Paco On Tour

Sydney

My departure from Christchurch - in the rain - would take me to my first destination in Australia, Sydney. The three and a half hour flight went without a hitch and upon landing I recalled vividly my previous arrival to this airport almost six years ago to the day, before the Olympics had been held here, and following an exhausting 24 hour flight from Brussels. This time round it was rather different, a couple of hours back to my watch - I am still in credit having lost the whole of 16 of January to some time hole - and entrance into the largest metropolis Down Under and boy do you notice it! After the relative tranquillity and sedateness of Kiwi cities this flamboyant virtual-capital of Oz was in full swing. Much more cosmopolitan than any city I had seen up to now, a myriad of nationalities and of course an important Asian community that, whilst somewhat present in Auckland, was quite a bit larger here.

Having spent almost a couple of weeks in the city visiting my cousin Jo in 1999 I was relatively familiar with the place, at least around the city centre, and enjoyed roaming around places I recalled, the Opera House - of course - but also the most scenic walk from Coogee Beach to Bondi Beach itself, on your way you cross what must be one of the best located cemeteries in the world with incredible views over the ocean. Narrowly missed a heavy storm that afternoon, which fell on the city just as I had boarded the bus that would take me to the city centre from Bondi.

This time round I stayed in the very pleasant neighbourhood of Glebe, just west of Darlinghurst Harbour, filled with expensive looking houses from the 1880s and 1890s but nevertheless with a rather bohemian feeling to it.

In fact Sydney still retains all the charms that enchanted me on my first visit. Dozens of beaches only a bus/bike/car ride away; great architecture and town planning together with the spice and colour that its varied population give it. Unfortunately I would miss the world famous Mardi Gras Festival by a couple of weeks (early March for that) but I could already imagine the great Gay Parade in full swing. The only other city that has evoked such desire to remain - for a long time that is - has been Rio (perhaps also Buenos Aires but for different reasons) - and coming here with Rio still fresh in my mind I could see why. But what struck me as well was the comparative orderliness and, of course, wealth to be found in Sydney that is not (cannot?) be present in Rio. The conspicuous wealth has probably become more noticeable now than when I visited back in 1999, the country has certainly boomed and Sydney would certainly be the place to see the results of that. As in all places with "extra" wealth it is sometimes difficult to keep the ‘charming spirit’, which might have existed in the first place. It might also be that travelling as a backpacker, it is well nigh impossible to enjoy some of the more expensive allures of the city - eating, shopping, shows, etc. - which do remain affordable in less wealthy countries, But of course, the same wealth necessary to enjoy these in Sydney would get you so much more in Brazil or Argentina. I don’t want to fall into the classic moan of the backpacker "but it was so much cheaper/better/fancier in…." it is simply a matter of observation of things that I didn’t realise before acquiring the experience I have now. Of course, having stayed with my cousin last time, it is certainly very different to be with somebody who knows the place - and can put you up - than alone in a city of these characteristics and the difference between both situations perhaps is more marked in the "first world" than elsewhere. In any case three and a half days can hardly do justice to Sydney, with variable weather and me wishing to have a dash of culture I found myself spending a lot of time in museums/libraries and bookshops simply browsing and enjoying those fleeting moments of intellectual discovery, which are not always so common out in nature J

Internet, surprisingly enough, was less common and more expensive than in New Zealand itself! It seems evident that the availability and price of public connections are inversely proportional to the wealth and private availability of such connection. A little like payphones and mobile phones I suppose. In any case, I have stopped looking - I knew New Zealand and Australia were going to be financial blips on my spending graph so I shouldn’t act surprised now! What I have found is a marked descent - in general - of the variety of nationalities I now encounter in hostels and elsewhere: A great percentage of English, the great majority in fact, a few Germans plus miscellaneous really, but no southern Europeans (incl. French) to speak of. Having said that I did hear Hungarian, Welsh, Icelandic and Serbian spoken by native speakers in my vicinity in a period of 36 hours, so freakish like that still happens!

I was a little sorry to leave Sydney so soon, but realised it is probably best visited with a few more dollars in your pocket and a little more time… I set off to Melbourne, from which I write this, where I will also be staying for little more than 3 days, at least time to have a quick look around in the second city of the country.

South America: Steve's trip

A couple of months after meeting Steve back in Pucon, Chile, he sent me a great mail full of anecdotes and humour that puts into words, so much better than I ever could, some of his impressions along part of his route. After asking him for permission I thought it was just too good not to share with the rest of you. Enjoy and don't forget to click on the link at the bottom. His photographs are re ally something else, and his comments on them are unmissable!

