  ‘I’m Jonathan.  I’ll be your angel,’ he said.  ‘I’ll protect you.’  

He probably wants to earn, but seems earnest.  ‘OK,’ I said.  ‘I’m looking for a big man who tried to rob me last month.  So I can tell police.’  

‘Robbers are devils for our island.  I’ll help,’ he said eagerly.  ‘I’m 6 feet 2.’

‘The robber is 6 feet 7.’

‘No-one can harm you when I’m by your side.  I’m your angel protector.’   

We could not find the robber, but found the All Nations Bar, where last month I’d drank and played dominoes with black guys who protected me from anti-whites.  Angus and others greeted me with broad smiles, and rounds of pure homemade rum.  ‘200 per cent proof,’ Angus grinned.  A black man came in, and screamed at me like a devil for being white.  My angel Jonathan screamed back, ‘he’s not a white man, he’s a hu – man!’ so forcefully the man backed out of the door. 

‘My mother died recently,’ said Jonathan.  ‘In her Will she left me half a mountain.  It has its own waterfall.  But I’m alone.  If I had money to build a road for tourists to visit, I’d be made for life.’

Maybe this is true, maybe not.  Maybe it’s his way to earn from me.  Maybe I’ll offer funds to part-own a waterfall, and help my black angel Jonathan and St Lucia’s economy.  ‘Let’s swap email addresses,’ I said.  

Jonathan smiled.  ‘It’s good to know I’m not alone anymore.  Come, I’ll show you my home.’  

We visited a ‘shop’ with a few jars of sweets, in the front room of an old toothless lady, who stirred Carnation Milk into a large pot on her sofa as she watched TV.  ‘I’m making ice-lollies to sell,’ she said.  Across the road, Jonathan’s home was a tiny space with a single bed, lots of clutter, and a toilet in an open-view yard.  Rumpled sheets covered the little floor.  ‘This is where I bring women.  Or destitute or homeless people I meet.  They sleep on the floor until they feel better.  I used to live rough myself.’  The sheet on the floor stirred, and a sleepy head poked out.  ‘This is Robert.  I found him on the streets four days ago.  He’s 23.  I’m teaching him about angels and love.’  Jonathan treads a difficult human path to share angelic love.  I’ll check his waterfall credentials, and try to help him.   

-------

Walking back to the ship alone, I felt a pull to a hut selling ice creams.  A black lady about 50 sat there serenely.  I haven’t come for ice cream.  ‘Do you know what you are?’ I asked the serene lady.

‘Who am I?  My name’s Cerena, meaning serene.  But you asked what am I?  OK, I’m an angel,’ she said matter-of-factly, ‘I try to make everyone happy.’ 

I simply agreed. A few words will touch her soul.  ‘Yes,’ I said.  She cried, and hid in the corner until tears stopped flowing.  

I bought a quintruple chocolate ice cream, with chocolate sauce poured on top, dipped into chocolate chips and two chocolate flakes sticking out the top, to give her space to thnk of why she cried.  Before we could speak again, a tall Rasta man entered.  ‘My name’s Black Prince’ he said proudly.  ‘I’m not proud.  I teach spirituality across the road.’  He doesn’t seem enlightened.  ‘I’m so enlightened,’ he said.  ‘I can disappear in front of people.’  

‘Go on then,’ I urged.  ‘Disappear.’

‘I don’t disappear when people ask.’

‘That’s because you can’t?’ I suggested.

After more spiritual banter, he left.  

‘You see the difference between his words and mine?’ I asked Cerena.  ‘His words had no energy for you.  You cried at my simple words, because my words were your truth.’  

She cried again.  ‘People have seen my wings,’ she sobbed.  ‘I saved hard to get this shop, so I can share love with customers.  I know my soul must share love in even bigger ways, and I’m afraid.’

She has a bible on the counter.  I picked it up, and opened it at random.  It fell to Isaiah chapter 11.  ‘Jesse is you,’ I said.  ‘As with Jesse, your shoots are coming up from stumps that will bear you fruits of wisdom, understanding, counsel, and power.  What is your dream way for your shoots to fruit, in other words for you to share your love?’

She hesitated, almost afraid to answer.  ‘I’d gather groups of people who don’t know love, and help them find it.  And other groups who do know love and help them share it.’

‘I can help you,’ I said.  ‘Here’s my email address.’  She seems happy.  

‘I feel happier now,’ she said.  ‘It’s good to know I’m not alone anymore.’ 

Most cruise passengers enjoyed expensive jungle train trips, taxis to beaches to feed monkeys, or cable cars up volcanic mountains. I visited blaring bars to meet Kittitians I’d drank and danced with three weeks before.  They were happy to see me.  It felt good to be accepted, knowing few whites venture to their dens.  As I left, we touched knuckles.  ‘Peace, love and harmony, man!’ one said, laughing.  Inter-cultural peace, love and harmony is worth more than expensive trains, taxis, and cable cars.  

