They think its all over …. it is now!

Reality doesn’t take long to kick in.  It is just over 4 weeks since we arrived back in Ireland.  Standing the departures area, waiting for our bags, I was not sure what to feel: Excitement at seeing my family and friends after so long, Sorrow that the whole adventure was over, Nervous about whether or not I would settle back into the normality of life at home.

Now, almost a month back at home I’m still not sure how to feel.  I’m happy to finally have the routine I was beginning to crave towards the end of the trip.  I’m delighted to be home with my family and friends who I missed more than I would ever have expected to.  Naturally I suppose, there is still a part of me that wishes I was packing up my rucksack in the morning (even though that was the one thing I could not wait to stop doing) and heading off on another adventure. 

A friend told me before I left on this trip that it would change me – in some way, not necessarily in a fundamental way, but it would change me, change my outlook on life, what I viewed as priorities.  I have to admit I did scoff a little at the idea.  I figured at 28 years of age, I was pretty much who I was going to be.  Sure, I expected the trip to bring new experiences and maybe open my eyes a little, but change me, no.  How wrong I was. 

And how has it changed me? 

I haven’t a clue.

I don’t know has it made more tolerant or less patient, more confident or more fearful, more open minded or has it reinforced the stereotypes we all hold.  I really, really don’t know.  What I do know though, is that while nothing has really changed, everything feels just a little bit different.

Speaking with friends over the last few weeks, I have come to realise that my biggest fear coming back from this trip was that I would lose that feeling, that completely unexplainable feeling that a trip like this has given me.  The sense that nothing is pre defined, that we are all master of out own destinies.  Over the past 9 months, with all my wandering, and all my pondering, I have realised that the only person who stops me from doing the things I want to do, achieving the things I want to achieve, is me.  And well, I know me, so in a battle, it should be no contest really!

Last week, someone asked me if I thought that the trip had quenched my thirst for travel.  My response was unequivocal. 

Not a chance.

If anything it  has fueled it.  The past eight months have shown me how much the world has to offer and how little of it I have seen or even know.  For now, the reality I used to know has had to kick in.  And while that will be my reality for the next while at least, that part of me that has bigger dreams, dreams of wild adventures in South America, of wilderness treks in Asia, of white knuckle, adrenalin pumping action in New Zealand knows that it won’t be forever.  Ok, so the 9 month trip may be a one off, but there is far too much colour and life out there for this to be the end for me, and sure its only two months till 2010 and I won’t have been away all that year …. surely I’ll be due a holiday! 

The final stop – Rio!

A few days of chilling out in a Brazilian paradise ensured we were ready for reputedly one of the most exciting, energetic cities in the world.  Rio’s reputation precedes it, conjuring up images of the extravagant carnival, the glamorous bronzed bodies strutting along the Copacabana and the energy, colour and harsh reality of the favelas.  For some reason though, these images are, in my mind anyway, always accompanied by by bluebird skies and that bright yellow globe I am sure I recall from some distant memory.  

On an overcast day, Rio choose not show us her full glory.  All the same, we were not disappointed.  Our few days began with a brief tour of the city – no pussyfooting about, we were straight down to business with a short drive up the infamous Corcadova – a mountain in the heart of downtown Rio, better know for its most famous resident – Christ the Redeemer.  He stands tall, facing the rising sun and the entrance to the bay.  Built as a symbol of the strong Christian faith in Brazil and positioned atop the high point of the city, he was to be the  the first sight that the returning ships would see.  Interestingly, Rio de Janiero was so named because of a huge geographical misconception.  Early spanish explorers passing by the bay on the first of January many moons ago, mistakenly assumed that the complex network of headlands and coves was actually a river mouth and hence the city came to be named the River of January – ooops!

Rio is an incredible mish mash of mountains and beaches, with the sprawling favellas climbing up the hillsides, while downtown the city skyline grows ever taller.  And yet, it is beautiful, chaotic, but beautiful.  It should not all fit together, but somehow it works and just standing there at the feet of the Christ, you understand why he is where he is, with the city at his feet, to watch over and protect this stunning city.

Moving towards the Brazilian equivalent of Camden, Lapa.  Lapa is where the trendy people hang out, the artists, the spiritual hippies, the night clubbing tourists.  For us, the brief stop in Lapa was to take in one of the most colourful sights in Rio (and that means seriously colourful).  Some years ago, a Chilean artist by the name Selaron began what would become a life’s work.  He began to cover an entire staircase in colourful tiles.  Now, almost 20 years later, there are tiles from all corners of the earth which have, over the course of almost 2 decades taken the place of the original green, blue and yellow tiles.  It is an incredible site, more incredible still when, strolling up the steps, you pass the man himself, sitting there, chatting, taking it all in, seemingly oblivious or at least unaffected by the fact that his work has now become one of the biggest tourist attractions in Rio – now included in the city tour with Christ the Redeemer and the Sugar Loaf mountain.  Not bad company to keep Senor Selaron.  And it is beautiful – I could have wandered up and down those stairs for hours wondering at where this incredible variety of tiles came from.  But, as has so often been the case on this trip, time ran out.

Our next stop was at what I can only describe as simultaneously the most ugly and most beautiful building I have even seen.  The cathedral is a bizzare looking building, no question.  It looks like an ugly version of the beehive (the parliament building in Wellington), it is a huge block of cement, with layers like a can-can dancers skirt … well, see for yourself.

It is admittedly, fairly hideous.  Step inside however, and it is a different story entirely.  The high walls, caving in slightly on you as you enter meet to create this huge open space – it was the second time in a short number of days that something had made me feel insignificant.  The walls are made of overlapping cement slabs, making the building appear enclosed, but actually when you walk inside, it becomes clear that each layer of cement, shelters the cathedral from the elements, just the cement, no glass, no plastic, no curtain.  It gives the huge building a strangely airy and open feeling.  The darkness created by the concrete punctuated by the brightly coloured mosaic stained glass windows which run the height of the building on four sides.  This building is the greatest advocate for the old expression “never judge a book by its cover”.

Our final stop of the day was to the Sugar loaf mountain.  Unfortunately the promised views did not materialise for the most part,thanks to a thick blanket of cloud.  It gave the whole trip a sort of Hallowe’en-y feel, like those dark evenings in October and November, when the fog comes in and you can see your own breath and the only light is an eerie glow emanating fromthe orange street lights.  We travelled up the mountain in style in the once state of the art cable car, stopping at the half way point for a brief look around.  The odd clear patch provided us with glimpses of the city, its lagoon and even some sunny beaches!  The second cable car took us quite literally through the clouds and reaching the top of the mountain we were almost above it all…… almost.  Desperate for some warmth I made a bee line for the gift shop … not for the first time, I cursed the air conditioning!

Eventually though, we did get a few sustained breaks in the cloud, conveniently, just in time for sunset.  Despite the baltic temperatures, you could not help but stand and watch Rio fade in and out through the gaps in the cloud, the city made even more beautiful by the pallet of reds and oranges forming the backdrop, with Christ the Redeemer overlooking it all.

As if day one was not hectic enough, we followed it up with an even busier day.  Sunday saw us visit Rochina, the biggest favella in Rio de Janiero, with over 300,000 people living there in conditions ranging from basic to squalid.  Our guide began with the expected warnings – you may see guns, don’t buy drugs, common sense stuff really.  Reality kicked in when she warned that those carrying weapons might be kids as young as 10 or 11.  As we walked around though, it became quite clear that although notorious for all the wrong reasons, Rochina is just another town, another community, with its own difficulties,  its own warts, but also with its own sense of community!  It is difficult for someone like me to understand how a community run by drug lords and weapons traders can function, how people can be happy in a place with overflowing open sewers, deposits of rotting rubbish and rife with poverty and corruption.  But they are.  They may live by an inconventional set of rules, but while it may be an exaggeration to say it works, it certainly functions.

