January 18th. Tonga.
First impressions: Tonga is flat, sufficiently so that global warming must be a concern for those that live here. There’s not a great deal of high ground for the locals to run to, if and when the seas start rising.
Secondly, suddenly, after what must have been the worst summer on record for the Kapiti Coast, we're in the warmth again. Actually, it's almost too warm for our sun-deprived, winter whitened skins. Armed with sun-screen and sun hats we are bravely battling to cope with this situation.
We were warned by the captain that there was a problem with Zika virus in the islands, and that this was a particular issue if any of us were trying to get pregnant. As the average demographic on board the Sea Princess is 65+ this has caused us some amusement. However, in a spirit of co-operation and compliance we remembered to spray ourselves with insect repellent before we left the ship.
We took a coach to explore the island, see the royal palace, royal cemetery, and various other royal homes. The protocols around maintaining the purity of the Tongan royal blood line were explained to us. None of this wishy-washy liberal thinking indulged in by our own dear Queen and the Windsors these days. No commoner marries into the Tongan Royal Family! Unfortunately, there did appear to be a large number of elderly maiden princesses left on the shelf by this stringent policy. As the young, female, guide cheerfully explained, they were just too old to be suitable wives.
We saw blow holes, fruit bats and finally had a swim in real, warm, tropical water. It felt like heaven. In short, the islands gave us of their most generous best, from the police brass band and the dancers on the wharves, to the ladies selling their wares in the stalls. It was a lovely day, and a great introduction to the pattern of ‘shore days’ we’ll follow over the next couple of months.
We're a bit spaced out and confused because overnight we crossed the date line, with the consequent, groundhog effect of reliving the 18th of January. We are now officially in New Zealand's yesterday. This is NOT helping internet communication with home.
Pago Pago tomorrow, and then off across the pacific to Tahiti. I've just been told that landing at Easter Island is notoriously difficult and that it's very likely we won't be able to put foot there, even though we will anchor offshore and then sail around the island. Apparently Moai are visible along the coast, so there will be photo opportunities for us as pale compensation for the up close encounters of the real thing. If this happens, I'll be gutted. Please, please may all the gods smile on us and let us ashore.
American Samoa: Pago Pago (pronounced Pango Pango,) is absolutely beautiful and looks exactly like a tropical island should. High, bush covered peaks descend steeply to blue coves and bays. Rocks, artfully arranged by nature along the shoreline, add focus and interest to the seascape. The high hills trap rain clouds which in turn shower the lower land and keep it rich, moist and fertile. Truly a tropical paradise.
The beaches are mostly covered in stones, but there are a few places where the stones give way to sand. We stopped at one of these for a swim. Oh, the joy of bathing in warm, tropical waters! The waves were so clear you could see right through them – a strangely turquoise glass effect. It was so beautifully pristine to those of us used to murky, colder waters.
It was extraordinarily windy all day, and my wide and floppy brimmed sun hat, bought specially for this holiday, proved more menace than asset. I wore it when we left the ship to explore the market set up in the town, but discarded it later as more hassle than it was worth. The market was the usual mix of shells, colourful wraps, swimsuits and hats. We made our way to the local museum which had excellent displays of traditional fishing techniques, early colonial memorabilia and portraits of many tribal and significant Samoan leaders. There was a nice section on local fauna, and how the plants were used medicinally in pre-European times.
We took a bus tour eastwards (there is only one road, so your options are east or west). The bus was delightful – a sort of gypsy caravan, wooden, open windowed and cheerfully decorated in bright colours. The guide told us Samoans don’t like air-conditioning, believing that freely circulating air which doesn’t harbour noxious germs trapped in air-conditioning systems is a far superior system. I was happy enough to believe her.
Although the Americans have had a naval base here since the nineteenth century, the port really came into it's own during the war in the Pacific in the 1940's. I wondered how the young mid-west boys from Idaho and Arkansas had felt during the war when they were based in such a sensational place. I kept humming tunes from South Pacific. Michener’s Tales of the South Pacific suddenly seemed very alive and real.
Tour guides the world over are trained to be politically discreet, so I wasn’t able to ask how the local populace felt about the continued American involvement in their country. Independent Samoa is, after all, only a few sea miles away. Do American Samoans resent being controlled by a foreign power, or are they content to accept it as a trade-off for foreign investment in their roads, health system and social welfare? I suppose I’ll never know the answer.
We passed the fish factory, which unfortunately was a bit of a blot on the landscape and stank to high heaven. I’ve mentioned the bus was open windowed, and however hard I worked at holding my breath until we were well past the offending factory, the smell pervaded everything. The guide told us it was the easiest place on the island to find work, but the hardest form of work going. The hours are grindingly long and arduous.
So far the island seems extraordinarily unspoiled by modern tourism. We saw no Hyatts or Sheratons. I’ve no doubt they’ll arrive soon, but in the meantime it would be hard to find a more lovely island..
Tahiti: Oh dear! Utter devastation. We arrived in Papeete to find them in chaos. Catastrophic rains have drenched the island causing slips, flooding the central shopping area, making roads impassable and overflowing drains, rivers and sewers. A state of emergency has been declared, and it's starting raining here again. (A bit like summer in New Zealand really!)
The net result is that although the ship docked to take on fresh supplies and refuel, we weren't able to leave the ship. It's disappointing, but my heart goes out to those who are going to have to clean up the mess, or have lost their homes.
Rather alarmingly, a large contingent of our on-board companions approached the Cruise Director, volunteering to go ashore and assist in any clearing up that needed to be done. I respect and admire the generous spirit that prompted the offer, but common sense surely suggests that the last thing a flood stricken town needs is 2000 enthusiastic geriatrics clogging up their streets. Not to mention the potential danger for said passengers. Many of our number look downright frail and unsteady on their feet. Heaven knows what could happen to them ashore. Anyway, the Governor politely declined the generous offer.
Even more disconcerting were the other passengers who protested about not being allowed ashore to go shopping. They’d paid for the privilege after all!
I stood at the railings and looked up at the slips that have come down on the hills. The ambulance and police sirens went all day and night as emergency services rushed hither and yon. Around the ship, the dark surging water is filled with large logs and other debris brought down the river by the storm. I saw a washing machine floating away on the tide and wondered how it had ended up there. The waves against the breakwater are wild and angry, and the docks are flooded.
Our ship’s departure was delayed until the early hours of the following morning because the refueling pumps had been knocked out as the main electricity supply has failed. Consequently, refueling had to be done with an emergency generator which meant hours of extra time to get our ship tanked up.
The good news is that we call here again on the way home, so we get a second chance to see the island - and it looks so beautiful. Tonight we set sail for Easter Island. I've already discovered that internet access becomes extremely tricky when far from land. Presumably the satellites get overloaded. Also, I'm a bit worried by the bad weather we've run into. I hope it doesn't follow us across the Pacific and around Cape Horn.
Last night we had our first formal evening so we dressed up in our glad rags. My choice of dress was dictated purely by pragmatism. At the rate I'm eating, this could be my last chance to fit into the black and white number I wore. By the time we reach Rio I'll be several sizes too big for it.
Tomorrow I'm due to give the first of my workshops on writing and publishing. Wish me luck.
Writer: All lost at sea. In this case it's literal rather than metaphorically descriptive of my normal state of mind. Who knew the Pacific was this big? Yes, it's impressive on the map, but the endless expanse of sea and sky with no living creature otherwise present is a little unnerving.
Communication is rather erratic. We are of course in New Zealand's yesterday which doesn't help, and I'm certain that half my emails aren't actually getting through. Never mind. We are having a wonderful time.
Tomorrow morning we reach Pitcairn Island, and although we aren't disembarking - a prospect I gather is fraught with danger - we do circumnavigate the island. We need to be on deck at 7.45am, which sounds fairly benign until you realise that for the last three days our clocks have been put forward one hour every day.
I'm a wee bit discombobulated, short on sleep, and time deprived. Heaven knows how the stewards cope. I've spoken to them and they reference long work days and short rest periods as a result of this punishing transition to South American timezones.
On the other hand, we catch up on the return journey to NZ where we will have endless days and nights to recover our composure.
The first of my three-part lecture series went really well. Rather disconcertingly, they'd put me in the largest theatre they had on board- which was just as well as we had some 200 attendees: Roughly 180 more people than I expected. The shop is also now selling my books, so it's all a lot of fun. Everyone has been wonderfully supportive.
I'm still praying to the weather gods to make Easter Island safe for us to land
It was an early get up for all of us this morning as we sailed up to Pitcairn Island. There was quite a swell on the sea, and the wind was blowing bravely, which has made for some interesting photographs. My hair was blowing around so wildly I look like a yeti in the snaps.
Hard to imagine that this remote, rocky, inhospitable island, halfway between Australia and South America, has had such an exotic history. They’ve recently discovered pre-European remains on the island. You can’t help but wonder what forced those earlier people to end up on this remote and barren lump of rock.
Our ship sailed right around the island and we confirmed that there wasn't a lot of flat or arable land available. No wonder the place stayed off the world's radar for so long until Fletcher Christian put it on the map.
I imagine it's a bleak place to live weather-wise, and claustrophobically limited in access to fresh faces, experiences and any form of culture or outside contact. However, if you want isolation, the Islanders are apparently advertising for new settlers. The trauma of the sexual trials that occurred some years back still haunts the island, and there are reports the inhabitants are deeply divided about the outcome. It is hard to see how their community can eventually avoid becoming extinct. The lack of fresh DNA coming into the place must mean that inbreeding is a constant problem.