All was good, sunning on the shores of Lake Titicaca, Bolivia last time you heard from me… since then I bottomed out. Zigzagged down, over and through, and finally past the Andes; and on down the legendarily long, stark, straight but kindly uneven gravel or worse roads all the while whiplashed by absurdly strong winds, which tormented in random velocity and direction, even forced at times the bike in a few circus inspired, sideways slides off the road. All day raging against the machine, guessing at the next part to rattle free or crack to stop or delay the seemingly stationary progress and contribute the next line of text to my "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" notes without the "Zen and the Art of" prefix… all the while dreaming that there will be a gas station within 327 kilometers. And finally, I couldn’t carry on. I couldn’t take it anymore. The road that is. Topped off by New Year’s Eve after 600 kilometers in one day, two border crossings and a ferry ride, I hit the end of the road. The bottom. Ushuaia, the southern-most city in the world. No more heading south. I felt dizzy, it couldn’t be. I could not really be there. How could a ride that started so simply in NY some 2.5 odd years ago have taken me this far. That many miles, past so many amazing places, people, bad plumbing, monkeys, shaman, beaches, cultures, islands, ruins, jungles, fantasies; I arrived for the fireworks hardly able to breath with the adrenaline buzz of accomplishment. When I finally woke up down there after the party, I was sitting there and it hit me that I was at that place that I had always seen on maps as the virtual end of the world. But it no longer was that any longer, it was now my beginning of the world. Then I moved my bowels.

During that long ride of say 5000 or so miles in 3 months, the sights on the earth were frighteningly dramatic. I saw geysers, pools of bubbling mud, the actual end of the Andes, the Patagonian peaks, fabled Torres del Paine, stood aside glaciers calving away their 100 meter tall existence into turquoise bays, penguin colonies at the 1 meter range, desert foxes and armadillos, elephant seals, sea lions (which incidentally, there isn’t an optical device made that enables a human to see a sea lion before smelling it), attacked by dogs yet again, ogled at 15,000 year old cave drawings, a 150 million year old petrified forests, chased a rhea, natural, calcified bridges, mystifying rock sculptures, the best barbequed beef, and smiles from the kindest of strangers everywhere in between.

Bolivia is another world, a third really. So poor and under explored, A superhero to the kids and dads as you roll in with helmets and gear to search for gas in their mud brick and stick house towns. A red dot on a map in Bolivia not even sure to produce a house, much less a city or any form of commerce. A road indicating line on my map, is often still a bureaucrats idea where they would put one if they hadn’t stolen the gravel budget. Forget road signs, they don’t exist, just the living and breathing ones. You must stop and ask. But combine that seemingly harmless act with the shy, paranoid indigenous culture and my Robocop helmet, and the resulting event is often a shepherd girl running for her life. Pulling into one such town after driving through so much rolling hills of nothing, a sign indicates; "Here Death’s Butch Kassidy and Sundance Kid". Yet in this town of say 64 houses, not one of the locals could tell us which house the gringos died in or any tidbit on their demise there. We asked the first 37 people that surrounded us when we stopped the bike. But they had never wondered and thus remained clueless buffoons on the subject. But hey, if you have all day to talk about only how hot and dry the weather is, or watch the dust blow… who would have time to get to such triviality about your one collective claim to fame. After awhile one guy was able to say that there is a tiny museum on the edge of town and that the guy with the key lives in that house right there. We knock on his crumbling door, finally a kid peaked out. Can we have the key we plead. My dad is sleeping. Well, wake him, we need the key. He reluctantly tries, but returns with only the news; My dad won’t get up, come back tomorrow. An all day ride through barren desert to get to this empty mine shaft of a forgotten town makes that absurd, so we demand again. The kid returns with a new message, my dad forgot the key at the "office." Wherever that could be. So I prepare to barge in, but decide instead to hunt the guy down that told us who had the key and bribe him to enter the house at his peril and wake the presumably drunk miner. After the sounds of struggle, out emerges our "curator" still wearing his hardhat, mislaid keys in hand. He wobbles us towards the museum which of course is not more than 8 items on a folding table; a couple broken typewriters, an old bank ledger, a fire extinguisher, a leather suitcase once said to be Butch’s where one of the moth holes is described as a bullet hole, and a pile of bones. The long femurs said to indicate that they were gringos. And thus we had our memorable day in the last day in the life of our legendary gunslingers.