Leaving Rochina behind, we headed straight for the Marcana (football buffs, I apologise for probably getting the nname wrong!) stadium on the other side of Rio, set to watch local favourites Flamengo take on Cortiba.  Luckily for us, the local boys did the job, defeating the visitors by a convincing three goals to nil.  Move over Jackie’s army (or Trap’s army, or whatever we are these days), Brazilian fans know how to rock a stadium.  From start to finish they sang, shouted, cheered and jeered, all the time willing their boys to convert their energy into goals!  The flares burned all through the game and we even witnessed some samba esque dancing through the corridors of the stadium as the Flamengo fnas prepared to dance into the night.  Unfortunately, we could not join them, we had some dancing of our own to do.

A morning in Rochina, an afternoon at the football, what else was there to do, but party with the locals.  So we hit the road for another favela where we joined the locals at the sunday night favela party.  Booties shook, hips swayed (and that was just the tourists!).  So, after a hard day, we partied the night away (and most of the next morning) arriving back in Rio shortly before daybreak for a few badly needed hours sleep.  When we did eventually surface, it was just in time for a short walk to Ipanema before we had to say goodbye to our welsh friends who were about to make the long journey back to Wales!

It was hard to believe that the trip was almost at an end.  We had just three days left before our big adventure concluded.  Determined to make the most of it before reality bit once more, we spent the days relaxing, strolling around Copacabana, indulging in tasty local food, eating ourselves silly at the many all you can eat buffet restaurants, running along the beach front, and sampling the tasty local brew!  A hard life it was not, but with mixed emotions about the journey home, a few days to contemplate the return to reality and to reminisce about the past 8 months was welcome; all the adventures, the trials, the highs and lows.  But, we were determined to savour every last minute, make our last few days count and what better place to do that than beautiful Rio.

Brazilian Beaches

Ultimately, our time at Iguassu Falls ran out. I was gutted to be leaving Foz du Iguassu, a town which does not have much to offer, but leaving the breath taking Iguassu Falls, knowing that I may never have the opportunity to visit again was something to lament.

No matter, the beautiful coastal town of Paraty would take my mind off it. With its myriad old Portuguese colonial buildings, complete with brightly coloured doors and window shutters, hanging baskets, cobblestone streets (which flood daily at high tide in some areas of the town) and its wealth of fun filled activities, it is an understandably popular spot with locals and tour groups alike, which has fortunately managed so far to retain its old charm and character.

An early morning spent kayaking in the millpond bay, around a small island dense with tropical vegetation (and the owner’s washing line!), followed by an afternoon of horse riding up into the hills for magnificent views of the bay, even on a cloudy, rainy day, set us all up with a huge appetite for a fantastic home cooked meal courtesy of some of our more culinary minded group members!

The nature of these tours as I have come to learn however, is that there is never enough time – days are filled with activities, nights with too much good food and parties and all too soon it is time to move onto the next destination.

Fortunately for us, our next port of call was a little splash of paradise in the Atlantic, just south of the Rio coastline, the stunning Illa Grande.

Arriving in the boat, you would be forgiven for thinking you had just arrived in the Ko Phi Phi (Thailand) of 20 years ago. Illa Grande, though much bigger, boasts the same aquamarine waters, crystal clear and teeming with life, the same white sand beaches, sweeping hills lush and rich with tropical vegetation. When we finally docked, the picture could not have been more different. Absent were the drunken gap year students, the crazy party bars and the constant hum of a party, which have their place. I am just glad Illa Grande is not that place. The strict planning laws have ensured that Illa Grande has not yet and hopefully never will follow Ko Phi Phi down the path towards being the 24 hour party island.

All the same, Illa Grande does not shut down at night. There are parties to be found, but they do not dominate the island and its primary draw remains its unspoilt beaches, notably the truly beautiful Lopes Mendes. A two and a half hour hike from the main town through dense forest is the only route by land as there are no motorised vehicles on the island. The beach itself is part of a marine reserve, so if you wish to get there by boat, you must dock at the nearest beach, a 20 minute walk to Lopes Mendes. It is worth the hike though, two and a half sweaty hours later, the weary legs are greeted by white sand; clean and almost powder like; roaring green surf and for us anyway, an almost deserted beach. Summer brings the crowds and of course the surfers, but late afternoon on a winter’s day, meant the entire beach was our own private playground.

Did I mention parties? Our second day in Illa Grande was spent aboard a gorgeous little schooner, although I suspect it is a long time since she travelled anywhere under sail. The Caiprinha boat as she was more frequently referred to, took us on a day long cruise around the island, stopping at various beaches and snorkelling spots, for some fun, food and of course … Caiprinhas! After almost 25 days of hectic travel, it was just what the doctor ordered. Some one had also conveniently remembered to order the sun and the afternoon was spent basking in glorious sunshine as we ate more than our body weights in barbequed meat, fresh crispy salads and fabulous garlic bread, all washed down with … its getting old now, isn’t it? Caiprinhas!

Arriving back into the port in the late afternoon, we said goodbye to the caiprinha boat and headed back to the hotel to rest up for the following day’s boat and bus trip to Rio de Janeiro. That might be a little white lie, the party may have continued into the wee small hours, and 9 very weary souls may have boarded the scene of the crime the following morning bound for the mainland and Rio. One thing is for sure, nothing was going to prevent us from enjoying our time in Rio. A few hours rest and we would all be ready to go again!

Iguassu Falls

There is no denying it, I was expecting a lot from Iguassu Falls.  Nobody seems to visit it and leave disappointed.  Everyone talks about how incredible it is, how powerful, how beautiful.  I wondered if there was any chance that I would actually leave feeling the same.  As is so often the case when you visit a place whose reputation precedes it, I was afraid that Iguassu would disappoint.  Well, maybe not disappoint, but I thought there was a distinct possibility I would be a little … underwhelmed by the whole thing.

I was so far wrong I was in another continent. 

Iguassu Falls is probably the single most impressive natural site we have visited over the entire trip, in fact, probably the single most impressive site full stop; and this trip has brought us to many incredible places: The Himalayas, Angkor Wat, Polonnaruwa, Fox Glacier to name but a few that have really stuck in my mind.

Our first glimpse of the falls was from the Brazilian side renowned for its panoramic views (they straddle the Brazilian-Argentinean border).  It did not disappoint.  However impressed I was though, I was assured, the best was yet to come.  The following day, the jet boat ride up river towards the pounding columns of water blew me away and still I was told it would get better.  As we walked up the stone steps in the cliff side, soaked to the skin after the boat ride, the views became more impressive still.  With over 270 separate waterfalls making up the truly awesome Iguassu family, every few minutes walk was rewarded with mind blowingly beautiful views.  The climax though, the true winner of the day was the roaring “Devil’s Throat” – Garganta del Diablo – with water cascading, roaring down over 82 metres around 240 degrees, meeting in a violent, misty, swirling cauldron below.  The noise is deafening, the power unmissable, it is impossible to stand there, on the walkways adjacent to the falls and not be transfixed by the thousands of cubic metres of water sprinting over the edge and crashing into the basin below.  How could there possibly be this much water in the world? And how is this only the tiniest fraction of it?  Maybe places like this are meant to remind us that we are not as big a part of it as we would like to think.  I don’t think I have ever felt more insignificant in my life.  Bizarrely though, it was a comforting thought.

The story of the formation of the Iguassu Falls is an interesting one, not the geological version however, but rather the ancient legend of the native Guarani people.  They believe that at one time, the Iguassu river was a still, wide, flat river.  Each year the local Guarani tribe would sacrifice their most beautiful virgin to the serpent god of the river M’Boi.  Naipi was due to marry Taruba who was a warrior from another local tribe, but when the serpent god saw her, he fell in love with her and demanded she be the virgin sacrifice.  Afraid to anger the powerful serpent, the tribe conceded and made ready to sacrifice Naipi.  Naipi and Taruba being very much in love, made a plan to escape down the Iguassu river in a canoe.  Sadly for them, M’Boi uncovered their plan and in anger chased the lovers down the river, writhing and splashing and in doing so cracked the river bed forming a huge gorge which would become the falls.  In revenge for their disloyalty, M’Boi transformed Taruba into a palm tree overlooking the falls and the beautiful Naipi into a rock at the base of the falls.  The lovers would spend eternity always close enough to see one another, but suffer the torture of never being together.

Far fetched perhaps, but there is something magical about Iguassu Falls, something other worldly about the sheer power, the volume, the crashing, angry water, which makes you wonder … maybe, just maybe!  