I was intrigued to note that there was no sign of life on the island. Admittedly we arrived early in the morning, but, even scanning with our binoculars there was no evidence of curtains being opened to view our arrival. Certainly no islanders came out to the ship to sell their wares as we had expected. Either they are blasé about cruise ships, or else they simply didn’t want to know about us.
Until recently the main source of income for the island was selling their exotic postage stamps, but unfortunately, the demise of written letters has killed that as a viable trade. Nowadays honey is their prime export. The country is so isolated from any source of infection that their honey can be imported into any country on the planet including picky, bio-security conscious, New Zealand.
We're two days out from Easter Island, and beginning to watch the weather, hoping the sea will be smooth enough for a landing when we reach there. Apparently there's a low building over South America which may pose a problem.
Wahoo! We made it on to Easter Island. The winds set fair, the swell eased, and everything looked great for an early departure to the island. The old hands were shaking their heads and declaring that never in their last six visits to the island had they been able to land.
THEN: Bureaucracy. The Chilean port person decided not to turn up on time to formally clear the ship to enter port. Then they wanted everything on the ship examined, and kept us all waiting in the lounge for two hours while we chewed our fingernails and watched the swell rise on the water and the winds increase.
It turns out that we had arrived during a festival, and that the officials in question were simply not prepared to get out of bed early and attend to us. Maybe they celebrated too freely the day before. Also, it was a Sunday, so I suppose they had to attend mass first.
Finally, the ship was cleared, and we got the tender to the island. The swell made the transit from ship to tender rather treacherous, and we were all grateful to the crew who steadied us as we stepped across. The boat was bucking up and down on the waves, so timing of that step was critical.
It was immediately apparent that landing on Easter Island is a very tricky business indeed. The wharf is within a VERY small harbour area which can only hold one tender at a time. The entrance to this harbour is guarded by vicious rocks, many just beneath the surface of the waves which make it a dangerous place to be operating, even though each tender has a local pilot on board to direct the Princess crew member through the maze.
Friends of ours reported that their tender got swept sideways by a sudden gust of wind and nearly ran into the rocks. It was a close call – the local pilot was shrieking abuse, and they only managed to turn inside of the rocks at the last minute. It wouldn’t be a nice place to wreck the tender.
Easter Island itself was magnificent. Moai everywhere - I hadn't realised they were in such profusion, and right in the middle of town as well as in the tourist spots. We took a tour into the Orongo volcano, saw where the Birdmen climbed, dived and generally did dangerous things to become ruler, and then had a spot of Moai and ahu watching.
It’s a surprisingly beautiful island, and not at all what I expected. I had been prepared for a bare, blasted heath kind of place, not this gently rolling, green and fertile land. There are horses everywhere. They seem to have right of way on the roads which are all unsealed and exceedingly bumpy. There are signs that reforestation has started, although I wasn’t convinced that the ubiquitous Australian eucalyptus was necessarily the best tree for the job. In fact, given that our bags were inspected as we landed on the wharf to ensure we weren’t bringing in any exotic plants, the number of non-native species growing on the island was remarkable. I felt they might have been shutting the stable door a little too late.
It was very satisfying, and a great relief to have made it onto the island. It’s such a unique environment, and so remote, that I fear I could not have been relied on to act like a lady had I been denied this experience. The tantalising mystery of the remains is so intriguing. Even more so is the written language they’ve discovered but haven’t been able to translate yet. I doubt if circumstances will ever have us back in this part of the world again, so Cavan and I were very lucky.
It's a sea day tomorrow and I give my next workshop. The final one is on the first of Feb. The weather is still warm and wonderful, and the next stop is Valparaiso. From now on we head south and towards the cold. We've dug out our winter woollies in readiness.
This is our last day at sea. We’ve crossed the Pacific Ocean, and tomorrow morning arrive in Valparaiso, the sea port for Santiago. Frankly, it can’t happen soon enough. I think certain of our fellow passengers have been getting stir-crazy. There’ve been silly mutterings and complaints, effortlessly dealt with by a crew who’ve seen it all before. Yesterday I witnessed a woman complaining that an iron in the laundry room had damaged her trousers. With great patience, the receptionist handed her an incident form to complete, and promised to get maintenance to check the offending iron. It was obvious the woman had caused the damage by having the iron set too high for the particularly fabric of her garment. But common sense is becoming a little fragile.
The oddest thing I’ve had to deal with is that the ship is never silent. There is constant white-noise from air-conditioning, or the stabiliser pumps. I like silence, and find this difficult, as there is an odd sensory dissonance between sounds and movement. The surge and rock of the boat should produce creaks, groans, or the slap of a waves on the hull. Instead, and unpredictably, the sound of a pump starting up, or a thermostat kicking in, overrides them creating a mildly hallucinatory state.
This is the last of our lazy, leisured, hedonistic days. From now on we’ll be at a different port every second night, and will be too busy being tourists to worry about trivial matters.
Our days have fallen into an easy, lazy pattern. We rise late and order coffee and tea in our cabin. Cavan may or may not go to breakfast, (I refuse to go, 3x3 course meals a day is turning me stout). Later we attend the trivia competition, followed thereafter by a brisk six circuits of the promenade deck. 3 rounds represents a mile, so we complete our two miles, before repairing for lunch. I often miss this meal as well, but obviously not often enough, as I’m becoming quite stout.
Later I write, and bar Cavan from the cabin. He usually takes off to the gym, which means both of us are being productive. Alternatively, during the speaking engagements, he helps me with my presentations, being my porter for the box of books, passing the clip-board round for names and generally being my PR person. Frankly I couldn’t manage without his support.
We attend the second trivia session, and then, at six meet friends for pre-dinner drinks and enjoy the music which can be found throughout the ship’s lounges. We dine at 7.45pm, and wrap the evening up with a show which usually starts at 9.45 and finishes about 11.
Whereupon we repeat the process the next day.
It’s going to be a cold hard brush with reality tomorrow morning when we have to be up and active at 7am.
Oh, the excitement of reaching South America! I was up early to take photos of the town as we sailed towards it. I’m not terribly clever with my camera, so had to take shots on several settings before I managed one with reasonable clarity. The ship of course was in motion, which frustrated any attempt at slow shutter settings. I got several blurry shots of city lights looking like shooting stars streaking across the morning sky.
Valparaiso is a city with a climate much like my fantasy of a New Zealand summer: not too hot, not too cold. Apparently it never rains here in summer, although there was an anti-cyclonic gloom clouding the sky on the day we were in port.
At first sight, the setting of the town was a little like Wellington, in that an initially flat foreshore rose steeply a few hundred metres inland, to a terraced level that then climbed gently to the hills behind.
Unlike Wellington, there are few streets or roads granting access from one level to the next. Funiculars run up the hills behind the town and form a serious part of the city’s transport grid. The funiculars are somewhat elderly. The one we took to descend to the foreshore area took only seven passengers each trip, although the cabin could have held many more. I assume this conservative measure was due to the aged nature of the equipment.
Almost all residential areas were up on the terrace, leaving the flat land below for the CBD.
We had a good tour, around the town, and after we’d been dropped off at the docks, we decided to strike out on our own, and ended up in a supermarket for some items.
We wandered through the store selecting groceries, rounded the end of the toothpaste aisle and came across a group of exotic dancers and musicians, dressed in festival costumes, and obviously there to promote some product. Cavan of course was in his element, and I believe the photo I took of him with the women will be his favourite from the entire trip.
We never did find out what they were promoting – They were performing somewhere between the frozen meats and the cheese counter, so it could have been anything. I have to say that it’s a far cry from the decorous wine tasting, or cheese tasting that Otaki New World puts on for its customers.
Later, sadly, we discovered two passengers from our ship died today in Valparaiso. One suffered a major cardiac event in the Port Terminal building. The other tried to cross a major road, and forgot that traffic comes from the opposite direction to New Zealand. Unfortunately, they were run over by a tram and died.
Puerto Montt: I’d never heard of this city, but this is north Patagonia. In the 1800’s the government offered Europeans grants of free land if they would settle the area. Consequently, a few miles beyond the port itself, we came upon a Bavarian village set smack in the countryside of South America. It was very neat, tidy and picturesque. I felt like launching into a rollicking chorus of ‘val deree, val derah’. Actually, looking out across Lake Llanquihue to its furthest shore was eerily reminiscent of the view from Lake Taupo towards the volcanoes.
This is a pretty area. The land is fertile and well-watered by rain showers from the Pacific which, when they reach shore, have to rise against the might of the Andes, and so shed their water on this western side of the mountains.
There are also several volcanos, many of which are still active. Our guide was delighted to tell us that, when these are erupt, Chileans get to enjoy the drama of all the billowing smoke and flames. What they don’t receive is the fall out of ash and other debris from the eruption. The prevailing wind lifts the ash cloud, carries it over the mountain range, and dumps it in south Argentina. Lucky Chile.
The ship is running Spanish lessons on the sea-days, and I’ve signed up. It seems too good an opportunity to miss. What with sight-seeing, language lessons, eating, drinking and sleeping, there isn’t a lot of spare time. My creative spirit has been dampened down, and there’s not a lot of novel-writing going on – a situation I don’t imagine will change much until we start the long sea-journey back to New Zealand.
