Another flight, and the ritual stiff-the-tourist cab ride later, and I'm in my home for the next fortnight. It's a 5-star gin palace, whose very name causes my cab driver to suck sir through his teeth and push a secret button marked 'mother load' which simultaneously accelerates his meter and sends a complimentary bottle of champagne to his bank manager. But I can check out the hotel later. Now I want to lock down my surf lessons. And there are literally doze...