The tiny town famous for the demise of latin hero, Che Gueverra, not much different although we were not alone there. We hustled for days through jungle to arrive in time for the anniversary of his death in the town where it happened. We imagine a festival of gunfire and dance. We find a couple old timers in the park that tell us the day after will be the real celebration… logical. The party peaks at 6 pm the next day with the mayor, a few local dancers in the streets and regional foods dished out. 10 foreigners and maybe 30 locals. We wander away in disappointment, eventually following a flow of peasants far from the center of town and find the real party, a Socialist Rally with farmers shouting from the back of old pickup trucks. We end up sitting around a fire next to a 102 year old man who asks if we will take his picture, the first of his life he says. Locals fill the simple marketplace telling stories under the banners and flags of Che’s icon. Into the night we sip the local drink of wine mixed with warm milk, stirred to a froth. Slowly getting intoxicated by the old lady stirring the pot, milking us for 8 cents a glass while proudly introducing us to all her kin. She says she must work until she sells her pot dry, in Che’s honor we pick up the pace to make it so.

Just a bit west of there is one more true Wonder of the World, the Salar de Uyuni, 100+ kilometer/75 mile across, world’s largest salt lake. Snow white, no trees, no holes, flat and smooth as skating rink… all dry as concrete and ready for the salt shaker. No protrusion of any kind on this salt flat means no depth perception. The distance a haze of silver mirage that obscures the volcanic peak somewhere in the distance… maybe a mile away or 100 and you drive as fast as you can and seem to go nowhere. A stationary bike rider’s wonderland. At 140 kilometers an hour, you feel the air whistling in your eyebrows and the vibration of the high RPMs in your loins, but you aren’t really moving. Are you? You soon stop looking ahead or remember you are moving at flesh grinding speed and act as though you are on the couch contemplating life; you just seem to be floating. You are no longer relative according to Einstein’s Theory. I even managed to keep my eyes closed for a full minute at top speed. And although freaking out in this altered state, when I opened my eyes we hadn’t gone anywhere, although we were sharply carving a right turn. Left brain dominant? The only building in the whole vast nothing of this everything is a hotel where we spent the night made entirely of salt… tables, chairs, walls, beds, etc.

The surrounding stark beauty of that whole region is replete with red lakes of flamingos, green lakes of foam, trees of rock, desert creatures and roadless roads that only exist as tire tracks going in roughly one direction. Generally you try to follow the highest concentration of tracks each time they disperse, and you might guess gas stations are about the only thing less likely to find than toilet paper. One siphoning event led to the donator swallowing about a glass full, to which I quickly offered a cigarette. Speaking of thirst, some of the driest land on earth is here, there is a town in northern Chile that has no recorded rainfall in the history of such measurement. In Argentina the oldest dinosaur bones were found in the north’s dry high desert, petrified forests of 150 million years ago no longer shade the beach, but crystallized the enormous trees crack into slabs as though Paul Bunyon has just laid them out. Dinosaur tracks deep in river beds that are now 90 degree walls, that one Swedish blonde girl in our tour asked in truth, how could those big things have climbed something so steep? They were once lakeside mud flats, she was told after the verbal slapping of laughter subsided, and since then sedimentary formations have been uplifted a millimeter or so a year, rising just as the stunning and extensive Andes have. The desert was once a lush woods, and humans were as intelligent as vegetation the pea brain helped me appreciate, and just a moment ago in the infinity of it all. Where the related volcanic and seismic activity added to the morphing, and continuing to this day which I saw first hand while climbing a snowcapped, active volcano with the hopes of peering as we did into the crater of red lava spittle. No insurance waver required, down here. Later got to witness glacier remnants still visible in all their glory of those good ol’days of that old Quaternary Period. Not much has changed, albeit the spreading of lies on global warming. I know it is not true, because Bush said so himself on TeeeVeee. And when I was down by Antartica and peoples said to take care in the sun because there is a giant, growing hole in the ozone down there… well. I called them all liars and went outside without a hat. Of course I agree that to disagree is to be un-American, don’t you agree? Well you would be cynical too if you had seen firsthand the huge anti-Bush rally when he visited Santiago, Chile. His personal security detail was the largest in the history of the world. Literally. Which I assume was just to keep the paparazzi and autograph seekers away, because clearly his benevolent, even-handed outlook on others wouldn’t make so many people want you dead now would they?