The very dry (usually swampy) Pantanal!

After a few days of relaxation in Sucre, we said goodbye to some of our travelling companions and flew to Santa Cruz to meet up with the new contingent who would travel to Rio together.

This part of the tour had a shaky start – mainly due to the bus which would take us into the famous grassland swamp of the Pantanal. Sitting in Santa Cruz bus station we saw fancy air conditioned coach after fancy air conditioned coach enter the grounds and drive past our gate. Eventually, we saw a little humdinger enter, red and blue, it had certainly seen better days and we wondered what poor unfortunates would spent the next few uncomfortable hours on it. We did not have to wonder very long as it pulled in directly in front of us. After almost 8 months of travelling, we have spent time on some uncomfortable buses, with questionably qualified drivers (like the young driver in our leaky Cambodian bus who hadn’t obviously yet learned how to change gear, with no air conditioning, overcrowded with people, market goods and even animals. This one though, took the biscuit.

Initially, it was just not a pretty, modern bus. Then we noticed the small holes in the body work, the baggage doors which required a wrench to open and close them, the refrigerator being stored in the under carriage, while the spare diesel tank and tyre were removed. She had seen better days, this bus! There was however, worse to come. Our journey was to take us 17 hours from Santa Cruz, to the Bolivian border town of Puerto Suarez, 17 hours on bumpy dirt tracks. Even though she was old, you would think that being the only bus (apparently) running this route, she would be prepared for such a trip – the tyres told another story! With some tyres virtually bald and others, like this one having no treads at all, we were all anxious boarding.

As it turned out, we needn’t have been. Although not a beauty queen, she provided us with comfortable seats, a/c courtesy of the multiple open windows and reclining seats. We arrived safely to Puerto Suarez.

Our journey into the Pantanal was punctuated by a lunch stop and a quick swim in the shallow river, barely 10 feet from caiman basking in the sunshine. When we did eventually arrive at our accommodation, all thoughts of our dodgy bus journey evaporated. A small fazenda in the middle of the Pantanal, with stables adjacent, Fazenda São João provided us with a long dorm room with hammocks swaying in the warm evening breeze. It was nothing short of perfect.

The following morning after a filling breakfast, we headed up to the stables to meet our companions for the day. My trusty steed was Sagano. Having not ridden a horse for at least 10 years, I was anxious, but he took good care of me. Walking and trotting obediently initially as we meandered through the forests and tall grass paddocks, we both got a little braver towards the end of the trek and we even had a canter and a little gallop across the final few fields, ending with a jump over some bushes, which shattered any illusion I had that I was in fact in control. Nonetheless, it was a fantastic morning and I was sorry to say goodbye to Sagano.

There was little time for me to lament his departure however. After some lunch, we headed out on a safari drive. With the Pantanal experiencing a drought at the moment, the normally swampy grasslands are dry, dusty and bereft of the normally teeming wildlife. Even so, Our guide Alex showed us Caiman, Jabarou storks (symbol of the Pantanal), Capybaras (the world’s largest rodent), wild pigs and dozens of beautifully coloured birds. The true highlight of the afternoon though, was the hour we spent, fishing for Piranha at sunset. I am ashamed to say that I am one of two in our group of 9 who caught no fish, however, I think Schmo more than made up for my failings with a haul of 7 of the toothy critters! What else could we have for dinner then, but piranha! Despite the number that were caught between the group, we brought back only 9, one for each of us! The rest went back into the lake to continue their snappy little fishy lives!

Our time in the incredible Pantanal was almost over, but before we left, we had time for a short walk into the wilderness. With the land so dry, we were unfortunate in that the normally teeming swamps, were in fact completely absent. However, we still manage to catch glimpses of otters, caiman, capybara, storks, herons, cranes, South American screamers (like bush turkeys), cardinals, blue macaws, parakeets. No puma or jaguar unfortunately, but maybe that is a good thing, I reckon they could outrun me!

Potosi

Potosi is one of those places that anyone who has visited Bolivia tells you you have to visit.  One friend warned me, its not an easy visit, but something that should be done.

Potosi is the former star of the Spanish colonialism.  in its heyday in the 17 and 18oo’s, it boasted a population of about 160,000, larger than Madrid at the time, the capital of a huge empire.  Today though, it is a sad little town.  Some stunning building remain to remind Potosi of her glorious past, but the reality is that Potosi, although ruggedly beautiful, is a sad relic of the past.  Impoverished and almost entirely reliant on a rapidly weakening mining industry, it is a city which may be destined to fall further still.

The mines themselves are owned by cooperatives,with and estimated 15,000 miners, mainly locals, working daily.  Rules dictate that miners (all male) must be a minimum of 12 years of age, but we have heard that many are younger.  They work 12-24 hours in a row and are paid only for what minerals they can sell.  For 10 tonnes of minerals, a miner might make about 1,000 Bolivianos, but the cost of transporting these is the miners responsibility and could cost him 500Bs, leaving him a similar profit, about 50 Euros – and he mines entirely by hand and dynamite.

The other huge cost to the miners is their health.  The average life expectancy is about 45 years of age, with the majority dying of silicosis, caused by years of breathing in the fine silica dust found in the mines.  We met one exceptional man, a miner for 37 years, he was very old in mining terms at 53 years of age.  He has a son of 33.  Both are dying of silicosis, his son will most likely be dead before him, and yet both continue to work.  It is the only means they have of supporting their family, ensuring their survival after their deaths.  If a miner has a son, he will usually take his father’s place in the cooperative after his death.  If there is no son, the cooperative will try to find work for the wife or daughters outside of the mine.  Women are not permitted to work in the mine.

Scattered throughout the mine, are dozens of effigies of the devil – our guide estimated about 1,500 of them.  Complete with fangs, horns and a very large manhood, the devil was originally introduced to the mines by the Spanish as a means of inciting fear in the newly Christian miners and ensure they worked longer and harder for less.  Somewhere along the lines however, the devil became the protector.  Miners now make offerings of cocoa leaves, cigarettes and alcohol, to ask for the protection of the devil and patchumama.  Patchumama (mother earth) is for the miners, the mountain itself.  The devil is virile and hungry and in consummating his relationship with Patchumama, they produce the rich veins of minerals in the mountain.  Women are not permitted to work in the mine as the miners fear that if the devil sees them, he will fall in love with them,dismissing Patchumama and thus no more mineral veins will be produced, destroying their livelihood.

The reality of course is that with our without women in the mine, the minerals are disappearing, as is the mountain.  in less than 200 years, the mountain has decreased over 500m in height due to the mining,  Ultimately, Potosi, the former star, will need to find another means of survival or risk total collapse.

The day was not all doom and gloom however, we did have the opportunity to indulge in some explosion of our own and blow up a stick of dynamite once we were outside the mines!  In the end though, the visit to Potosi was just as I had been told to expect, fascinating, fun but a real eye opener and a reminder of how lucky I am.

Uyuni and the Salt Flats

After a few relaxing and very enjoyable days in La Paz, the evening came for us to meet with our group, the people with whom we would spend the next 25 days travelling across Bolivia and Brazil to Rio de Janiero.

Group travel is always a bit of a gamble, its a bit like Forest Gump and his box of chocolates, you never know what you’re gonna get. Fortunately, we got a cracking group of people from all corners of the English speaking world – Aussies, NY Aussies, Kiwis, Welsh, English and of course us Irish!

Our guide dismissed with the formalities and we all headed out to the witches market for some traditional Bolivian fare. I opted for a Llama kebab, which was surprisingly tasty and it doesn’t taste like chicken! With a long trip ahead of us the next day, we all retired to bed early, eagerly anticipating the next few weeks.

Our journey to Uyuni, our first destination began with a short bus trip to the small mining town of Oruro, south of La Paz, which is reputed to have been the last hideout of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance kid, a bit of information which came courtesy of one of our group members! From there a long dusty 8 hour train journey would take us through the desert to Uyuni, a salt mining town in the north of the Atacama desert and home of one of Bolivia’s greatest tourist attractions – the world’s largest salt flats.