One of the hardest adaptations on-board has been coping with the time adjustment It’s settled down now, but for a period of ten days, the clock moved forward an hour each night. We all looked a little haggard in the morning, and it must have been grindingly hard on the staff who are extremely hard working.
The temperature is dropping, and we've unpacked our winter woollies. It's disjointing to be in summer gear one day, and wrapped up the next.
Tomorrow we are in Chacabuco, which sounds like a recipe for veal. The view outside the cabin is wonderful. We’ve reached the bit of Chile where the coastline fragments, and we’re sailing on an inland passage, with islands either side of us. It’s very like the southern sounds, and stunningly beautiful.
Chacabuca and the Amalia Glacier. It’s fair to say that there aren’t a lot of tourist attractions in Chacabuco itself. It’s a remote fishing and copper mining town set in a beautiful fiord. Us New Zealanders promptly suffered an attack of ‘Home thoughts from abroad’, and bored our Aussie companions with reminiscences of our own Fiordland. This place was beautiful and wild, and we took a tour out, respectively, to a reserve; a waterfall, where someone once saw the Virgin Mary, (they’ve erected a shrine); and a tour of the local town.
I’ve forgotten to mention that there are dogs everywhere in Chile. These are friendly animals, well-socialised, and hang out in the local squares and public places. I like seeing them around,– particularly as they all look well fed.
Last night the ship officially celebrated Waitangi Day. (Yes, I know it was February 7th, but the 6th was a day in Port, and everyone was too busy being a tourist to be much interested in celebrating anything else. And yes, I do know that back home you all celebrated the 6th February, like, DAYS ago!). It was a formal night, so we all dressed up posh. Actually, all things considered, we all brushed up quite well. After days of comfort in my Skeechers it was a bit of a wake up call to try dancing in high heels. Lots, of fun, and a brave attempt at recalling the NZ national anthem in Maori. Anything to outshine the Aussies.
We had an early start the next morning to see the glaciers. The temperature had dropped to a not so balmy 4 degrees Celsius. Some passengers were so well wrapped up, they might as well have been wearing burkas. A couple defiantly wore shorts and T-shirts. Cavan and I completed our daily promenade and enjoyed the fresh air on our faces. Mind you, we were moderately well dressed, and our faces were the only areas the clean air was allowed access to.
As I write, we have just quit the fiord and are now on the open ocean. I know this because my laptop is suddenly hard to locate. Actually, the laptop stayed still, I was the one that slid across the floor. Tomorrow we reach Punta Arenas. The weather outside has changed from pleasantly cold to downright unpleasant. It’s raining, the sea has white-caps and there’s a fair gale blowing. The stabilisers have the odd effect of minimising the pitch of the vessel, while retaining a moderate degree of roll. It recreates the sensation of a not unpleasant hangover.
Punto Arenas apparently means sandy point. We saw photos of the port from a century ago when hundreds of ships moored in its harbour and it was a vital centre of trade for traffic past the Horn. Strategically placed in the Magellan Strait it was the first port of call for many ships. Those days are long gone, destroyed by the opening of the Panama Canal.
Oil and gas were discovered later, and now the town provides Chile with the majority of its fuel needs, but this hasn’t prevented its steady slide into obscurity. There is a definite impression that the people feel neglected and abandoned by their central Chilean government. The town has an air of dying grandeur, best demonstrated by the one truly fascinating tourist destination which is the old cemetery which holds a magnificent collection of mausoleums.
Cruise ships are a new source of income, and Punto Arenas is setting itself up to be the entry point for tours into Patagonia. Some miles inland are magnificent lakes and forests which we, unfortunately, didn’t get to see. Some of our companions did though. They had signed for a tour to go to Antarctica for the day. Unfortunately, for the first time this trip, the weather failed them. Fog blanketed the Chilean Antarctic base, so they weren’t able to fly down there. In compensation, they flew inland instead to see the national parks, wildlife and lakes.
We were up early today to cruise past the glaciers in the Beagle Channel. It’s cold and very wintry.
The salty air and incessant wind are turning my hair to straw. I’ve booked in for a cut and colour next week – something I’m highly nervous about. I’ve had the same hairdresser for more than thirty years. Trusting my head to a stranger is daunting.
At lunchtime we arrive at Ushuaia, which I’ve finally learned how to pronounce – a sort of Oosh wire sound. The word has far too many vowels for English speakers. This afternoon we’re taking a catamaran trip into the Channel itself to see the wildlife, and I’ll be wrapping up very warmly.
We’ve rounded Cape Horn, or more specifically, we sailed around the entire island. I had assumed Cape Horn was the tip of the pointy end of the South American continent – on that bit shaped like an inverted rhinoceros horn that curves slightly towards the Atlantic Ocean. I was completely wrong. Cape Horn is actually on an unimposing, and otherwise insignificant island, Horn Island, which is part of an archipelago. It’s significance is that it’s the southernmost bit of land on the planet before you reach Antarctica. The second most southerly point is south of the Cape of Good Hope, and Stewart Island rocks in at third place.
Our captain, who is a very dashing Italian, decided conditions were good enough for us to actually sail around the entire island – thus ‘rounding the Horn’ which doesn’t occur very often due to weather conditions. Although we were assured the conditions were calm, the wind was gusting at 45 knots. It was hard to stand up, and Cavan had to hold on to his glasses as the wind simply snatched everything away. Within minutes the weather changed from sunny to icy cold rain, and then back again. I can only imagine how terrifying an experience it was for the early sailors in the Clippers who had to manoeuvre through these seas under sail power. It was impressive enough with the power of a modern vessel behind us.
There is a house on the island which we saluted with a burst from the ship’s horn as we passed by, and the Princess line ensign was raised. Albatross soared around us throughout the morning – they are the souls of mariners who lost their lives rounding the Horn, and a statue of an albatross stands on the island in memory of them.
At Ushuaia yesterday we took a boat trip to look at the wildlife. We saw where the birds nest on rocky, multi-coloured little islands in the bay. From a distance these islets are prettily coloured in green, orange and white. Closer too, the green is formed of moss and grass, the orange by lichen, and the white is guano – all of which is lovely from a distance, but downwind of the islands the stench of guano is foul, overpowering, and I didn’t really feel free of it until I’d had a shower that evening.
Sea lions rested in a happy pile on one of the islands. They looked very contented in the sun. It was hard to remember only a few weeks ago a NZ scientist was been badly bitten by one and had to be airlifted home for treatment.
The town of Ushuaia is pretty, nestled as it is at the foot of truly inspiring and dramatic mountain peaks. There was a very visible police presence. There were probably at least four cops on every single street corner. I assume they were in evidence to protect us passengers from the cruise ship, and wondered what it said about the moral values of the native Usuaians. We are now of course in Argentina. It was a far cry from Chilean Punta Arenas where we were assured the crime level was so low, no one locked their car or their homes.
We are now in the Atlantic Ocean and heading for the Falklands. The weather has clagged in, and we are sailing through fog. Thank heavens for modern gadgetry like radar.
The Falkland Islands, and their capital, Stanley. Cavan and I had elected to take a wander around the town, and then take another trek into the countryside.
Stanley is fascinating. It possesses a Brigadoon kind of vibe. Indeed, lost in time and lost in space seems to sum up the situation. It’s the only place I’ve encountered where Margaret Thatcher is regarded as a saint – her hagiography ranking up there with Joan of Arc (who was probably equally unpopular in other circles). Britain still rules the waves. Pubs endorse all things British, and the sooner HRH the Queen and the rest of her whanau immigrate, the happier everyone will be.
I had expected dank bleakness, or else cutesy pubs. In fact it was neither. Helped by the extraordinarily fine weather that has followed our cruise, this was a thoroughly pleasant place to visit. The town was small, and represents 9 generations of Falklanders – always remembering the reality that the brightest and best go home to Blighty to gain formal professional qualifications, then returned after 8 – 10 years away to settle and work on the island. And it seems that the majority do choose to return. The scenery is empty, scrub covered, rolling hills. Most of the land we encountered was held in common, or ‘common land’. There’s a charming medieval quality to the place.
Memories of the Argentine invasion are everywhere. As our guide remarked – the Argentinians held the high land. How could they lose? But, they did. And both countries have been left to count their dead.
Pubs flaunt RAF flags, and display tags supporting Britain. How does this relate to the new Britain and Brexit? Who knows what it means for these islands.
On a less contentious note, we walked around the coast looking for wildlife. There were dolphins, geese, seabirds and, the creme de la crème, Magellan Penguins. They occupied a couple of beautiful beaches – from which we were banned because they were mined during the Argentinian war. Warning signs were everywhere. I believe this is a magical approach all conservation organisations should learn from. Stick these signs up everywhere. If necessary, install a couple of overtly placed mines to scare people off. This allows humans to view animals at a distance, photographing them through long distance lenses (mine is crap), but ensuring no one can get close enough to menace to the animal’s peaceful way of life.
Tomorrow is a sea day, and a good opportunity to catch up with Spanish vocabulary, sleep, and, in my case, the much anticipated and dreaded, hair cut and colour.
Puerto Madryn is, at first glance, an uninspiring kind of a place. It’s situated on the edge of a beautiful gulf that hosts sea-lions, whales, and dolphins, but the landscape is unrelievedly flat, dry and the coverage of tough, spiky, salt laden shrubs simply disguises the fact that this place is a desert. There is no natural fresh water source. The moisture dredged up from aquifers is brackish and salt-laden, and only enough for a subsistence level existence for any stock that feed here. By the time a sheep is six it’s teeth are so worn down from the harsh diet that it has to be destroyed.