Regarding "all men are created equal" you really must visit the silver mines of Potosi, simply insane. The hardest job in the world without a doubt and yet the boys in the hole do it with vigor. We took a tour of the mines which basically means you walk into the shaft and keep walking until you find some workers. They are either digging and hauling out rock by hand in ancient trolley carts or chiseling out holes in which to stick dynamite. With the advanced architectural planning of say, termites, the workers are digging haphazardly in any direction that seems to follow the best vein of lead or silver, which by the way is never pure lead, zinc or silver. Instead it is 99% useless rock that will have to be ground and crushed to get any value out, yet onward or backward or down they dig. Sometimes collapsing on each other, but if not, the toxic dust they breathe will collapse their lungs soon enough anyhow. Now, as visitors it is customary to bring gifts to the miners, such as coca leaves, bottles of pure grain alcohol and dynamite (all available in one place, the miner’s market, aka Crazy Freud’s male egos wetdreamland surplus store. I bought a care package and delivered my sticks to a small crew who proceed to pack the TNT into holes straight away. I stood 50 feet from ground zero when it was time to light the fuses and expected my compatriots to calmly climb out and walk to their predetermined safe spot. They are professionals of course. As they emerged in full sprint down the tunnel, pushing past me, my nerve was surprisingly shot and I was now bolting behind them as they scattered down different shafts to unknown hideouts. I was left running on my own when the concussion moved me forward, blew out my gas torch and tested my sphincter reflex.

In Santiago Chile, I was lucky enough to get my daughter, Maggie and her step-Dad Lyle to come join us for a leg of this tour. We were able to ride the unique ascensors up the picturesque rolling hills of colorful houses in famous Valparaiso, see the highest mountain peak of the western hemisphere, Aconcagua, and experience the wonder of the world Puente del Inka, and cross the border to Mendoza, Argentina. We rode horses in the Andes, she even beat me in a horse race, her first time on one. Never so proud to lose in my life.

Down the pacific side to the tip, and back up the Atlantic I now sit comfortably in Buenos Aires, regaining my fighting weight after the long stretches to get here. Typing here in the extra apartment of the kind hearted and well accessorized Che Peter McAniff. While there, my two sisters, Annette and Karen came down for a visit and we saw all corners of the city. A spectacular hybrid of a city with LA’s weather, NY’s mass transportation system and Chicago’s attitude. We took in a fun loving game of soccer as the two biggest teams in Argentina, Boca and River Plate faced off for their mighty rivalry. People die in the stands, screaming and gutting each other given the chance for no more than a choice in uniform color, not that we humans need a better reason, say pigment, to want to kill… fanatical freaks. The crowd is completely separated and seated by affiliation and even after the game, one team’s fans wait must wait an additional 40 minutes in the stands until the other has completely vacated the premises. Cops crawling everywhere. The highlight of the match though was the 7 year old kid sitting next to us on his dad’s lap screaming through the fence at anyone in red "Whores!" over and over, louder and louder to his dad’s proud grin.

After all the hard miles, it took some formidable work to get the bike back up to snuff. Did so, but in the process found a shattered metal bit deep in the engine, which is replaced now, but it has left as its legacy of baby metal bits lurking somewhere in the engine. The little chips of the old block are there waiting for their moment of glory to lunge in between meshing gears and bring physics to the foreground. So I have that added drama to join me as I go east into Uruguay, then Brazil for a taste of Carnival. Then Paraguay because no one I know has ever gone there, then back to Rio for a ride as far as we might, possibly up to the Amazon River where the bike will make a final ascent to the Caribbean before I drop a match in the gas tank and fly home.

Photo slideshow to peruse if it soothes.

Dunedin, Christchurch and farewell to NZ

I have felt a little like a slow-speed pendulum between Christchurch and Dunedin in the last few days. Laura, Melinda and myself stopped in Dunedin after completing the Scenic route - about 10-11 hour drive - arriving in the city at a late hour and forced to leave early the next morning to get to Christchurch in time to leave the car. That was the end of own-motorised transport - the girls would stay for 3 days in the city and then fly off to Australia, I had another week here. After spending a couple of fun days with them and generally having a look around - finding "The Fountainhead" a book highly recommended to me way back in Lake Titicaca - I mad my way down to Dunedin, not without having tried to get my email inbox down to a more or less decent level. In Dunedin itself I would be staying with Sally, my cousin’s husband’s sister (work that out!) who was graceful enough to put me up for a few days. This was really great, popping into a real home every once in a while reminds me that once upon a time I had one of those of my own and there are actually a few things to look forward to upon return :-)

I made a late entry into Dunedin and thought I could walk easily to Sally’s place, the city not being that large. Of course I set off in an oblique direction and after asking a very friendly Kiwi for directions (he even offered a ride, but the Englishman in me seemed forced to decline!) set off, although I never quite made it. Fifteen minutes or so before being in the vicinity of where I thought it would be (at least I got that right) it started raining incrementally. It took me about twenty minutes to get pretty soaked and found myself running round in circles looking for the address, so I gave up and asked Sally to rescue me. She was only 2 minutes away in the car… It is always when you think it is safe to relax that you get the nasty surprises :-)

Thankfully a nice warm shower, dry clothes and a glass of wine made me soon forget the faux entrée and I enjoyed a great late-night conversation with Sally, all about her brother Mike (hahaha) and getting updated on news from friends and family she knew of back in England. Slept like a log in a fabulous bed and set off to discover a little more of Dunedin the next day.