The first stop on the salt flats was a small mining area, where the local miners essentially mark out grids from which they harvest the salt, stashing it into conical heaps, prepared for transport back to Uyuni for refining and purifying. You see little sugar loaf shaped mounds dotting the horizon for almost as far as the eye can see. Every mound must be transported before the rains come in November and wash it all away, flattening the landscape, until the floodwaters recede and the whole cycle can begin again.

By the time we had finished, bellies were rumbling, so we ventured on towards Isla de Pescado, Fish Island, a little oasis in the centre of the salt flats, a rocky outcrop more accurately. It seems to be the only area of height in an otherwise barren white landscape. Arriving there, we took a family hike to the top of the hill past the huge cacti for a stunning view of the salt flats and the outline of the distant mountains. There we made an offering to Patchumama (mother earth) and returned back to ground level for a delicious home cooked meal of fresh veg and salad and …. llama steak!

Naturally, no trip to the salt flats could possibly be complete without the cheesy altered perspective photos – hours of entertainment was had as we posed and directed each other in a host of ridiculous looking pictures. Finally as the sun set, we made our way to our hostel for the evening, fashioned almost entirely of salt. I can’t help wondering does it melt away in the rainy season too!

Over the next few days, we explored the desert around the Uyuni, visiting the Red and Green Lagoons, some stunning and unusual rock formations and from a safe distance, we even saw an active volcano. Our final stop was at the train graveyard just outside Uyuni, where the rusty remains of what must have been hard working mine trains are destined to spend the rest of their days, lying in the hot sand with only the odd visit from a curious tourist or a canvas hungry grafitti artist!

After the 3 days and 2 nights of wandering in the dusty desert and no showers, we returned to Uyuni, tired, smelly and happy, to enjoy some long hot showers and an incredible pizza and finally hit our beds to ready ourselves for yet another long journey to Potosi.

La Paz and the World’s Most Dangerous Road

Arriving into La Paz after our two lengthy bus trips. we were fit for little else but some tasty food and a serious amount of sleep.  After what we felt was a well deserved lie in the following morning, we set about exploring the city, Bolivia’s largest.

Shamefully, the first port of call was far removed from the plethora of cultural experiences on offer.  Instead, we set about finding a good coffee shop for a tasty cuppa and cake!  That thirst satisfied, we did eventually manage to see more!

Strolling around the streets, I was reminded of the hectic pace of life in Asia, optional road rules, dawn till dusk street trading and once more an incredible array of colours.  We made our way to the famous Plaza San Francisco, home of the Iglesia de San Francisco, and the main focal point for tourists.  This however, is not for the church itself, but rather that it serves as the entrance point to the historically indigenous neighbourhoods in the city.  The biggest attraction in the area is the well known witches market. 

Indigenous women, clad in voluminous skirts, alpaca wool blankets and bowlers, smiling their gold capped toothy grins, sell not only the usual array of colourful handcrafted goods, and trinkets aimed unashamedly at the tourist market, they also sell some more unusual and typically Bolivian items, such as dried llama foetuses.  These are apparently used as offerings to Pacha Mama, mother earth and would be given traditionally as a gift to a young married couple.  The foetus would be buried under the foundations of their new marital home, no co-habitation here, as an offering, asking Pacha Mama to protect them.  Another, if less common use, is for the foetus to be blended into a liquid and consumed as a fertility aid!  I think I’ll leave them to it!

Our second big activity in La Paz, was actually not in La Paz, but on the old road connecting the city with Coroico.   The famous “death road” mountain biking experience.  We had heard from almost everyone we had met who had visited Bolivia that this was a must, so who were we to argue?  

We might have been willing to take the challenge on, but we were not stupid about it.  Having heard some horror stories about the road, we opted for what we had heard was the safest company on the road, and it turns out, the only one which carries rescue equipment.  Of course they didn’t tell us this at the time, but as it happens, this rescue equipment is really more recovery equipment.  If I was in any doubt as to the credibility of the “world’s most dangerous road” title, our guide Phil, left us in no doubt.  He recounted terrifying stories of cyclists making fatal, if usually stupid errors, and sailing off the edge of a 200 foot plus drop.  The road side is literally a sheer cliff for at least 60-70% of the road, and even when the gradient decreases, it is only by a few percent.   

Not to be scaremongering, he did reassure us that Gravity, the company we travelled with, have by far the best safety record and warned us that most fatalities have occured with either experienced riders taking stupid risks, or people making silly mistakes and taking silly chances while under the influence of alcohol or drugs. 

With the frightening brief , safety instruction and strict guidelines on how to ride out of the way, we hit the road for the first 20km of the descent, which is down a public road, asphalt surfaced which would be our training ground for the day, providing an opportunity to become friends with our bikes, to get the feel of the gears, and the super sensitive brakes.  It also gave nervous riders like me, the chance to gain a little confidence, which was essential. Slow riders are just as likely to injure themselves as the speed demons on the WMDR!

Finally reaching the focal point of the day – a 10-15ft wide road, of gravel and loose rock, over 40km in duration, with a 200 foot sheer drop on the left hand side.  I really began to worry that I was certifiable to be even considering undertaking this.  The option of sitting out the ride in our support van was always there, but there was no way I could wuss out at this stage.  Slow (ish) and steady all the way.  Our guide suggested to us that a great way of keeping relaxed on the bike on the gravel was to sing to yourself, kindly suggesting such songs as “Freefalling”.  Ultimately, on this bluebird day, with the sun belting down, the only song that would come into my head was “Singing in the Rain” – but it helped. 

The end of the road brought us to a local animal reserve, for a cold beer, a hot shower, a fantastic feed and all wrapped up with a dip in the pool watching the spider monkeys playing in the shade!  Just the long journey back to La Paz.  We had conquered the world’s most dangerous road.  The only thing that could possibly have been more terrifying than cycling it, was driving it.  Where could the route home possibly take us?  Where else? Right back up the same way we came down.

Actually, it was fantastic to do take this route back.  The journey down required such intense concentration that I had no time to look around and appreciate the stunning views, the rich lush forest carpeting the mountainsides and of course the sheer craziness of what we had just done.  As we motored slowly up, I was about to comment to Schmo how strange it was that on a road which had seen so many fatalities, in such a staunchly catholic country, that there were no memorial crosses.  Just as I opened my mouth however, I saw one, and another, and another, and a cluster of 4, and memorial plaque and yet another cross.  For virtually the entire journey, the roadside was peppered with crosses, plaques and flowers marking all those who had lost their lives on this road.  It was a sobering sight, one I am glad I did not see prior to or during the ride down, because I almost certainly would have stopped.  And it may be a crazy thing to do, it may be the world’s most dangerous road, but it was some fun and a fantastic way of seeing some of the incredibly scenery Bolivia has to offer!

Arriving back in La Paz, after a long day riding down the WMDR and then driving back up it, we had nothing left to do but check in for our 25 day tour, which will take us from La Paz, through the salt flats and mines of Bolivia, into the Brazilian Pantalan, to the infamous Iguassu falls and ultimately to the islands of the Brazilian Atlantic coast and Rio de Janeiro!  Plenty more adventures in store before its time to head home!

Star Gazing in San Pedro de Atacama

After a long overnight journey, which followed a sleepless night in Santiago, you would imagine, given my love of sleep, that i would have been tucked up in my bed nice and early and headed to the land of nod.

Not so.  In fact, our sole purpose for making the long trip north was to head out to the muddle of the night.  Why? Why else, to watch the stars.

Space Observations is a small company established by a French Astronomer and his wife, a tourism operator.  They spotted a niche in the market and ever since have been taking tourists out into the Atacama Desert to observe the stunning southern night sky.  The region’s impossibly clear skies coupled with the almost total lack of light pollution provide for a truly incredible experience.

Even with the naked eye, we could see the cloudy band which ran from the horizon in the north arching overhead and descending towards the southern horizon, our home – the milky way.

Alejandra and Alain explained to us how we might orient ourselves using the southern or indeed northern skies; why the viewing experience here in the Atacama desert is so different; why and which portions of the sky are shared between northern and southern hemispheres and which stars we can never hope to see back home at our lofty 53 degrees north.