The land, originally covered by sea, shows that influence in its sandstone base and salt ridden soil. There are numerous fossils embedded in the rocks. To compound the drought problem, when Chile’s volcanos erupt on the far side of the Andes, all the ash is swept across the mountains by the prevailing wind to fall on Puerto Madryn’s already parched soil. Of course the Andes also strip out any rain brought to land on Pacific breezes on the Chilean side of the range. By the time the winds rush down onto the Argentinian side they are hot and dry.
Enough to say that the main industry in town is aluminium smelting and you can see why my first impressions of the place were negative.
BUT. This is also the place where, a couple of years ago, the fossilised remains of the largest land creature ever identified were found. From the bones (as big as boulders) that have been discovered, researchers estimate this creature may have been in the range of 75 tonnes. I can’t get my head around those figures, so let’s just say it must have been enormous. They are hoping to find enough bones to string a skeleton together. It’s exciting stuff for palaeontology.
The trip Cavan and I took went to the Valdez peninsula – a protected area – in search of its wildlife. I’ve attached photos of the guanacos (a sort of llama which is a protected species). We also saw sea-lions; a fat armadillo who worked the tourist busses for food and several small birds.
But the highlight, and an absolute gem, was the penguin colony. It was a once in a lifetime experience and I’ve never seen anything like it. There were Magellan penguins everywhere. They estimate 300,000 breed in this area. We were able to walk amongst the colony on a carefully designated road, and the birds moved freely around us, although they obviously had right of way when they wanted to cross in front of us.
The whole experience was wrapped up by a superb meal at the local estancia or farm which covered vast acres of this barren, harsh land.
Argentina, at least in this area, is trying to produce a conservation ethos that is inclusive of native wild life, domestic farms and tourism. It’s hoped that this trilogy will work together for the benefit of each part. It’s a pragmatic approach, and I rather hope it works for them. So far it seems to be achieving its goals.
Montevideo.
Apparently this does not mean “I see a mountain” in any language, so my assumptions about the origin of the name were wrong. Instead, historians think it’s an acronym: As the Spaniards worked their way up the Rio Del Plata (River Plate) they numbered the hills from the coastline. When they reached this particular hill, it was described as ‘monte’, (hill), VI (6) de (from) E/O (east to west). In other words, the 6th hill they’d encountered heading westwards from the mouth of the river. Who knows if it’s true, but it’s a good story.
We headed 160 kms out of town and spent a happy day at Colonia Del Sacramento. It’s a very pretty town, and the oldest one in Uruguay. The temperature was some 30 degrees Celsius, so it was very warm. The countryside is flat, gently rolling, and a rich, fertile land. 20 kms beyond Montevideo the rural area proper begins, and throughout our drive we saw nothing but agricultural and grazing land. It’s a lovely country.
Tonight we encountered the first drama of our trip. The ship’s course takes it up the Rio Del Plata to Buenos Aires. The channel is narrow, and the draft very shallow. We were sitting at dinner when the whole ship listed sharply to port. Crockery slid, and the waiters couldn’t grab plates and glasses fast enough so a few hit the floor. The ship righted itself, but we all speculated the pilot aboard may have stuffed up and caught the keel on the side of the channel. The captain came over the loud speaker to tell us we’d been caught by a sudden gust of wind which had caused us to tip. He didn’t sound amused.
We later discovered that a storm, lightning and thunder included, had swept up the river from the sea bringing 70 knot winds with it. The ship had only listed 6°, and is rated for a 20° list if needed, so we were quite safe. All I can report is that the lean we achieved was impressive. I returned to our cabin to find the telephone had slid off the table and onto the floor, followed by the pamphlets and newsletters I had stacked on the shelf.
It’s about an hour later, and we’ve just received a further message to say another vessel has run into trouble in the channel, so the route is now closed to shipping. We’ve been forced to anchor for the night mid-channel, which will delay our entry to Buenos Aires tomorrow. Let’s hope nothing else goes wrong!
What a beautiful City Buenos Aires is. We arrived in port late of course, due to various kerfuffles in the Rio De La Plata shipping lanes. The poor officers on board responsible for shore tours spent frantic hours reorganising schedules and had a hectic morning. More credit to them, everything worked out happily for us tourists in the end.
Buenos Aires is one of the most beautiful cities I’ve ever been in. The architecture is in a grand European Belle-Epoque style. There are turrets, wrought iron balconies and sloping slate roofs everywhere. Beautiful public art is on every corner – the statues, the murals and the public parks and open areas are lovely. The Avenues are wide, and well planted with plane trees, the smaller, narrow roads are quirky, picturesque and hint at exotic possibilities around far corners. I had to forcibly restrain myself from singing choruses from Evita, a tendency not helped by a soloist at the tango show we viewed singing ‘Don’t cry for me,” during her performance. And of course, we’ve now visited Evita’s mausoleum.
Truly, this is a city I will want to come back to.
Inez, of Maybe leather, who sold me my Argentinian leather hat today, assured Cavan and me that a minimum of fifteen days was needed to reconnoitre the city. I believe her. This is a city to relish, with all it’s different flavours and diversity. For example, I had no idea how important and dominant the Italian influence had been on the Portenos.
Buenos Aires has a wonderful mix of heritages: There is a long, exotic and cosmopolitan history manifest everywhere. Culture of all sorts flower: – from the colourful Carmanita district with its working-class history, to the affluence of the grandees and the European influence on show at the Opera House, the government buildings and wealthy residences. And of course, Diego Maradona is king. His soccer stadium a shrine for all Argentinians.
I’ve drunk mate – which I suspect is far from being the benign herbal tisane they described to me. Let’s just say that my friend Betty and I were giggly, disorientated and rather hysterical for at least two hours after imbibing our first cup of the drink.
I’ve eaten enormous steaks, empanadas and pancakes stuffed with Dulce con leche. My clothes don’t fit, but who cares? I’ve watched the most marvellous displays of tango, shopped the markets, and eaten out in the Plaza, protected by umbrellas from the dangerous heat of the summer sun.
Later today we sail for Rio, but Buenos Aires will take a lot of beating.
The city of Rio De Janeiro is situated in one of the most beautiful natural settings imaginable. Stark granite mountains fall steeply to forested lower slopes. High rises in the CBD and affluent apartment buildings fringe golden beaches. Higher up the mountains the favelas cluster higgeldy-piggeldy on the slopes, providing an exotic, colourful and beautiful backdrop. Above them all, Christ the Redeemer smiles serenely over the faithful, and provides a convenient spot for great photos of Sugarloaf mountain, downtown Rio, off shore islands and those venues remaining from the Olympic games.
Argentinian Buenos Aires was elegant, cultured and cosmopolitan. Brazil’s Rio de Janeiro is a younger, wilder and much more dangerous sibling. There’s a similarity in the history of colonisation and immigration, but Brazil’s history and cosmopolitan heritage is largely a result of the use of slaves. It was African slaves who built the city; slaves who planted coffee and sugar cane, and it is those black bloodlines that are responsible for Rio’s particular racial diversity and extremely beautiful people.
There’s a violent undercurrent here. Police and military are heavily armed, even outside shopping malls. Last night our bus was forced to retreat from the CBD because of a demonstration about the government’s plans to privatise water. Our guide made it clear his fears were not centred on the water issue, but because thugs, in recent times, have used these demonstrations as an opportunity for destruction, violence and damage to property and people.
Fortunately, tourists are protected from the extremes of local politics. We are in Rio a week before carnival, and there’s an excited vibe in the city. The Samba schools (which aren’t educational institutions, but function as clubs) compete for elite status during the carnival. Costumes, floats, choreography – the celebration involves thousands of people, and the pride of the various schools is at stake. Exotic looking dancers prowl the tourist areas, drumming up support for the event.
Cavan and I did the usual touristy things. We took the train up to Christ the Redeemer. I was startled and charmed to see that in the forecourt, a large number of rubber mattresses have been provided for tourists to lie back and take the iconic shot upwards at the massive statue. The views are amazing of course, and the spot is crowded.
The train trip to reach the statue through the jungle of the Tijuca park was interesting. Apparently 100 years or so ago, when the mountainside was covered with coffee plantations, the good citizens of Rio noticed their water supply was running low. They traced the problem to the de-forestation of the mountain caused by the plantations. Without the cover of thick jungle protecting the water sources, the city suffered drought. The solution was to reforest 8000 acres of land and by doing so they managed to restore their water. It seems incredible that a people who recognised this problem, and fixed it, a hundred years ago can’t extrapolate that information and protect the Amazonian rainforest today.
The beaches? The beaches are stunningly beautiful stretches of golden sand. I didn’t see any beautiful bodies frolicking on said beaches, but no doubt they are around. Alas, all that glisters is not gold. The problem for me is the quality of sea water lapping the shore. I wouldn’t touch it with a toe nail. This morning, as we walked by the sea, the water stank; and yesterday, as we sailed into harbour, the area ahead of the ship showed a path of scummy debris. If it had been behind the ship I’d have put it down as ship’s wake, but this was clear (I use the term loosely,) water ahead of us.
Rio is vibrant, exciting exotic and unsettling. I’m glad I’ve been here for a visit – hell, I’m over the moon with excitement at having been here, but I wouldn’t want to live in Rio.