Dunedin is New Zealand’s Scottish city, in fact it is the Gaelic for Edinburgh and it seems even the streets are named after streets in the Scottish capital, it was founded by Scottish settlers in the 1840s. The University, and this is most definitely a university city, is the oldest in New Zealand - established in 1871. The city itself exudes a rather confident, middle-class image. Middle-class wealthy, if you see what I mean - comfortable and placid. Otago Peninsula, just in front of the city, is a great place too. Sally generously lent me her car for a morning and I was able to drive to the end of the finger of land - here you can find penguin colonies and apparently the only nests of Royal Albatross’ in New Zealand, plus enjoy great views of the coastline. Dunedin is a mix of late 19 century neo-gothic buildings and more recent edifications and easily covered in a days walk. Visited a couple of museums and was soon time to go up to Christchurch - for the third time! - from where my flight to Sydney would be flying a couple of days later.

If Dunedin is New Zealand’s Scottish city, Christchurch is without a doubt its "Home Counties" one. Named after an Oxford College, established by the Canterbury Association (created at the college itself and headed by the Bishop of Canterbury) its original settlers were from deeply Anglican and Victorian middle-class communities and some of that historical background has remained. On the river (Avon, of course) you will find punts making there way upstream and the original buildings a true copies of those that can be found in any corner of Oxford or Cambridge, just about. I enjoyed my time here - even if I did spend quite a bit of it clearing the remaining email backlog J Had a few administrative tasks to sort out as well, the most important being the change (hopefully final!) to my plane ticket. Because of errors done in the modification made back in Rio, I wouldn’t be visiting Tasmania or Adelaide this time round and I was planning to shorten my stay in New Zealand and Australia to have a bit more time in S.E. Asia and also make it to Barcelona in time for a wedding in early June. All this I managed to do easily enough thankfully.

Maybe this is a good point to write a little of some of my impressions of New Zealand, particularly as compared with my travels in South America.

Arriving in NZ was quite a change, as I might have noted elsewhere, I think above all it was a kind of ‘return’ to Anglo-Saxon ways, behaviour and attitudes which I had left behind months ago. New Zealand itself is quite a funny country in a way, I haven’t written much about my impressions on its history, culture or peoples, but then again there was nothing that came too much to my attention on that front really. At present the country has little more than 4 million inhabitants occupying an area which is pretty similar to that of the British Isles – the later with almost 60 million people. The history, as far as European settlers goes, begins with ‘discovery’ by Dutchman Abel Tasman in 1642, nothing happens, Captain Cook comes along to have a look in 1769, nothing happens, a few whaling and sealing stations are established around the coast of the islands in the 1830s and proceed to decimate the colonies of both groups of animals and about a decade later, in the 1840s, Britain decided it better set up some kind of formal presence here. The history of the Maori’s, descendents of Polynesian tribes that arrived on the North Island around eight hundred years before, about 1000 AD or so, seems interesting and intriguing, although I speak from a position of much ignorance here. It seems they mainly inhabited the North Island and whilst widespread did not create a single political entity of any sort, but rather were divided into a number of tribes which had a long history of warfare between them. In fact the arrival of the Europeans and the trading that resulted brought about the introduction of gunpowder weapons that had a significant impact in terms of raising casualties from this warfare quite dramatically prior to any settlement from Europeans actually began. Amongst the more distinctive Maori practices that have remained are Wood and greenstone carving, tattoos, weaving or, of course, the haka – most famously performed at rugby matches by the All Blacks and apparently more widely in rugby matches here in NZ.

There is currently a movement in the country to reintegrate this cultural heritance more into mainstream life of people here, with signs erected in both English and Maori language a lot of the time – in the public sphere that is – and a general impulse to all things Maori, but I get a feeling this is all a little late and artificial at this stage. Maori were, I suppose, "assimilated" into the life of the European settlers quite early on and their traditional way of life has been, in large part, lost. Not too much of a surprise there given the enormous gulf that separated 19th century England life-style with that found on the island at the time and the subsequent patronising attitude the government had towards the Maori – not providing any schooling at secondary level for example, enabling to integrate into the higher echelons, or at least give it a try.