They pointed out Alpha-centauri,  one of the brightest stars in the sky and our nearest neighbour, a mere 4.4 light years away.  Explaining the concept of this distance, Alain informed us, that if we had astronauts at alpha centauri and we wanted to communicate with them, we could send them a message, which travelling at the speed of light would take 4.4 years to reach him.  His response would take the same time to return, so we would know, 8.8 years after sending our initial message, that the astronaut was fine, alive and well 4.4 years ago!  He pointed out some equally bright stars and explained that the brightness does not necessarily relate to distance, with two equally bright stars being 26 light years and 3000 light years away!

We tried to familiarise ourselves with some well known constellations: the southern cross, the scorpion, the pointers and a few less obvious ones such as Aquarius and Pegasus, which required a greater degree of imagination tor some mind altering substance to observe.  We finished off the evening with a stunning climax – viewing this incredible tapestry of light through some powerful telescopes.  We could see clusters of stars which to the naked eye appeared to be a cloud.  Two stars, one red and one blue, which appear to be one without the telescope.  We saw the milky way, far off galaxies and supernova remnants.  The star of the show, ironically, not even a star, was one of our closest planetary neighbours, Jupiter with its moons and coloured bands.

A well earned night’s sleep followed and Saturday left us a free day before we boarded our bus to Arica – our final Chilean destination before we left for Bolivia. 

San Pedro de Atacama is a town thriving on tourism.  Every second shop is a tour operator and every other a gift or souvenir shop.  As you walk down the dusty streets, waiters try to lure you into their restaurants with their Latin charm.  I should have hated it. 

I loved it.

Its gorgeous, its welcoming, its colourful, its friendly.  About 3 blocks by four or five, it is a tiny place and yet we wandered contentedly for six or seven hours, browsing shops, taking photos, sipping cool drinks shaded from the desert heat.  I was sorry to be leaving so soon.  With a host of tours and activities on offer, it is not difficult to see why one might stay in this little oasis longer than originally planned.  As they say though, time waits for no one and unfortunately, we were no exception.  So as I write, I am sitting on the bus once again, for another overnight journey, heading for La Paz and the next leg of the journey.

Santiago to San Pedro de Atacama

South America is a big continent. I’m not stupid. I know this. And yet, the journey from Santiago to San Pedro de Atacama, a small, but booming town in the Atacama desert close to the northern border with Bolivia, surprised me – 23 and a half hours the scheduled duration. In actual fact, it was over 25 hours.

The thought of a Bus Eireann journey of this duration frightens the life out of me, not least for the fact that my final destination would probably be somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. Mainly however, its the uncomfortable seats, the lack of air conditioning in the summer and heat in winter, the total lack of any leg room, the poor suspension and the fact that very often, the buses are just plain smelly!

Chile may not be among the booming economies of the world, but boy do the Chileans know how to do long haul bus travel. We travelled with a company called Tur Bus, probably well known to anyone who has back packed in Chile. They offer 3 levels of comfort (Semi Cama, Cama and Premium). For premium, think BA first class air travel and you’re close enough. We, however, being on a budget opted for the Semi Cama version. We were provided with reclining seats, foot rests, fleece blankets (which provide a stunning light show after dark thanks to the static!), a pillow, 2 snacks throughout the journey and a constant stream of TV entertainment. I’ve now seen 27 Dresses, Hellboy and Tombraider 2, ok, so they were in Spanish, which I don’t speak, at all, but still, its the thought that counts! I can tell you this for sure though, 24 hours on a bus passes much faster with a few creature comforts.

Arriving at San Pedro de Atacama, the place looks uninspiring, the surrounding country side is bleak and desolate. The same scenery that the Atacama desert had provided since daybreak, some 9-10 hours previously. Scarcely a tree in sight, much less a cloud. With parts of the desert having recorded no rainfall in over 50 years, it is not surprising.

The hostel owner, Roberto, true to his word despite the hour and a half delay in our arrival is there to greet us and quickly shepherds us away from the crowd of hostel hawkers and into his waiting van and onwards to the hostel. Formalities completed, we check into our small but perfectly adequate room and ready ourselves to head into the town for some much needed sustenance.

Some fellow travellers offered useful advice on getting to town and where to go. We commenced the short walk into town and I was amused to see a stunning full sized artificial surface football pitch, this in the town which for the previous few hours has had no power or running water due to a power outage, and which on a good day only has power until midnight. It is somewhat reminiscent of the elaborate gold leafed temples and stupas in India and Thailand, where people have scarcely enough to eat and yet such wealth is so evident around them.

Having said that, San Pedro de Atacama is becoming a wealthy little town, due in no small part to the booming tourist trade there. A quick stroll through the town, (which is a revelation – in stunning spanish colonial style (or so I am told), it really does feel like you’ve stepped back in time, except for the multitudes of tourists wandering round with baseball caps, bum bags and town maps) reveals scores of tourist operators, each aiming to tempt the tourists to join them on a tour of the desert, the Valle de la Luna, the Geysers del Tatio and Salar de Atacama, the incredible salt lake. Today, we opt instead to book onto a tour with a company called Space Observations (www.spaceobs.com) for an opportunity to travel out into the desert, beyond the lights of town, to observe the southern skies. Chile’s and particularly the Atacama desert’s notoriously clear skies provide the perfect location for not just tourists like us, but budding and indeed highly qualified and recognised astronomers to observe what lies beyond our reach.

So tonight, we headed off. Leaving the hostel, wrapped up with many layers and armed with a torch which will hopefully take us to where we need to go and then back again. Who knows what awaits us!

Time Travelling

Phileas Fogg did it without even realising it. However, as I sit here in the hostel in a wet and miserable Santiago at 9.40pm, I am very, very well aware of the fact that I have just crossed the international dateline and in the process confused my poor old body clock beyond its mere mortal capabilities!

To summarise, we checked out of our hostel at 10am on Tuesday, went for a walk and a coffee about 11.30am and left for the airport about 1pm. Arriving at the airport and checking in, we hit the departure area about 2.30pm for a 4pm boarding. We then had a 10 hour flight with movies and I was lucky enough to have, somewhere in the vicinity of my seat, the esteemed presence of Captain Farts-a-lot for the entire journey – my eye mask proved an excellent nose mask! But, I digress, we arrived then, after 10 long, sleepless hours in Santiago shortly before 11am on Tuesday, just over 5 hours earlier than we left Auckland.

I made the fatal error of sleeping a little two long. My intended one hour nap morphed into a blissful 4 hours of comatose sleep and now I am paying the price. Schmo, however, has the gift. He may not sleep on planes, but by god, give him a bed and off he heads to the land of nod! I have that scratchy feeling in my eyes, I know they’re begging for sleep, but my little siesta means they’ll have to wait a little longer!

Eventually, I succumbed and fell fast asleep, waking to the smell of pancakes, the free breakfast provided by the hostel. Unfortunately, by the time I hauled myself into the shower and downstairs, there was no one around to give me mine, so I settled for toast.

A brief stroll around Santiago didn’t reveal a whole lot. To be fair, we didn’t venture all that far. We had a bus to organise for the next day and with jet lagged minds and bodies we had little in the way of enthusiasm to appreciate our first foray into South American culture.

Later that night, much, much later, I was cursing the solid sleep of the previous night. I lay awake till after 4am, silently begging the hostels water pump/heater to just turn off long enough for me to sleep, while my restless neighbour of the previous night snored softly! Not even the smell of the promised pancakes could rouse me the following morning and I eventually surfaced just about in time for the midday check out. As left Santiago, I felt we really hadn’t given it a chance. So, next stop, sleep or no sleep, I’m going to soak it all up!

Glow Worms

With our last day of skiing behind us, we said a final farewell to the New Zealand snow and the stunning Mt. Ruapehu. Now, the journey was northwards towards Auckland, our final destination. There we would say goodbye to our trusty Maisie Penny and board our flight to Santiago for our South American and ultimate leg of the journey.

First however, we had one little stop to make, in a very little town (home to about 40 people) to see something very little, but very amazing – The Waitomo cave glow worms.