All at sea: We’ve left Rio behind, and are currently sailing northwards towards Salvador. I confess complete ignorance about the upcoming ports of call: Salvador; Fortaleza, Barbados (apart from James Bond films); Curacao; Punta Arenas (a second one), Cartagena (I know how to pronounce this thanks to seeing Romancing the Stone), and Manta (from which we fly to Machu Picchu).
The captain has announced that there is a problem with a diesel generator which, combined with a strong opposing sea current, means we are losing time. Consequently we will be late arrivals in Salvador, and our arrival in Fortaleza has been delayed 24 hours, and we now berth on the 27th February. This leaves me wondering how, exactly, we catch up the lost day? No doubt the captain knows his business.
I’ve spent the morning sorting out photos, transferring money to our account and trying to photo the sea birds that accompany us. Possibly as a result of the generator malfunction, the gannets are flying faster than the ship, which makes it tricky to capture them on film.
Such is the nature of seafaring life for the Cruise generation that wine, music and women flow free. Mind you, if we use the “maid/mother/crone” spectrum, most of those on-board the vessel of my own gender qualify as crones, and if they’re flowing freely it’s at a sedate pace, virtue of the use of zimmer frames and walking sticks. I can however testify to the availability of wine and music at every venue aboard.
I have just returned from Spanish class, run be an extremely attractive young male Brazilian cruise employee, who in addition to being bi-lingual appears to have enormous tolerance for the idiocy and incomprehension of his students. We lumber from nouns to adjectives with enthusiastic and inaccurate fervour, mangling pronunciation as we go. Of course, the whole process isn’t helped by us currently being in Portugese speaking Brazil, where the natives ignore our pidgin Spanish with snooty incomprehension.
Our Spanish teacher has introduced the class to a reggae song. The purpose is to teach us a variety of nouns – the lyrics concern a person lying sleepless in bed, using a Hispanic version of sheep counting. The song, entitled ‘Me Gustas Tu’, lists the various things the writer likes, with the counter, I like you at the end of each line.
Thus, Me gustan los aviones, me gustas tu. (I like aeroplanes, I like you).
It’s an inspired way of learning the basics of a language, songs being a sure-fire way of remembering dialogue, and the song is cheerful and snappy. If anyone is interested in downloading this from Spotify, the performer is Manu Chao.
Salvador was a delightful surprise. I may have mentioned that I had no idea what to expect when we arrived here, but it turns out that Salvador is an enormous and important city, (mind you, everything in Brazil is enormous by NZ standards).
We arrived in the middle of carnival so the town was in holiday mode. There were giant inflatable dolls in the middle of the streets, side stalls were busy providing costumes and hair-do’s for festival goers, the populace was happy, relaxed, and the town was feeling festive – particularly in the tourist areas we explored. The criminals had also gravitated to town in spite of the large military police presence. A couple of our ship board companions had their pockets picked, and two more had chains ripped from their necks. Mind you, warnings to be vigilant and not wear bright shiny jewellery are constant. We are chaperoned and protected with more diligence than any Victorian maiden. For the first time in South America we encountered beggars – another species despised by those who want us tourists to have a perfect experience in their town. One such young man harassed me on the streets. I sent him packing, and then turned to see a young woman, sitting on her door step watching this youth in disgust. We locked eyes, and she rolled her eyes at him. Clearly she was not a fan of the begging community.
Our tour focussed on Pelourinho, a UNESCO World Heritage Site which is the historic centre of the old town. It’s a lovely area, full of colourfully painted, wrought-iron balconied houses of Portuguese origin. The streets are cobbled. The stores are filled with brightly coloured local arts and crafts and the squares set up with large stages for carnival performances in the evening, as well as plenty of food outlets selling local delicacies. The locals were in fine good humour, and there was plenty of music, ferociously rhythmic drumming and other percussion instruments to be heard on every street corner. If one player started up, it was automatic permission for every other would-be musician in the vicinity to join in. It was a very happy sound.
The name Pelourinho is variously translated as ‘Pillory” or “Whipping Post”, a reference to the original purpose of this place. For 300 years, African slaves were bought and sold in these squares, and the whipping post was used for brutal, condign, punishment. It’s hard, in the heady atmosphere of Carnival, to imagine how ghastly those days were for so many people. Brazil imported some 4 million slaves from Africa, and although they were emancipated in the 1880’s, their heritage and influence is everywhere.
Rather unfortunately, although Brazil freed it’s slaves, it did nothing to incorporate them into society, or assist with their transition from slavery to independent life, and those of African descent remain at the bottom of the socio-economic scale.
Carnival dress here is a far cry from the Las Vegas glitz of Rio. Forget G-strings and feathers; Salvador’s festive clothing has a slave vibe. Women dress in white, full skirted dresses with elaborate petticoats and padding to puff out over their hips. Their hair is tied up in turbans, so the effect is rather Mama, from “Gone with the Wind”. Men wear curious, Indian inspired turbans with the third eye depicted on them. We saw numerous wayside stalls stitching men into these headdresses. Apparently, in the early days of carnival, the authorities were reluctant to encourage undue African influence, so men of colour were forced to wear a quasi-Indian costume, which was apparently acceptable. Go figure! Also, and startling to our New Zealand cultural sensibilities, Gollywogs are for sale everywhere. No problem here depicting black people in a humorous manner.
Later we visited the Church of our Lord of Bonfim, (or “good endings”). Catholicism, as the state religion, was de rigeur. Slaves and indigenous tribes were forced to convert or else suffer appalling brutality. Obviously most did convert – or at least made an outward show of conversion, while maintaining their native beliefs. This has resulted in a curious mix of the shaman and Christian faiths which seems to work here. As a result, women of African animist faith wash the steps of the church of Bonfim each year, with water blessed in African tribal temples. It’s an important ceremony ensuring the exotic mix of beliefs and religious has a recognised place in local culture.
Exploring the underworld: We’re at sea and bound for Fortaleza so took the opportunity to go on a “Ship’s Tour”. For the sum of $175pp we paid to be escorted through the working areas of the Sea Princess. Since we came on board, we passengers have speculated about what goes on behind the closed doors of the crew quarters. To keep a vessel like this running takes an enormous amount of work behind the scenes.
The Sea Princess runs this once a month for only 20 people each time, so we were a fairly select group. I was amused to receive a letter welcoming us as an elite group chosen for this privilege – I seem to remember making a booking and cash exchanging hands. Still, it’s a nicely euphemistic way of dealing with the matter.
We toured back stage of the theatre – reasonably familiar territory for Cavan and me, but interesting to see their LED stage lights and the tracks allowing them to shift props around easily. The costumes were magnificent. Each one exquisitely made and individually fitted to the performer. Once it’s made to their size, they have an obligation not to change weight for the rest of their contract. We were shown a red gown, covered in Swarowski crystals, that alone was worth $4000 US. We hefted the weight of some of these dresses and they were incredibly heavy. One gorgeous black dress, that I would love to have worn, was so heavy it took both my hands just to lift the hangar it suspended from. Imagine wearing it! Remembering the dancers are incredibly small, slight and slender it’s a mystery how they are tough enough to stand up in these dresses, let alone twirl around a stage in them.
We saw the photographic studio, the print shop and the galley. The laundry was fascinating, and their ironing, folding and pressing machines drew sighs of admiration from every woman present who had to deal with these details in their own domestic life. All these areas are occupied by hard working staff beavering away at their tasks. The level of activity going on in this hidden world is extraordinary. There are nearly as many staff hidden away down here as there are passengers up above.
There’s an area off the promenade deck I’d always wondered about as we marched past the forbidding ‘Crew Only’ sign each day. This is where the anchors and mooring ropes are kept. Massive winches and motors move all this stuff, and everything was very tidy, clean and ship shape. Likewise the engine room, where banks of monitors control engines, generators, water desalination units, and all the other technical procedures that run the ship. It was fascinating stuff. The monitors alone that must be watched! And there are thousands of procedures contributing to the comfort of every single one of us on board.
The highlight of the trip was the visit to the bridge. Have I mentioned that the Captain is very dashing? He’s the youngest captain on the line, and there’s no doubting his competence. I suspect that beneath all the flamboyant Italian charm is a man who takes his role very seriously and sets high standards. We were served champagne and chocolates and briefed on the various tasks on the bridge. Like everything else on the ship, there was an underlying sense of jobs being done well.
Finally, we ended the trip in the Medical department where we were greeted by the Doctor who seemed to be surprised that there were still some of us that he hadn’t yet met. As a goodly number of our friends and acquaintances have already been to the clinic, Cavan and I are determined not to add to their number. But hazards are everywhere.
As a footnote to the above, we’ve just learned that one of our table companions for dinner at night is going to have to go to hospital in Fortaleza with suspected kidney stones. His partner is of course devastated, and faced with awful choices as she tries to manage their situation. Will he return – will he be repatriated to New Zealand. Poor woman, she is having to cope with these decisions; and all in Portuguese which she doesn’t speak. I desperately hope that the Princess Line agent ashore is someone of top quality who can help her through all this.
There was a carnival deck party last night. It is of course deliciously, tropically warm, and it was lovely to dance under the stars. And we did – enthusiastically. As Cavan and I left the party at the end of the evening, a man collapsed. I don’t know whether it was alcohol, dehydration, or whether he’d had a heart attack, but the crew swung into action to deal with the crisis. The reassuring thought is that we are all being very well taken care of, and there are probably few emergencies we could throw at them that they haven’t encountered before.