‘I hoped you’d return,’ said Dodd. ‘What you said last time moved me.’  Dodd Caine runs a St Kitts booze store by the ship’s dock.  I’d met him when we visited last month. ‘You said I was loving, but disillusioned with humanity. You’re right.’ Dodd is a lovely black guy in his 60s and a cowboy hat.  Broad upturned smiles, almost meet his ears. Customers don’t just buy his booze. They hang around, waiting to speak with him, feeling his love.  ‘I remember,’ I replied.  He’s shared love with customers for so long, I thought, he needs a bigger challenge.
            ‘I think you’ve come to challenge me.’
            ‘If I did, I know the challenge.’ He needs to step up a gear and disperse his love in more satisfying ways.
            He almost ignored my comment.  ‘I can’t disperse my love enough and...’
            I interrupted. ‘Exactly! You can’t disperse love enough. That’s your challenge.’
            He nodded thoughtfully. ‘I needed someone to come and say this. Many people don’t disperse love enough. Few do anything about it. I need someone to guide me...’ 
            This guy’s special. It will be a pleasure to try to help such a loving soul. ‘Here’s my email address,’ I said.  For the second time today, inter-cultural peace, love and harmony is worth more than expensive trains, taxis, and cable cars.  

Ramshackle buildings intrigue like newest creations.  The International House Museum was so amazingly ramshackle, it tugged me inside.  It’s a Caribbean cultural and historical wonder collected by two sons of the soil.  After Edgar Challenger died, Winston ‘Zack’ Nesbitt’s dedication earned awards, including recently a Medal of Honour from the Queen of England.  Do visit if you’re ever in St Kitts.  And be inspired as Zack and a 9-year old boy proudly show artefacts as diverse as a sardine tin ukulele, an oil-fired fridge, and an ice-cream crusher, and photos of persons of note, from beauty queens to presidents.  Outside, meet pet monkeys Wilfred and Mildred, opposite Sensee fowls and a mongoose.  A hen laid an egg as I watched.  The boy gave a toothy laugh and me the egg, complete with ‘yucky wet stuff’ on the shell.  Zack searched through piles of papers to hand me a glossy magazine with a full page article about his cultural curiosity.  He loved his work, creating peace and harmony in his little enclave.  When I promised to write about his work, he beamed.  For the third time today, inter-cultural peace, love and harmony is more valuable than expensive trains, taxis, and cable cars.  

PS If a rich benefactor reads this, please contact beautiful 33 year old Jeida Mitcham, Upper College Street, Ghant, Basseterre, St Kitts, West Indies, and help her buy two new legs.  She lost hers when a car mounted a pavement and smashed into her. Inter-cultural love and legs are more valuable than a car.  

I love the sea, my Jacuzzi, anything water.  So if I’d known how much water water-painting used, I wouldn’t have waited till now to splosh it in a palette and splash it across paper.  My father, mother, and mother’s twin sister paint; my sister helped mental illness as an art therapist.  And a relation has a portrait hanging in London’s National Portrait Gallery.  So it’s time I checked if my love of water and hereditary art ability could be combined.  

‘Does anyone have a question?’ Marilyn Allis the teacher asked.  Marilyn had been British champion in an art competition, had her own TV show, and taught on the ship for a free holiday.     

‘Yes.’ I replied.  ‘I’m a beginner.  What’s a brush?’  It was said as a joke, but turned out to be serious.  

‘Different sized brushes in the kit you just bought, are not needed.’  She held up a pink-handled brush.  Thick ‘bristles’ tapered to a fine point.  ‘I had this specially designed and only use this.’  
(You can buy it on http://www.marilynallis.com/pages/bio.html  )

Soon my mug of water was muggy, the box of paints was muggy, and my palette was muggy too.  But somehow from the murky depths of mugginess, a brightly coloured Caribbean cockerel appeared on paper, then two children carrying a large pail, a cello player, houses and fields, boats in a calm sea, and the back end of a cow.  Class-mates said how good they are.  I still feel mugged with embarrassment.  

My novice’s 7 secrets of watercolour painting 

Secret 1. Sketch outlines with a pencil that’s easy to rub out.  My rubber was soon black.

Secret 2. Splosh and dosh clean water across paper first.  That’s a fun bit.  Leave areas that need to be white, like clouds, dry.  

Secret 3. Adding water makes paler shades.  Red makes pretty pink.  (White is rarely used.)

Secret 4. For background, add watered down pale colours to wet areas.  Don’t be scared.  Let colours run and meld in the wetness. 

Secret 5. Hairdryer the wet paper before adding different or deeper colour. Otherwise sharp lines run and meld too.  

Secret 6. At the end, use increasingly deeper shades (less and less water) to add shadows on clothes, objects etc. 

Secret 7. After a few days, rub out sketch pencil lines.

There, a crash course of secrets.  From today, water is not just my love, it’s my art form.  But I’ll probably never be like my relation and hang a painting in the National Portrait Gallery.  I'd rather work harder to relieve suffering in the world.