The main towns in New Zealand were established in the 1840s and settlers outnumbered Maoris quite early on, by the 1850s. Some skirmishes arose from the friction this created but the country quickly settled into mainly agricultural production focusing on sheep farming, for wool initially and then meat, once the necessary technology was developed to freeze it and send it over all the way to England.

The first settlers were overwhelmingly from England and Scotland, the latter particularly present in the South island. With such a small population it maybe not that surprising to find how very British the whole culture of the country has remained. Some immigration from Asia has taken place in the last couple of decades or so, but it is mainly confined to Auckland and a couple of the larger cities, such as Wellington, otherwise one has the feeling of being almost in rural England, what is left of it, without the history and on a larger scale, a little less influenced by urban life and extremely friendly.

It is such a new country that it is at times difficult to get a proper feeling of its own identity, and I think that some New Zealanders may realise this at times. Not only was it founded in the mid-nineteenth century but right up to the 1960s it was so very attached to Britain (formal independence came in 1947), culturally, socially and economically as to make it essentially an ‘outpost’ of the latter. There must be hundreds of memorials to the troops fallen in the First and Second World Wars as a I had seen in the UK and France, and Gallipolli is regarded here as the greatest national tragedy and remembered as such to this day. On the anecdote front, until I came here I always thought that the first man to climb the Everest, Sir Edmund Hillary, was British but it turns out that he was from New Zealand, it seems these nationality issues can be quite mixed. I suppose I am trying to reflect a little is the utter novelty of the country (in historical terms) , especially when compared to some of the places I had visited previously. The very distinct, resourceful and resilient Andean cultures, that wonderful melting pot of the African, European and native cultures which is Brazil, the fantastic (if accident prone) mix of Spanish, Italian and other European cultures in Buenos Aires together with pure Spanish colonial and native American cultures in the rest of Argentina, all providing a rich historical context and mix of peoples. That formula was much less evident here. In fact when strolling down the streets of Christchurch, Dunedin or Wellington I sometimes wondered if this is how a Spaniard would have felt when visiting a colonial town, such as Lima, Salta, Potosi or Cordoba, in the seventeenth or even eighteenth century - Plenty of buildings that were almost exact copies of what he could remember from back home and a strange familiarity with mores and customs and even food. Of course this is the 21st century and all these things ravel so much quicker nowadays, plus Spanish colonial towns were pretty much thrust into the midst of a thriving and solid culture which was subjugated and broken by the sword and the musket. None of this had been necessary in New Zealand. The Maori’s had been greatly respected, compared to the treatment handed to other native peoples during the time of colonisation – the Treaty of Waitangi is still in full force, if a little ambivalent at times, being the original document drawn up between the "United Tribes of NZ" and the British Crown – plus the territory was pretty much uninhabited in comparison. Of course the means and resources available to mid 19 century Britain had little in common to those enjoyed by the adventurous, when not desperate, Spanish conquistadores and Crown-appointed administrators sent after them.

I suppose familiarity with the culture and undeniable security and wealth NZ enjoys is a strong magnet for all those backpackers in their early twenties that seem to arrive from the UK, Germany, Scandinavia and so on. Quite a number of Americans too in fact. The benefit of the language is undeniable and there is certainly an untouched wilderness to be discovers although often with a few tourist buses unloading their cargo just in front of you, as probably you now expect in almost any western country at the height of the tourist season. I suppose that on this count places like Peru or Bolivia retain some of their charm, although you can’t say they are free of it either really. What they do probably retain is a higher sense of the unknown or uncertain – some may think danger, although I wouldn’t be sure – that is somewhat difficult to find, at least as far as I saw, here in New Zealand. In fact it was probably lost way back at the end of the nineteenth century when most of the "lost" areas had been opened up. Even the Routeburn track, for example, was opned t wealthy tourist who would come down here little more than a couple of years after the men who actually built it got through, this in the early 1900s. I suppose that there is a point where wealth simply eliminates most of the feeling of discovery or adventure from a place. I mean if you can pop in take a 20 min heli-ride up to the top of the glacier and be down in time for a nice evening meal, the experience is not going to be quite the same as a gruelling 3 day hike up to see what few eyes have seen. In the end there is a bit of a feeling that you are being told "come here, let me take your hand and show you around a little" which in the end almost infantilises the experience making it almost superficial. But I am not trying to be negative in any way, simply jotting down a few reflections and some of the surprises I have experienced here in comparison to the previous 6-10 months.