As a final nice touch from the Ship’s Tour, we returned to our cabin to find a large bag of goodies addressed to each of us. Presents from some of the departments we’d visited that day. I now own a Sea Princess apron, picture frames for the photos that have been taken of us, and a very nice bath robe of exceptionally high quality and generous size. It swamps me, but I will be grateful for it on cold NZ nights.
Fortaleza, 27th February 2017. It is absolutely not this city’s fault that at first sight it was utterly unappealing. The odds were stacked against us liking it.
It was hard to get a handle on what we were seeing. We’d been assured many Brazilians chose to come to this city for their summer holidays to enjoy the magnificent beaches. And yet, the early part of our tour took us through neighbourhoods where ravaged high-rises stood wrecked and abandoned; a testament to failed investments and optimism. Graffiti was everywhere. Our guide bravely assured us this was a local artistic custom, but it wasn’t the most convincing of speeches. Men, and a few women slept on the pavement, dossing down on makeshift cardboard mattresses. There was a pervasive air of hopelessness and poverty.
Downtown, and it took twenty minutes for our bus to gain entry to the market place. Normal businesses may be shut, but the market was in full swing, and absolutely packed. They make beautiful lace here, and I was tempted by a gorgeous trimmed linen tablecloth but couldn’t remember the dimensions of our table. Also, how often at home would Cavan and I dine at a table set with fine lace and linen?
Fortunately for Fortaleza’s reputation, our next stop was the Jose de Alencar theatre which was lovely. The classical Baroque exterior gave way to a wonderful auditorium, filled with fin de siècle wrought ironwork, with art deco, art nouveau and every other eclectic element thrown in for good measure. There’s a gorgeous frescoed ceiling. It was delightful. A light, airy froth of inspiration.
Our return to the ship was along the beach front, past an attractive golden statue in honour of a native Indian woman, Iracema, who had a doomed love affair with an early Portuguese explorer. At last we saw why people come to this town on holiday. The beach is vast stretches of beautiful golden sand, and the high-rise hotels and buildings that line the foreshore are new, shiny and in good repair. It would be cynical to speculate how long they’ll remain in that condition.
Back on board we found that our sick dining companion had returned from the hospital. They’ve established his kidney stones are too small to shatter with ultra-sound so he’s back on board with us, drinking copious draughts of water, and waiting for nature to take its course. It’s a great relief all round, and apparently, the Princess agent on shore was excellent to deal with and efficiently arranged matters for our friends. It also turned out that our friend was only one of three men taken to hospital that morning. It’s enough to make me nervous.
We’ve just crossed the equator, so we’re now in the northern hemisphere. Fortaleza was our last stop in Brazil. Our next destination is Barbados.
We have now officially turned our tracks for home. We’re sailing west and we’ve put our clocks back one hour, so we all had an extra hour to lie-in bed this morning. I imagine the hard-working crew will have enjoyed the extra sleep in as well.
Plague Ship! Well actually nothing like a plague, but two days ago the Captain announced that we had an outbreak of the dreaded Norovirus on-board. Protocols were evoked, practices implemented, and we are in full hand-washing, hand sanitiser mode.
At its worst, 21 unfortunate souls were affected, and today, 2 days after that initial announcement, the count has dropped to 15. This is not a bad percentage given that our passenger list is less than 2000, and the total POB (Persons on board) are about 4000. I should say that the protocols are stringent, and isolation of the suspect passenger is implemented immediately, continuing for some 3 days after demonstration of the last symptoms of the condition are noted.
I regret, my first reaction to the news was “Oh goody, I can lose some weight,” succeeded immediately by a mental note that some 50% of other passengers on this cruise would also benefit from 3 day’s starvation and a diet of green tea.
Of course, this isn’t the whole story. For all who would benefit from an enforced fast, there are those who are frail, fragile, and elderly. It would be hard to imagine a more dangerous state of affairs than a nasty bug chewing through their resistance, so I withdraw my shallow and bitchy perceptions.
Fortunately, it appears the precautions implemented have in fact contained the problem. We are all suddenly aware of the need for hand hygiene, and I imagine hand towels are taking a hammering as we try to wash that bug right off of our hands.
We received the first briefing today for those of us heading up to Machu Picchu. The trip involves leaving the ship at Manta and re-joining four days later in Lima, by which time we will have taken the side trip up the mountains to Cuzco and beyond. I can hardly wait. For me, this is a little like Easter Island: one of the focal points of our entire journey. I would be gutted if anything, norovirus included, were impertinent enough to get between me and those Inca ruins.
Tomorrow, we are in Barbados, swimming with turtles. I’ve loved turtles since I was a child and watched them each year in the nesting season when they clambered up Karachi’s beaches to nest in the soft, warm sand. It was a highlight of my childhood, and I look forward to reliving it tomorrow.
The day did not start well. Our ‘Swimming with Turtles’ tour had been scheduled to meet outside the terminal building at 8.30am. Unfortunately, poor logistical planning by those responsible for getting passengers off the ship meant we didn’t reach our meeting point until 9.30, to discover our trip had long departed without us. While we’d waited through the hold up to get ashore, we’d been promised by staff that our tours would wait for us. Grrrrrr. Lots of humble apologies were offered by the erring crew, and would we like to be rescheduled for the afternoon trip?
What can you say? We accepted and then turned our attention to how to spend the intervening hours. We’d been expecting to go swimming, so both of us were wearing swimming togs under our clothes, carrying towels and very little else. Neither of us had much cash with us although I’d fortuitously added a credit card to my purse. We were hot and grumpy, on top of which, a brisk wind was blowing, rendering my fly-away straw hat useless. To top it off, there were passing showers. We took the shuttle into Bridgetown.
Can anyone stay cross for long in Barbados? The people are utterly charming: sassy, funny, with plenty of good humoured attitude. Even those touting for sales, or offering tours or taxi rides were polite and courteous. When we declined their offerings, they cheerfully wished us the best for a happy day on their beautiful island.
Our spirits lifted. The water was blue, the air warm and Bridgetown is a cute, quaint little town. We explored the main street, made purchases we hadn’t intended (thank you Mastercard), and sat on the veranda of a waterfront hotel to drink rum punches until another shower of rain drove us inside.
Eventually we made our way back to the terminal and joined the afternoon tour.
What a fun-filled afternoon! We were on an open speed boat that hurtled us out of the harbour and round to see the turtles. There we were issued with masks and snorkels, but no flippers, because we’d be swimming in such close proximity as we watched the turtles that we’d do each other a mischief. We were also issued with a life-vest – a first for me while snorkelling, but mandatory.
The water was lovely, clear and warm. I took a second or two to remember how to snorkel, adjust to the life-vest and to having no flippers. Then I went turtle watching. It was magic. We saw and swam with the turtles who seemed completely unfazed by us around them. Even taking care, there were inevitable small collisions with other swimmers so it was lucky we weren’t wearing flippers. The turtles had no problem manoeuvring around us though.
We also saw a couple of sting rays (I thought of Steve Irwin and kept a respectful distance,) and numerous little fish. It was lovely.
Next stop at the site of a couple of shipwrecks. The clarity of the water made it hard to judge how far beneath us the hulls were, but they were clearly visible, and the shallower wreck, in fourteen feet of water was easy to access. The other one was at 40 feet. There were many more fish around the wrecks. I suppose they provided shelter and a source of food.
After all that swimming we climbed back on board to refuel with rum punch. I have no idea how many I, or any other passenger, had to drink, but by the end of the cruise we were a very happy group of people as we returned to our ship.
I think I may be in love with Barbados. It’s a happy place. You can forget Copacabana and Ipanema. Barbados is the place for me. So much happiness everywhere, such beautiful surroundings, such warmth and crystal clear water. I want to return there next week.
Curacao is another name I had no idea how to pronounce. For the similarly uninitiated, its pronounced “Cur ah sow”. Curacao is one of the ABC islands (Aruba, Bonaire and Curacao), which are among the semi-autonomous group of islands that make up the Netherlands Antilles. It’s main claim to fame and fortune is that it has the largest, deepest harbour in the Caribbean. Trade has always been important here, and over the centuries there have been attempts by the Spanish, Portuguese, Dutch and English to control the island. The Dutch won out, but the cultural mishmash of European languages, combined with a number of African languages imported with the slaves, has resulted in a local patois called Papiamento. It’s sort of a Caribbean Esperanto and completely unintelligible.
Geographically placed some 60 miles or so off the coast of Venezuela, Curacao refines and processes all of Venzuela’s oil output. This industry, along with international banking (sounds dodgy to me), and tourism, make up the main occupations of the island. Which brings me to the odd thing about this lovely place: There doesn’t appear to be any local production at all – of anything.
We took an extended trip through the countryside which is covered in rough looking scrub and vertical cacti plants. There was no sign of farming: no crops, no livestock. All fresh food comes from Venezuela and is sold at the floating market, which was unfortunately closed when we visited.
We toured a museum which recreates the living conditions of the slaves after they were liberated. Our guide, an exotically dressed, charismatic woman, evoked this foul period of history with authority. Curacao’s originally was a centre for the slave trade. Slaves were brought here from Africa, and sold on: either to local owners, Southern American plantation owners, or to Brazil, by far the biggest user and purchaser of slaves.