The caves we visited, were strictly speaking outside the Waitomo area. We chose them as the company operating the tours brings fewer people, thus fewer lights, and therefore a much more impressive glow worm experience. So impressive in fact, that Sir David Attenborough and his team used it for their Planet Earth and Life un the underground series for BBC. Now there is a man whose opinion I trust on the quality of experience in the natural world!!!

After a chilled out evening, watching a top quality NZ movie, The Whale Rider (if you haven’t seen it – watch it- I still loved it 4th or 5th time round) and a good night’s sleep, we rose and headed to the Spellbound Tower – out meeting point.

The tour, lead by a local guide, a proud kiwi, by the name of O’Halloran, with buckets of Irish and Scottish ancestors (we really do get everywhere!), began with the first of two caves. This was a dry cave. Many years ago, there was water flowing through, which carved out the cave itself, but today, the river flows elsewhere, having found itself a more suitable path, leaving behind a stunning array of chambers with stalactites and stalagmites and even numerous animal bones, from goats, cows, possums and even the bones of an ancient (and now extinct) Moa – an indigenous bird to these parts, which was hunted to extinction by Polynesian settlers many thousands of years ago.

The cave, conveniently lit up for punters like us, was stunning. And when our guide dimmed the lights for a moment, we got some impression of just how dark the next cave would be. After a leisurely stroll and a welcome hot cuppa with an oat biscuit (the cave is pretty chilly varying between 4 and 12 degrees), we headed for the highlight of the tour, the glowworm cave.

Just prior to the cave, we stopped for an Australia Zoo style show. Our guide introduced us to one of the river’s local residents, a long finned eel –native to New Zealand. Coaxing her slowly to the surface with some tasty goat meat, we were lucky enough to see her pop her head right out of the water, and ultimately she kindly obliged by turning a full circle and showing us her full length, over 2 feet of it!

There was no swaying us from the object of our visit though. The glow worms were waiting. We were kitted out in had hats and looking like a troop of miners, we marched in. Before we walked into the real depth of the cave, our guide pointed out the various stages in the life of the glow worm around the cave walls. The eggs, laid by the female, which incubate for 10 days, before hatching into larvae. It is the larvae who produce this phosphorescence, caused by an enzyme reaction with an oxidised fat, as we were told. The larvae (the glow worm), spin some 70-80 silky threads each, which drop from the cave wall, and catch the unsuspecting little insects who are attracted to its glow. And the larvae feed! Ultimately, they spin themselves a little pupa, where they reside for about 30 days, before emerging as a mouthless gnat. This poor little fellow/lady, cannot feed. It’s sole purpose now is to mate and/or lay eggs. Once this task is complete, it will eventually die of starvation, or get caught in the sticky threads of some hungry relation. Its a tough life.

After the entomology lesson, we walked deeper into the cave, periodically switching the lights off to see the few twinkling lights above us. Our guide assured us, that after a little time in the cave, we would see many more. We boarded a little boat and slowly drifted down the river. It was pitch black, we could see nothing save for the odd little glow above. Gradually however, as our eyes became accustomed to the dark, the white mining hats became visible, then slowly the silhouettes of the other passengers. By this stage, the sight above and around us was nothing short of awesome. I know I promised never to use that word again, but no other superlative will suffice. It was like staring up into the night sky, but not like any night sky I have ever seen, being the city slicker I am. It was how I imagine the night sky must look, in the middle of the dessert, hundreds of miles from anywhere, with no faint orange glow polluting the light, and not a cloud in sight.

It is difficult to describe just how many glowworms were busy over head, living their short, but hectic little lives. As we were unable to photograph in this cave both because we lack the necessary fancy equipment, but also because unwanted flashes will actually cause the larvae to dim their glow, which take many hours to recover, they’re a little photo-sensitive! However, we have been promised some pictures on e-mail, so hopefully once we are home, we can show you just how amazing it really was.

The Bungy Birthday (Taupo 2.1)

We arrived in Wellington off the Picton ferry about 4.30pm, with a long, long drive ahead of us to Taupo, for our second visit of the trip. This time the visit had one clear focus – adrenalin.

Hereafter, the story will diverge, my version (in italics) and Schmo’s version!

Fiona

After much humming and hawing in Queenstown, I had reluctantly agreed to do a bungy jump with Schmo for his birthday. In return for my generosity, he agreed to do a sky dive with me. First thing on the morning of his birthday, we paid a visit to the local reasonably friendly tourist office to hand over the cash, so there could be no turning back.

After confirming the sky dive for the next day and the bungy to be completed at our leisure, I had plans for a relaxed morning in town. A nice cuppa in one of the many little cafes dotted around, maybe a spot of shopping, and somewhere, in the distant future a long drop and some elastic may have featured.

Schmo had other plans – he wanted his bungy, and he wanted it now. I agreed, on one condition – I was going first. If I saw him fly off the edge of a platform almost 50 metres up, there was no way I would follow.

So, we arrived, signed the usual forms – no, i won’t sue you if I cause myself serious injuries during this bungy, I might sue myself for the sheer stupidity of it though. I was getting more confident. All I had to do was stand up there and jump, don’t look down and it will be easy …. easier.

I went first, I walked into the preparation area, where my ankles were harnessed in. The guys engaged in the usual banter … “it’s his first day … ha ha” said one, nodding to the other. (I later found out it was actually genuinely only his second day). Still I was ok though – step up, look ahead and go.

Eventually, bungy cord attached, it was time to stand up. This was where it all went sour. For anyone who has not seen or done a bungy, the cord is necessarily quite long, and quite elasticy and so, quite heavy when its hanging over the edge of a 46m drop. My plan of a purposeful stride to the edge was hampered by this (mainly the fear the weight would pull me over before I was ready), and the fact that my feet were shackled together, reducing the purposeful stride to an undignified penguin shuffle. This also scuppered the “don’t look down” plan. It is hard to penguin shuffle to the edge of a platform with a heavy cord between your legs, without once or twice checking you are on track and not about to trip yourself. Huston, we have a problem. All my plans … ruined … I saw the river below, the cliffs to the side, and the 46metre drop I was supposed to be taking. No way – its just not going to happen.

The poor guy on the platform, he must have to deal with this umpteen times a day. To my benefit though, it meant he was pretty good at coaxing nervous jumpers. A few words of reassurance and he got me to the edge, persuaded me I could do it, that I would wonder why I was so afraid in 2 minutes time, then lifted my arms up and before I had a chance to change my mind, nudged me off the edge …. in the first few nano seconds the thoughts in my mind ranged from “he did not just do that, oh my god he did, I can’t believe he pushed me, this is so brilliant, why was I afraid” this was roughly about the point where in my bungy afflicted brain thought the appropriate thing to do was shout back up to my kind assistant “THAAAAAANNKK YOUUUUUU” swiftly followed by “YOUUU WEEERRREEE RRIIIIIIGGGHHHTT!” all cringingly picked up by the microphones and proudly displayed on my courtesy DVD.

Schmo

Here I am Patiently standing outside the Bungy Corral. My ridiculous idea of a birthday treat. Fiona has reluctantly agreed to jump off a ledge in exchange for me jumping from a moving aircraft, a fair trade one might think. As she is a little nervous she has decided that she is going to venture out first. I witness her being readied for her jump. Legs strapped in, ropes double checked. She walks or more accurately waddles to the edge. With the Bungy instructor standing behind her explaining the intricacies of a prize jump she freezes. She has no intention of going through with it. She backs off and point blank refuses to go. The instructor being well versed in these matters reassures her. After some negotiating and a gentle but firm push she is away. A blood curdling scream comes first quickly followed by a clear thanks to the man who has just pushed her over a 46 metre ledge. I peer over the edge to see a dangling Fiona being retrieved by the river boat.

Now it’s my turn. With some pleasantries out of the way and wanting my jump to dip me into the river its down to business. After keeping my cool for so long and thinking this was going to be an easy task, I’ve been rattled by Fiona’s reluctance. I’m strapped in and all the previous checks are repeated. I waddle to the edge and confess that I too am unable to do this. But before the sentence is fully out of my mouth my legs have taken over and jumped for me. I too scream but mine sounds more like a teenage boy whose voice is breaking.