Glaciers, Queenstown & Fiordland

Arriving to the Glaciers and later at Queenstown and Milford Sound, we began our real entrance into the tourist heart of the Southern Island. The Franz Josef and Fox towns for example live almost exclusively off tourism and it would seem that as for Queenstown itself, quite a bigger affair then the first two, this is also the case. We only stopped at the glaciers for a day and a half. Enough to have a lacier walk on one of them, Fox, and have a peak at Franz Josef – you guessed it, named after the Austro-Hungarian Emperor – our second such experience for Laura and myself in little over a month, in Argentina. I did miss the glass of whiskey at the end of the walk, but you can’t have everything twice! It is quite an amazing experience all the same.

What is certainly pretty amazing here is the shear drop that the glacier makes from its birth place, in large ice-field 2,000 – 3,000 meters high and then almost ‘cascades’ down to close to sea level. In fact, all of the fjords in this area were actually dug out of the rock originally by gigantic glaciers much much larger than these. I am afraid that I will probably not see something quite as majestic and overwhelming as the glaciers in Argentina, but these are indeed more human-sized as it were, close in narrow valleys and not making you feel quite as puny and insignificant in comparison :-) We were extra-lucky with the weather, managing to see Mt Cook and Mt Tasman, New Zealand’s highest, in the distance. Of course you weren’t quite allowed to feel completely lost in the wilderness with the choppers flying above you every half hour or so taking their rather richer customers to the snow field above the glacier and have a look at the peaks of the mountains themselves. Great in Disneyland but I felt a little disappointing here, where the awe, rather than wow!, factor should prevail.

In any case, we finished off our visit with a nice walk around Lake Matheson, near the Fox glacier, with great views of the mountains and a nice spot for a couple of photos. From here it would be a further 4 hour drive to Wanaka, a town 60 km from Queenstown – our main destination – but recommended to us as a nice alternative to the ultra-touristy atmosphere we would later find. In fact Wanaka, on the shores of the lake of the same name, was probably my favourite resort in NZ. It has grown quite a bit in the last few years apparently, but has managed to maintain that tranquil, alternative feel you want in a place of such natural beauty. Highly recommended, and above all do NOT miss the trendy/alternative cinema here (Cinema Paradiso), where you can sit in one of a myriad of sofas set up in the screening room or even a small vintage car set up tastefully in a corner of the room.

Queenstown was a little different. It is the main center for adventurous sports in New Zealand with ever-wackier activities being proposed - bungee-jumping (which originated here), whitewater rafting, jet boating, canyoning, paragliding, hand gliding, skydiving, fly-by-wire and a bunch of others. The town is a major ski center in the winter but attracts visitors all year round. Lots of young backpackers - English, German and Scandinavian in their majority, but with a touch of Israelis here and there, all usually under 25 - and is also a good base for walking in the area, which we would pass on to do.

For us it was really a good base in which to relax for a couple of days, have a look at the beautiful lake (Wakatipu) and surroundings a bit, get some beers at night - wonderful novelty :-) although we were there just after the weekend so it was a little quiet - and also organized our Routeburn track walk which took the best part of a day.

With so many people coming down to these parts to do the great hiking - raved about worldwide - it is necessary to book places for cabin, or tents like we had, with time in advance to make sure you can actually get a place to sleep and not be fined (by the forest guards who sleep in private cabins). The most famous trek is the Milford Sound one that ends on the coast of the Sound itself. This takes 3 days / 2 nights but at the height of the summer season, all available space has been booked weeks in advance - so we didn’t even try to go for that. There are a few alternatives around, and one that sounded really good was the Routeburn track for 3 days and 2 nights but further investigation showed that getting back from the end of the track to Queenstown was a 4 h drive costing over US$ 50 per head… not our idea of a cheap hike in the mountains, so we decided to add The Caples trek which would allow us to come back, more or less, via a shorter way closer to our start village - Glenorchy. It was only a couple of days (and one more night) and ended up being a very good hike.

The Routeburn really does seem to be one of the finest walks in New Zealand. We set off with a couple of tents and, this time, a gas stove to eat something hot in the evenings (pasta or rice) since we knew that peanut butter sandwiches were not going to be sufficient to keep up the energy level required for a 4 day walk. We started off very smoothly, having reserved all our campsites in advance and reaching are first stop only 2-3 hours after having started off. We didn’t realize we were quite as close as that, but since we had reserved here we stayed and certainly enjoyed one of the best campsites (in terms of location) that I have ever camped at. Just by a stream that run down from the mountains into the glacial valley floor with impressive views of all the peaks around us and in relative solitude, a few people coming a little later (they did know it was quite near the start) to share the magnificent site.