The industrial area supports the refinery, electricity and water works. All water on the island is the expensive result of desalination. Potable rain water is in short supply. In short, this is an arid region. The island is volcanic, and so stony that graves can’t be dug and burials take place in tombs above the ground that are painted in pretty pastel greens, pinks and blues.
Although the majority of the population are of African slave descent there is, unsurprisingly, a large Dutch influence. Many of the prettier homes we saw belonged to Dutch citizens who keep them as holiday homes and fly out to spend the northern winter here. Many of these were to be found in gated communities where bougainvillea climbs the chain link fences, and the houses within the compound are brightly coloured and charming.
A number of hotels and their beaches are also hidden behind extensive fencing. Long drives climb over scrubby hills to these discrete hideaways. Apparently local Curacaos can pay a fee to the hotel to be able to use these private beaches.
We went to a couple of beaches, and they were extraordinarily beautiful. Small coves of golden sand, nestled between rocky outcrops and fringed by sea water of the purest, deepest turquoise. I don’t think the sea is as inviting anywhere else on the planet. The Caribbean is unique.
We explored the Hato caves which have been used by humans since antiquity. Originally by the Arawak people who left a legacy of cave art somewhere around 400AD. Later, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, they provided sanctuary for runaway slaves. There are still grubby, blackened marks on the limestone interior, left by the flares and torches they used. Today, small, long nosed fruit bats hang among the stalactites and stalagmites.
The old town shows it’s Dutch heritage. But the rich colours of the houses gives it a lovely Disneyland quality. It’s a quaint, delightful place to spend time wandering the streets. Every corner is a new photo-opportunity.
We’ve just sailed out of Cartagena on our way to the Panama Canal which we transit tomorrow.
As we queued for the bus today, I saw various emergency equipment being loaded aboard. Masks, sick bags, hand sanitizers, wipes and all the other paraphernalia a tour guide might need to cope with a tourist who suddenly succumbs to norovirus. A couple of days ago the number of affected passengers on board had dropped to 5. Now it’s up again to 18, and the ship is on red alert dealing with it.
What a marvelous place Cartagena is. OK, it was a short visit – only just over half a day, and we spent it in the old city, now a tourist centre, so my perspective is limited. Even so, it was a delightful old town, with all the colour, romance and charm that we’ve come to expect from Caribbean nations.
If I take no other impression from this part of the world I will carry a memory of colour. Not just of the houses themselves, or even the brightly clad people, but of the flowers that grow in profusion from balconies, in gardens and roadside hedges. Brightly coloured bougainvillea flourishes everywhere, along with other vivid exotic plants I can’t begin to identify. Mind you, compared with the island countries we’ve been to over the last week or so, there’s a definite haze that hangs over Cartagena, and the sea water lacks the rich turquoise colour we’ve come to love.
Once upon a time Cartagena was the conduit for all the wealth Spain extracted from South America. All the gold and jewels from the continent flowed through this port. Unsurprisingly, the rest of Europe wanted to be in on the deal, so there were numerous scuffles and invasions as England, France and other countries tried to muscle their way in.
Spain managed to fend the invaders off. They scuttled ships and dumped rubbish in one of the lanes into the harbour, so that invading ships and armies only had one, well-defended channel by which to access the port. Actually, given our shopping today, I suspect Cavan and I have succeeded where other armies failed, having quite satisfactorily pillaged Cartagena today ourselves.
We explored the emerald museum, followed by the gold museum. Cavan looked increasingly nervous as I pushed him into each one. I’m not sure he trusted my story that it was purely academic research that prompted me to steer us there.
I fell in love with the door knockers. They were such an obvious statement of importance and affluence, and yet each one was different and many had a sly charm.
After a morning in the town, we returned to the port and spent a fantastic couple of hours in the parrot park which adjoins the ocean terminal. There were flamingos, swans, monkeys and parrots. It was a lovely way to relax after our morning’s exertions. We sat and drank rum punches in the warm sunlight. Cavan played with the parrots – I think he still misses Digby.
Tomorrow we have an early start and an all-day journey through the canal. Everything we’ve heard about it so far sounds fascinating.
My camera is suffering from some sort of click fatigue, and I can’t believe the number of photos I take each day. I imagine it will be doing heavy duty tomorrow.
It was still dark at 5.30am when I opened our cabin curtains and looked outside. There were lights all around us. At first I thought it was the shoreline, but then realised these were the lights from other vessels all queuing up with us for their turn to enter the canal.
As dawn broke we could see the entrance to the canal ahead as we entered the channel. There are now effectively two canals – the original, and a newer, larger one. As a smaller ship, we used the older, and cheaper, passage. The new canal handles massive container and oil ships as well as some of the gigantic cruise ships which are now being built.
The price per ship to transit the system is based on the amount of water it displaces. I’m surprised they didn’t disembark us passengers and make us take the train across. My own water displacement levels have increased markedly since coming aboard. We heard that the price for some of the larger vessels to use the canal was easily in excess of $300,000 US. I suppose that has to be set against the additional cost in time and distance that rounding Horn would represent.
I’d always thought of the canal as being an East/West channel, but it is more true to think of it as running North/South, so our route from the Caribbean took us south. Each ship is given its own call sign for the transit, and displays this in the sequence of flags it flies.
The canal proper involved entering the first of three locks which raised us incrementally a total of 185 feet from the Caribbean to the level of lake Gatun. We followed directly behind a large white and orange vessel, and watching it enter each gate and rise up as the lock flooded gave us an excellent visual of the process we were experiencing ourselves. Even better, a ship heading to the Caribbean passed us in the opposite channel, so we watched it beside us, descending steadily as we climbed in the opposite direction.
There is only six inches clearance between each side of the ship and the canal walls. The ship moves under its own propulsion, but its harnessed to ‘mules’, or large tractors, which keep it straight laterally. It took six mules to make the journey with us. We returned to our cabin at one point, and looked out of our cabin window which was below the level of the lock. There really is diddly-squat clearance between ship and shore.
Once we’d reached the lake we had a delay of an hour or so as a large vessel in the new canal transited. It was carrying LPG and the safety protocols meant we couldn’t continue our own journey until that ship was well clear.
Lake Gatun is enormous and stretches as far as the eye can see. The lake is partly natural, and partly the result of human intervention which enlarged the surface area to clear passage across the central area of the canal. The lake is also monitored to keep a steady water level As the old locks use gravity to feed the water through the system, it is fortunate there is a lot of rainfall filling the lake regularly. Apparently the canal has been closed twice for lack of water.
Later in the afternoon we reached the far side and started our descent. First descending the Pedro Miguel lock, then sailing across the small lake Miraflores, before finally descending the last two Miraflores locks to the level of the Pacific Ocean.
Ships are considered to have entered Pacific waters when they sail under the Bridge of America which joins North and South America, and essentially replaces the land passage that the canal destroyed.
It was a fascinating day. The canal is a tribute to man’s vision, skill and bloody mindedness. It took years to build; uncounted lives were lost during construction; and it cost a fortune. But it’s a magnificent achievement.
At first glance there’s little to recommend Punta Arenas, (second of its name, – the first was in Chile). The beaches are palm fringed and sandy, but the sand is brown, not gold; and currents along the shore make swimming hazardous. The small town adjoining the port is poor and scruffy. Shanties and shacks of corrugated iron stand between more robust, but modest homes. It’s a non-descript and unappealing little town.
Our trip whisked us away from the port and up into the surrounding hills for an eco-tour, and we began to gain some insight into what an interesting little country this is.
During the twentieth century, most of the country had been deforested for farming – in particular, raising Brahmin cattle for meat. By the 1980’s however, Argentina’s rise to pre-eminence in that industry meant Costa Rica was struggling to compete. Further, they had begun to realise the dangers of destroying their natural environment, and recognised that tourism, in particular, eco-tourism was a desirable and viable option. Some 45% of the country is now in natural reserves – most owned by the government, but some in private hands.
Farming has reduced – although the emphasis is not on obliterating the industry, but on keeping it in balance with nature. The Tarcoles river, on which we spent the afternoon watching birds and crocodiles, used to be the most polluted river in South America. It’s been cleaned up, and the coffee factories upstream, which used to discharge waste matter into its waters have been persuaded to find alternative practices.
The other fascinating decision made by this country back in the 1940’s was to dismantle and obliterate its armed forces. Costa Rica has no army. Instead, what used to be the military budget is used to fund education. Costa Rica now prides itself on a 98% literacy rate. (I don’t know New Zealand’s, but I’d be surprised if it was that high.). Education is encouraged, mandatory and even University education is financially accessible for all. I gathered that a large amount of vocational training is available as well to get students into good jobs.
The population is now educated and literate. Possibly as a consequence of this, Costa Ricans, or Ticos, have had peaceful government for over 60 years, which in central America is unique.
Another consequence, as the guide wryly pointed out, is that immigrant Nicaraguans, many of them illegal, have now taken over unskilled jobs which Costa Ricans are no longer keen to do. The guide was too tactful to speculate on where all this was going, but it will be an interesting story to follow. You certainly can’t blame the Nicaraguans for wanting a part of their neighbour’s relative prosperity.
We took an aerial tram up over and through the jungle. Unfortunately, the temperature, even at 9am was 38°C, and any sensible native creature had gone to bed for a long siesta in the shade. Still, it was fun, and the small wildlife park had snakes, frogs, butterflies and leaf-cutter ants. These latter weren’t of course in a cage, but simply wandered across our path. Helpful signs are put out to alert unwary tourists to the dangers.