Who would have thought that jumping off a platform would be the perfect substitute for blowing out 29 candles.

A tale of two skydives (Taupo 2.2)

Schmo

Deciding that one adrenaline filled activity was enough for a single day we had set the skydive as our treat for the next day. With the Bungy completed on a gloriously sunny day followed by a clear night the clouds had decided to moved in. I thought that all my prayers had been answered. The campsite was thick with fog and there was no sign of it breaking. We prepared breakfast, packed up and headed off to the information centre where they would shed light on whether the jump was possible on such a cloudy day.

Fiona saw through my feigned look of disappointment as the woman behind the desk told us that the skydive was postponed until the cloud lifted. She advised us to return at 11:15 to check again.

One cup of coffee later and still the cloud was low over all of Taupo. We returned to the information centre, me with my hopes set on a nice grey cloudy day. To my horror a helpful lady behind the counter informed us that though it was cloudy in Taupo, the Airport was clearing up and we should make our way there.

We arrived at the Taupo Tandem Skydive centre, greeted by beautiful clear skies. I began to get even more nervous. So nervous in fact that I had to excuse myself before even filling out the general paper work associated with any such hazardous activity.

All things taken care of, we were greeted by some staff and given the hard sell. We were told about all the silver, gold and platinum packages we were missing out on due to the fact that we were only doing the basic jump. I know this only from signs and fliers that were shown to me as my brain had decided to switch off and preoccupy itself with nerves and thoughts of the jump.

All prepped and ready to go we boarded a small yellow aircraft with a shutter at one end. At this stage I don’t think I was communicative or pleasant to anyone around me.

Seated just in front of my instructor and still unable to make anything more than hand gestures, we taxied to the runway. Normally this would be a very unpleasant feeling for me but for some bizarre reason a wave of calm swept over me. We took off and the beautiful lake Taupo began to grow smaller and smaller as we climbed. Feeling human again and somewhat serene I began to talk to my instructor. We had the usual banter and then he strapped me onto his harness. Never before have I felt so comfortable feeling the warmth of another man.

A short time later we had reached the high point of our flight, the shutter at the back of the aircraft opened. Fiona and her instructor left the aircraft with a scream (not unlike the one yesterday, I thought).

My jump was imminent. All calmness gone again. Serenity nowhere to be found. The instructor shepherded me to the door and with one quick movement we were outside the aircraft.

You wouldn’t hear a docker use the language I used in those first few seconds of freefall but after that I was silent in sheer amazement at how beautiful the world looked (or at least lake Taupo) from such an angle.

Fi

I should start off by warning Dad not to read this. Or if you intend to read it Dad, skip the remainder of the paragraph and then continue. Dad hates heights and so the idea of me doing a bungy was probably bad enough, well, damage done, that’s already been posted. However, I can be a sensitive soul when I choose, so from here on in, my skydive (shhhh!) shall be referred to as “the Flower Show”.

Waking to dismally foggy weather, we traipsed to the information centre to be told we couldn’t “go to the flower show” at the scheduled time, we rebooked for about an hour later. Strolling around Taupo, there was no sign at all of the fog lifting, despite the assurances of the info centre staff that it usually burned off by 11. At the arranged time, still unable to see the water of the lake a mere 70-80 metres away, we returned, sure the flower show would be cancelled completely due to inclement weather. I was gutted. I’d been planning on seeing these flowers since we arrived in NZ. It was to be the highlight of the trip for me. I’ve always wanted to go to a flower show and to finally go, with Lake Taupo and the three big boys (Tongariro, Ruapehu and Ngauruhoe) providing the backdrop, what better place?

It was my lucky day, we were good to go. Schmo was a little less keen on the idea than I was. Despite my paralysing fear of the bungy jump, I was remarkably calm about the idea of throwing myself out of a plane (albeit strapped to some adrenaline junkie) at 12,000 feet. Doh! Sorry Dad – gone and ruined it all.

It might seem unusual. The bungy was 100 odd feet, this was well over 100 times that, and yet all I felt was sheer excitement. Once we arrived, signed the obligatory paperwork and the hardworking staff tried to get us to buy photos, dvds, mugs, key-rings and the whole sha-bang, we were kitted up, in rather fetching red jump suits. Harnessed up and all but ready to go, we watched the safety video. Well, I watched it and Schmo. I saw his face pale, his hands get clammy and his pupils dilate with sheer terror. I’ll admit at this point, I thought he might be better not going. The idea of him being that frightened was not a pleasant one. I offered a final get out of jail free card, which he quietly declined – we were going up.

The flight up to 12,000 feet, our jump height, was incredible. We watched the cloud disappear and saw the lake, the mountains and the surrounding country side spread out below us. It was just stunning. Chatting away to my instructor, he showed me his altimeter at 5,000 feet, the point at which he would pull the cord and open the canopy – wow! – 7,000 feet of freefall, with nothing but the air below me to slow me down!

It seemed like no time had passed when the shutter opened and the first two jumpers were gone. Next was one of the employees – she was training to be the video jumper – to capture the magic moments for people like me. In two seconds, she was gone and I was sitting on the edge of the plane, my head resting back on my instructor’s shoulder, legs tucked under the plane, 12,000 feet of air between me and the ground. Then we were gone. I started to scream as we turned in the air, and then I realised – what am I screaming for? This is amazing.

We plummeted. I could feel the air rushing past my face, and up into my poorly fitting goggles making my right eye water. Did it bother me? No, nothing could possibly have bothered me. I could see the mountains, the lake, everything. I felt a tap on my shoulder and my instructor pointed ahead, the trainee was right in front of us, free falling in sync. What an amazing feeling, to see another person in front of you falling through the air at terminal velocity, to see their face, their expressions, they are in that moment with you – its indescribable.

All too soon, the freefall was over and with a jolt, we were simply sailing. A few adjustments and I was sitting comfortably watching the world go by. I had a nanosecond of worry, when I fell for the “is it just me or is your harness loosening?” gag, but otherwise, it was pure bliss. I think I uttered such articulate phrases as “Wow” and “Oh Wow” and “Wowee”. My instructor pointed out the rainbows we could see above the clouds, which from that height you see as circular – incredible.

I thought it couldn’t possibly get any better, when he asked if I would like to steer the parachute. I turned as much as I could (not much) and asked was he serious? In a few seconds, my hands were secured in the straps and I was turning us (with a little help at first), then righting us again, and then the other way. It might not sound like much - pulling a few straps, but the whole freefall and then gliding down is so overwhelming, to actually have the chance, albeit briefly, to be in control of where I was going, was just awesome!

With a smooth, if speedy descent, we landed. Back on terra firma. To be honest, probably the last place I wanted to be right at that moment. It would not have taken much (or anything in fact) to persuade me to go back up again. However, I did have the chance to see a beaming Schmo come in for the landing. I expected a pale face, what I saw was exactly what I felt. Total elation!

We left shortly afterwards, dvd and t-shirts in arms, smiling from ear to ear. When can I go again????

Abel Tasman National Park

On arrival in Motueka we speedily arranged our accommodation in the Abel Tasman National Park (DOC huts, basic – they have cooking benches, hard mattresses and a heater) huts, booked ourselves on the Aqua Taxi and rented sleeping bags, liners a cooking pot and a camping stove (for aforementioned cooking bench) and we were ready to rock.

Early enough, we left Motueka for the short drive to Murahau which is a small seaside village at one end of the Abel Tasman National Park. This was to be both our starting point and our final destination. We parked Maisie up in the car park of the Aqua taxi company and set off for the start of the Abel Tasman Coastal Track. This is one of New Zealand’s “Great walks” – a series of multi day hikes, or tramps as the kiwis call them, which are considered exceptionally beautiful, but which are also well maintained and quite accessible. Ideal for part time hikers like us.

Day one was going to be a long walk. We would begin with the 1km walk to the start of the track, which we would then follow for about 11km along the coast to Anchorage and then progress further to Bark Bay (about 10km further). All in all, it was going to be just about a 22km walk along the coastal track.

We were fortunate with the weather. With our longest day ahead of us, we needed some sunshine, and for once, the weather gods obeyed. Although beautiful, we saw limited coastline on the first day, for a coastal walk. We did manage to entertain ourselves along the way though.

