The RMS St Helena proved more pleasant than I had expected from a dual-purpose passenger and cargo ship. Our cabin was roomy, the food good without being exceptional, and the service friendly. The crew tried hard to provide amusements—shuffleboard, trivia contests, movies—throughout each day. Mostly, I read on deck or talked with other travelers. I met only one Napoleon enthusiast on board, a young French IT consultant donating his time to catalog Napoleonic material.
The other passengers were an international mix: a Cape Town Apostolic bishop with his church group; an Irish consultant and a French engineer working on bids for a breakwater; South Africans on holiday; British engineers coming to drill for water for the proposed airport; British sisters, one of whom raises ponies in Virginia; Saints returning home; Australians pursuing ancestral ties; and the director of British Overseas Territories checking on his remote outpost.
I’ve never heard English pronounced in so many ways: Irish, South African, Australian, and a half dozen British accents, plus St Helena’s own quick, clipped speech. I wondered to a Frenchmen on board how a non-native English speaker could ever understand it all. When he smiled and admitted he often couldn’t, I reassured him that neither could I.
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