The following day we got some real walking done, crossing our first mountain pass and getting some absolutely stunning views in the process. We were particularly lucky in that the great weather stayed put during these days and we managed to enjoy incredible blue skies and views out into the distance - until the not-so-far-away sea at times, which is not always the case here with the copious amount of rainfall they get during the course of the year. Sand flies were still about, as in the north, but hardly in the number we had come to expect - I suppose the altitude had something to do with that, so we had better sleep at night than usual. On our second evening our campsite was just by the large(ish) Lake MacKenzie which, with the heat, was an open invitation for a good refreshing swim. Swim I did, but as usual in these mountain waters, a minute or two is all that you need to feel your body temperature drop by a few degrees, the refreshing sensation was very welcome though! More Israelis at the campsite that evening - I really must try to learn some Hebrew! - and had fun with them. We also learnt how best to cook our pasta from the packet after a bit of a soupy result the evening before J - this being definitely one of the good moments of the day! The third day was our toughest, by far. We left the Routeburn track behind and joined the Caples one which would lead us back home. With the sun continuing to blaze down we found that the path lead up a steep hill, starting at the foot of the Lake and pretty much taking a straight line up - no question of a easier zig-zag here. In a climb that got me panting and catching my breath quite a few times, not all that usual for me fortunately. It took me a good hour of gruelling walk and lots of sweat to make it to the top and I could only think how difficult it would be for the girls, behind me.

The walk down to the next valley was very agreeable, all rivers here being particularly pristine and untouched. In fact that is something that can be said about the whole track and countryside in this area. The presence of man is so recent and thin on the ground that the whole landscape remains in a kind of "before the fall" state. It is perhaps a little difficult to describe the difference with other forests and mountains precisely, but there is a distinct impression of walking through almost virgin forests, or as close as one can come to that.

I arrived at our final hut/campsite a little after 17:00 and after a wash in the river and some nibbles sat down to rest and wait for the girls. A couple of hours later I was starting to get a little fidgety as there was no sign of them and by 19:30, once everyone seemed to have arrived I did start to get a little worried. Usually I was only ½ - 1 hour ahead of them, so after almost three hours I started to imagine the worse and set off to see if I could find them. After about 25 minutes, with my imagination going through the steps to be taken if I found them with a serious / immobilising injury, I was glad to hear them chirpily coming down the path, pretty exhausted but in a good mood. We had a quick dinner, changed our impressions on a hard day and being in a cabin with few others - including 3 couples from the Czech Republic (?!) - decided to sleep indoors that night rather than test the, much more numerous, sand flies outside. Even after a good sleep we were ready to end, the final 3 hours of the trek to the car park weren’t too bad but we were glad we had arrived at the end. In any case, the Routeburn did prove to be a most impressive track and highly recommendable for anyone travelling to this part of the country. Nevertheless, walking it in the rain or - worse - snow (and autumn and winter do bring both) must be a different adventure altogether and only a rewarding experience for those fit and prepared enough.

From here it was time to go and visit the famous Milford Sound itself, one of the wonders of New Zealand. I was unsure what all the fuss was about but upon arrival I started to get a good idea J We stayed for a couple of nights in Te Anau which is about a 2h drive away from the Sound itself, but very picturesque on the shores of the homonymous lake. The drive is a marvel in itself with many places to stop for great pictures and although we had rather rotten weather on arrival it got better on the way back. We were rather unsure whether we would actually see something at the Sound itself but luckily - and how lucky we have been! - the wind blew the worst of the cloud cover away. We made the best of it and took the last boat doing a tour of the Fiord, for that is what it really is. I suppose the dwarfing effect of the Sound is one of its amazing characteristics. It is very difficult to get an idea of the true scale of the mountains and shear cliff faces that fall into the sea. Mitre Peak alone (the highest and most photographed) is almost 1,700 metres high, looking down on the Sound. All around the vertical sides are over 1,000 metres high and covered with innumerable waterfalls, some hundreds of metres tall - there is no topsoil here to retain the rain as it falls, and falls it does… everything seems miniscule in comparison. Even the largest sea-faring vessel, Queen Elizabeth II and the like, which sometimes come down for a visit look like puny fishing boats in these waters. The human eye, requiring as it does some sort of comparison to judge size properly, cannot manage these immensities terribly well. We enjoyed the boat ride enormously and returned to Te Anau having spent a great day out, fearful as we had been at the outset that the weather would spoil things.

We were now ready to leave the west coast behind and, along the scenic route that goes from Te Anau all the way to Dunedin on the other side of the island, via Riverton, Invercargill and Balclutha amongst others. This was the end of "natural-NZ", the remainder would be cities - and quite a discovery it had been Beaches, treks, glaciers, fjords, all that had been promised and a little more. Without doubt the South Island offers incredible variety in a most tranquil and peaceful setting.