We spent much of the time walking through winding hillside paths, hidden from the gloriously blue sky by a dense roof of rainforest foliage. It was stunning, but I have to confess, I was fairly exhausted with looking at ferns by the time we reached Bark Bay …. and fairly exhausted. We had estimated the walk would take us about 7-71/2 hours, however, being a little over eager, we arrived at our destination after just over 5 hours – and promptly fell asleep for two hours, much to the amusement of the Dutch and two German hikers who were already at the hut.

We awoke shortly before sunset with dinner on our minds – it was a culinary delight – Wattie’s (NZ’s Heinz!) Chicken Korma in a can, with chicken flavour countdown budget noodles! Rarely has anything tasted so good. Once the sun had really gone down, the temperature dropped and so the tired and chilly hikers huddled around the gas heater in the hut, the slightly effective gas heater. We were all feeling a little sorry for ourselves, when three limping Aussies hobbled through the door, soaked to the waist after a badly timed tidal crossing – all of a sudden our five hours earlier looked like a walk in the park!

Bedtime eventually arrived – I managed to stay awake until the youngest of the hut residents (7,6 and 3; with whom we were sharing a room – a 12 bed dorm) went to bed and then I hit the hay. New Zealand’s Department of Conservation has provided several huts along many of the popular walking routes around the country’s National Parks, which allow trampers (hikers to you and me) to undertake multi day walks, but still have a roof over their heads at night. There is usually a 2 night maximum stay policy in each hut. The mattresses however, ensure that most people stay only one!

After a fitful night’s sleep, I woke up shortly after 6am to hear the 3 year old telling his dad exactly why he needed to go to the bathroom! The poor father tried in vain to persuade he and his siblings that it was the middle of the night and that they needed to go back to sleep! Unfortunately, in a very short time the sight of dawn breaking out the window proved him a liar and my little friend got very excited, begging, :Daddy, please can we go and watch the sunset”. Thus followed a little nature lesson, on how the sun sets at night and rises in the morning. Not that this little encounter was not amusing or indeed educational, but I gladly rolled over for another two hours sleep when Dad caved and brought them out to watch the sun!

Our second day’s walk was to be much shorter, just short of 11km. However, with aching legs and shoulders – no longer quite as fit for carrying the backpack as they were in Nepal – it felt almost as long. The route, despite a long diversion inland, did actually afford some stunning coastal views with walks across Onetahuti Bay and Tonga Quarry Bay. After almost four hours we reached Awaroa Bay, where our hut for the night was located and began the short walk across the beach to it. As we started walking, the rain started pouring. Just as we arrived at the hut, the deluge started – perfect timing. We hauled ourselves inside, thanking our lucky stars we left when we did and prepared some badly needed lunch. The next hour was spent trying every trick in our limited scouting book, to get the wood stove burning. Eventually, it kicked off properly, just in time for the four soaking Americans who arrived in.

We all passed the night, sitting around the stove, stealing every bit of warmth we could, entertaining ourselves with an extremely complicated version of twenty questions which was introduced to us by our hut mates, eventually crawling into our sleeping bags, dreaming of better weather for tomorrow.

We were lucky, the sun was well and truly out the next morning. The first part of our journey was to complete a crossing of the Bay from Awaroa Hut. There is a large tidal difference of 4m from low to high at this location, meaning it is only possible to make the crossing about 2 hours either side of low tide. With low tide at 1.40pm, this meant a lazy morning for us. We had met several hikers along the way and heard horror stories of waist deep, ice cold water. I was dreading it, being such a fan of cold water. Fortunately, the deepest part of the the crossing was just over my knees, and ok, it was ice-cold, but it was certainly tolerable compared to what I had expected.

Once the crossing was made, it was really a hop, skip and a jump to Totaranui and our water taxi back to Murahau. It was the most coastal part of the Coastal track, taking in some gorgeous sandy beaches along the way. If you didn’t know better, you might think you had landed on a tropical island – of course, it is New Zealand in winter, so the temperature might just have given it away!!!

Possibly the highlight of the trip however, was the water taxi journey back. With plenty of time to kill, the driver stopped at Tonga Island so we could see the colony of NZ fur seals, and then at the stunning Tonga Arches – beautiful stone arches carved in the rock over millions of years. I have seen arches like this before, but mostly out of softer rocks, these were granite! As we motored on, we were also lucky enough to see a stingray and a pod of Dusky Dolphins, one of NZ’s only native sea mammals and one of the smallest dolphins in the world.

Our arrival back in Motueka was not prove disappointing either. I thought the journey could not possibly get better. I was wrong. As the boat approached the shore, we could see a long stretch of sand, interspersed with icy cold streams. After one too many chilly tidal crossings, it was a sight that made us shudder with fear! Fear not – the aqua taxi people had a solution! We motored into the shallows, to be met with a tractor and a trailer. Our boat driver simply directed us onto the trailer, while the tractor driver reversed, secured us and motored us the full 500m or so to the shore and on to the Aqua taxi office – passengers on a boat, on a trailer, being towed by a tractor!!!! Genius!

Fox Glacier

Leaving Ohau to recover in our wake, we hit the road, for the longest journey to date, less able than ever before for hours of monotonous driving. Some good team work, awe inspiring scenery through the Mount Aspiring National Park and some chocolate and crisps saw us through.

It was incredible how in a single day of driving, the scenery changed from brown grassy plains flanked by snow capped mountains, to dense mountainous forests, mirror still lakes and rugged cliff all topped off of course with the snow capped mountains. It was a pleasant and very welcome change. Arriving into an eerily quiet Haast, our scheduled stop for the evening, we discovered the small township was in shutdown mode. Some hasty roadside consultations with other campers ensued and shortly, we were unfortunately on the road again for the Fox Glacier.

Arriving late in the evening and exhausted, we parked up for the night and recovered. The following morning (or was it afternoon) we awoke to sunshine beaming outside – most welcome on our designated day of rest! Our one task for the day was accomplished early on in arranging our glacier trek for the next day.

Early on Tuesday, very, very early on Tuesday, I heard it! Gone was the blistering (well for a NZ winter) sunshine of the day before, I could hear the downpour outside. No matter, there was no turning back. We were going on a full day glacier walk.

After booting and suiting (literally – in heavy duty (I thought) leather boots and oilskins), we loaded onto the bus bound for the glacier. As we began, the rain which had earlier obligingly eased off, had a change of heart. Our walk to the terminal face of the glacier (where the end of the ice is) took us through the rainforest which flanks either side of it, up 800 steps and across a narrow path on a cliff face. Its not the day for someone without a head for heights. Eventually we reached the glacier itself. The walk actually begins a reasonable distance up the glacier as the terminal face is very unstable. The glacier once infamous for being one of the only advancing glaciers in the world, has now been retreating for 6 months or so. As a result, the terminal face is even more unstable, with ice regularly collapsing at the front, causing rock falls and surges in the river. Although we couldn’t get close enough to witness this happening, on a few occasions we could hear it from higher up the glacier.

The walk began on some pre cut pathways, little icy stairs. They are a little easier to navigate thanks to the crampons provided (little spikes that strap onto your boots). Our guide then brought us off these paths to allow us to explore other areas of the lower glacier, seeing crevasses, ice arches and even caves of ice, hollowed out by pools of water.

All day though, the deluge continued and after a 10 minute rain soaked stop for lunch, we all agreed to motor on. With wet feet (water squelching between my toes wet), a wet head, leaking oilskins and sodden gloves, it took a lot to keep my attention. Then again, I was walking around on a glacier – its kind of an attention grabber!

Amazingly, when I had the opportunity to take hold of the ice axe and do some geological work, I even managed to discover an incredibly valuable treasure – the remnants of a glacier mint mine!

(Seriously, I can’t help myself with the confectionary related cheesy photos)

Naturally enough, the sun made an appearance as we began to make our way back down the glacier and although brief, it was very, very welcome. Weary but satisfied, we made our way back to the bus and to the office to wring out our soaking clothes, wrap up in some warm dry clothes and head off. Not before we were awarded our certificates though – I’d like to thank …..