Tits up (and no this is not a nudie sunbathing story).

I wanted to write this blog with the stories in reverse order, (hence the tits up reference for those of you imaging it's another, oops "boob out" tale) however I promised some light hearted banter and thought up the sarong story last night before this morning's far less lighthearted expedition, so I decided to lull you in gently and describe events in the way they unfolded.

I headed off to dinner last night in one of my new sarongs, the experience was not pleasant one. It should have been, the sarong in question is dusty pink and looked marvellous, especially when teamed with my new glittery handbag of the same shade and modest Jemina Khan in her Imrah days style top. Loathe as I am to deter the retail therapists placing their sarong orders, I do feel obliged to determine if my experience of sarong wearing is universal.

My first encounter with said item of clothing was touring down under with my mate Fiona many moons ago. So many moons in fact we could have both been described as kids, she now has two and as you all know I have recently graduated to womanhood.

Fiona wore her navy blue sarong in a variety of styles, well two, short and long. She's purchased it in these parts I believe en route to Oz. It was apart from one skirt (she travelled like a true backpacker, none of this three cleavage baring dresses, just in case malarky) her only item of clothing that could conceivable fall into the smart casual bracket. She looked fab in it and all holiday I longed, pined to have one like it. Naturally I resisted as dressing like your mates, particularly when they're half the size is you, is never a good look. It's also I reckon testament to a lack of creativity and unlikely to do wonders for your friendship.

Years later I however succumbed. For the past ten years I have been an avid sarong wearer. Why? I wondered last night. No matter what size I am my experience is the same. there is always just a centimetre of tassle able to tie up round my waist. (When I'm inhaling and sucking everything in and before I have eaten). I always therefore end up castrating my stomach and spending the whole time I am wearing the damn thing unable to breathe properly. Not only this but after the inevitable feed I always find the knot has got too tight and the only way to provide any relief to my innards is to literally cut myself out of the thing. I thought given that I am sweating myself slim in Bali last night would be an exception, but oh no. Now you may at this time pause to say don't tie, just tuck it in. A good solution were it not for my previous scaring bum out with no knickers on chasing my sarong through a car park, or, with knickers chasing the sarong blown down the tunnel by the tube train's wind generation in Holburn station situations, which have, strangely, left me somewhat cautious of this approach.

Maybe it's cos we are getting fatter in the West but the places sarongs get made the women are still slips of things. Maybe it's a cost cutting excercise designed to reduce the amount of fabric used. Whatever the reason I think we should put an end to it and start a women of the west demand sarongs that let you breathe campaign. Any offers to design the petition?

Any such flippant thoughts were blown away by a walk along the beach this morning. Last night had seen tropical storms of the sort that mean you need to hoist said sarong up round your thighs, so deep were the puddles. The storm it seems had brought in more than just rain. The usualy white beach that's said to be Bali's finest and spreads from through the primary tourist spots was littered, and not with ordinary rubbish. I know you all know what's coming, but feel obliged to point out that Bali is just about as far South from Banda Aceh as you can get in Indonesia. Nevertheless the beach was coated with tsunami debris. Light bulbs and lighters, a washing up rack, suntan lotion, cough mixture, a deckchair intact minus the seat, three snorkle tubes minus the mouthpieces, flip flops, of varying sizes but with a huge number that could only fit children. Most haunting for me for some reason a spiderman one complete with said superhero and the marking "spiderman sports". literally tens of baby feeding spoons. Condoms, half a frisbee, sachets of shampoo, specifically I noticed head and shoulders and sunsilk, felt tip pens, permanent markers and biros, tree trunks, in some cases wider than my waist and with roots attached, whole fish, still largely intact if decomposing, crisp packets and one of those candy packets you get in France, a metre long comprising about twelve indidual candy holding sachets, still intact, a McDonalds cup, toothbrushes and insect repellant. Largely a mixture of memorabilia from what should have been a normal day at the beach. It was heartbreaking. The locals wanted to avoid discussing it but the lady who provided this mroning's massage came for a walk along the sand with me and like me kept focusing on the paraphenalia unavoidably associated with children.

By the time I walked back some hours later the debris had been assembled into piles with driftwood and natural debris nearly masking the evidence of humanity beneath it. Presumably so the tourists and surfers wouldn't be upset.
The sea too was affected, whilst the majority of the waves were still navy blue tipped with frothing white waves, in places, and I was told this marked the tidal rips, the white waves were rust discoloured, a fisherman said by the rubbish.

I am glad in way that nature is helping to remind people what's going on, but found it really hard to not just pretend I hadn't sen it and head up the beach. All morning my inner voice has been telling me head to the affected regions. It's not the first time it's said that. I have decided to avoid Aceh as I am sure mum would definately be on the first plane out if I said I was going there, and given all the cash she's pledged to ethical shopping I know she can't afford that, but I think I will try and see if there's anything I can do in Thailand for a couple of weeks. Maybe take some pictures or write some stories for the newspapers or aid agencies back home to help keep it in people's minds.

Julie