The afternoon was spent on the river which holds one of the highest number of crocodiles in the world. We found Smiler, an old croc who had lost a chunk of his face and was left with a massive underbite. The really big croc was Osama. He lay on the bank looking peaceful, but you wouldn’t want to fall into the water near him. He has competition from an even larger old beast called Tyson, who unfortunately was out when we went to visit him.
There were loads of birds – and a bizarre fact. The greatest threat to crocodiles is the white egrets, who eat their eggs and the baby crocs when they hatch.
Tomorrow Cavan and I leave the ship for four days to head into the Andes and Machu Picchu. It hadn’t occurred to us to worry about altitude sickness, so we didn’t bring any prophylactic pills. Ship board gossip is full of how essential this medication is, and how we’ll suffer if we don’t have it. Let’s just hope we don’t need it.
The Machu Picchu Excursion, Part 1
It’s a long slog to Machu Picchu! We left Manta, Ecuador’s shipping port, for the three-hour drive by bus to the closest international airport at Guayaquil. Ecuador is green, fertile and pretty. It is also relatively impoverished and has very bumpy roads. I was duly shaken, not stirred. Unfortunately, we missed out on seeing where panama hats are made (they’re made here, not in Panama). I cannot fathom how it can be the rainy season here in Ecuador, but the dry season barely 1000 kilometres further north in Costa Rica.
We arrived at Guayaquil where we discovered the immigration officers who cleared the Sea Princess into Ecuador that morning, hadn’t completed their paperwork. Consequently, as we weren’t officially there in the first place, the computers refused to allow us to leave the country. A lot of queuing ensued while officials solved the problem. This finally resulted in an official record of a 5 minute stay between our immigration into and exit from Ecuador.
One of the sadder events was the nasty norovirus claimed another victim while we waited. A woman succumbed, with distressingly messy and obvious symptoms, and had to be taken away. She clearly wasn’t going to make it to Machu Picchu which must have been devastating for her.
We arrived at our Hotel in Lima at 9.30 pm, by which time we’d been travelling for 12 hours and were all a bit shattered. The next day we left the hotel at 6.20am and caught the plan to Cusco.
I’m happy to report that altitude sickness didn’t claim me and Cavan, although I did have a last minute purchase of coca tablets and sweets while we waited in Lima’s airport. I took the two tablets recommended, and sucked two of the coca sweets during our descent to Cusco. As these products contain extremely high levels of coca and caffeine, I was zinging by the time we landed. Cusco is at an altitude of 13,500 feet, but the worst we suffered was a slight breathlessness.
Cusco is a lovely city. I only wish we could have spent 5 days or more there rather than a few hours. The three churches that make up the Basilica Cathedral alone would have repaid a full day’s visit. We weren’t allowed to take photographs, which was a shame, but I swear there’s more gold, gold-leaf and silver here than there is in the Vatican. The first church alone, the Templo de la Sagrada Famlia, was astounding. A massive floor to ceiling gold alter-piece is matched on either side by other enormous gold and gilded decorative pieces depicting the holy family. It is completely OTT, and visually staggering in its magnificence. Donald Trump’s style of home decor suddenly looks like restrained good taste.
The artworks alone are stunning although, as the guide pointed out, the three adjoining buildings, and contents belong to the Vatican although they form part of Peru’s cultural heritage. Of course, the indigenous people were robustly encouraged to embrace Catholicism, and many of the artists and artisans involved in the decoration of this basilica were conversos. It was fun and fascinating to find evidence of their subversion hidden in plain view. Thus, an enormous and very beautiful Last Supper painting showed a roast Guinea pig as the main course. The beautifully carved seats in the choir inexplicably show naked women, with fertility symbols on their bodies, formed into the arms of the chairs. I assume any clergy who noticed these irregularities elected to turn a blind eye!
The remains of Inca buildings are everywhere, frequently incorporated into the foundations of later buildings, and a trip up to the archaeological site known as ‘sexy woman’, or more accurately Sasqaywaman, was our first sight of just how vast a legacy the Inca left.
The superb hotel where we spent the evening was in the Sacred Valley, some two thousand feet lower down than Cusco. Tomorrow, Machu Picchu, which is another couple of thousand feet lower still. I’d always assumed Machu Picchu to be higher into the mountains than Cusco, but I was wrong.
Machu Picchu
Our hotel is delightful – there are humming birds, peacocks and macaws in the gardens and alpacas roam the lawns. Our en-suite sports an enormous two-person spa bath. This would be a great place to stay for a few days, but our time here is short. It was very early morning when we left the Sacred Valley and caught the bus to Ollyantaytambo from where we’d catch the train to Machu Picchu.
Before we boarded the train we explored the archaeological remains of the old Inca town at Ollyantaytambo. This is going to sound naïve, but I had no idea of the extent of Inca ruins that exist. The farming terraces up the steep mountains were all made by them – and much of the original stonework and irrigation systems they created still exist and are in current use. Their granaries, sentry posts and roads are still clearly visible up on the crags.
The train ride was fun. We’d been provided with an enormous lunchbox each, so happily picnicked as we sat and watched the scenery go by. As we got closer to our destination, the weather started to pack in. Fortunately, we’d taken warm and water proof gear with us, and we needed it when the rain started. By the time we disembarked, it was teeming down.
The shuttle bus service taking visitors up the mountain to Machu Picchu is manned by local drivers who know the road well. They need to. It’s a narrow, steep, cobbled road with endless switchbacks up a sheer mountain face. No wider than one lane, opposing traffic can only pass when they have a wide enough spot to squeeze through. The rain made the road slippery, and the cobbles made it bumpy. I was grateful the mist obscured the drop down to the valley below, and I’m glad I didn’t have to do the driving.
As we climbed higher, the weather eased. The peaks of the mountains were shrouded in grey mist that would clear intermittently, giving teasing little glimpses of the landscape.
When we reached the top, we saw the queue waiting to enter the site. It stretched a full kilometre and a half. Fortunately, we were on a tour, so by-passed it and headed directly into Machu Picchu. Ah, the advantages of being part of an organised group!
Apart from the occasional passing shower, the rain had stopped, but mist came and went across the mountains and through the ruined old buildings throughout our visit, adding a mysterious atmospheric dimension to the site. It was utterly wonderful to actually be here; to roam the streets, climb the steps, touch the stones and listen to the guide’s explanation of the history and purpose of the town.
I’d been sceptical when people told me the place was spiritual. It was, after all, simply a town positioned on a strategically defensible site – and yet there was something compelling about the place that moved me. No doubt the joy of actually seeing it for myself affected my mood. Then again, like so many abandoned places, there must have been stories behind every room, every temple, every terrace. Stories that had died when the population left. The Spanish never made it here. It is assumed that drought or other disaster caused the people to leave the town and in their absence the jungle claimed and covered it, effectively protecting the site from those who would have plundered it.
A wonderful, mysterious, magical place.
We caught the train back. After we’d been served tea and coffee there was a roll of drums. The music started, and down the aisle danced two masked folkloric characters dressed in fabulously garish traditional clothes. They entertained us, and then grabbed a couple of people from the audience to dance with them. It was all great fun – and then we discovered this had been the build-up for a fashion show. For the next 30 minutes or so, models strutted up and down the carriage, dressed in beautiful alpaca fashion, which just happened to be for sale.
It was an agreeable end to a perfect day. They certainly don’t liven train journeys this way in New Zealand!
Papeete.
The good luck which has followed us throughout our journey held true to form, and our second landing at Papeete was trouble free. There was no sign of flood damage suffered from the storm during our last visit in January, and the weather was warm and mainly sunny. A few intermittent drops of rain simply served to cool the day down.
Tahiti is a pretty place, following the typical south pacific island structure of lagoon, flat coastal land and steep mountainous hinterland. Zig zag ridges descend steeply from the summits of these mountains, their sharp edges so serrated they resemble the spines of a stegosaurus, or at the very least, a dragon. Occasionally there would be a break between the ridges allowing us a glimpse of steep sided valleys, their content shrouded in cloudy mist. As far as I could establish, there are no roads into the interior and it remains untouched apart from a lake used for hydro-electricity.
The old colonial buildings along the waterfront have balconies looking over the harbour and lagoon, and further out, across a stretch of open water, to the island of Moorea.
At first glance, Tahiti appears infinitely more prosperous than other pacific islands I’ve visited. The main roads are in good condition, the houses larger, and more apparently affluent. Even council buildings and halls are of good construction and well maintained. It is evident that money has been spent here – presumably by the French. Apparently the Mayor of one of the towns we passed through has been lobbying to get the French out of Tahiti for the last 30 years. So far, unsuccessfully.
I should also point out that everything here is excessively expensive, whether it be food, drink or goods. Also, that there were beggars on the streets which I’ve not seen before in the islands.
This is a port for the wealthy, and gossip about celebrity visitors abounds. The ship moored alongside us belongs to Kerry Packer’s son James, and another vessel in the port is owned by Mariah Carey. The Obamas are also currently here, visiting a private island.
Our own, less affluent tour took in gardens lush with tropical flowers and medicinal plants before we explored the small but very good Museum of Tahiti. There’s a lovely sense of familiarity in finding words and concepts we recognise as Maori used here, albeit with different spellings. Therefore, fenua instead of our own whenua.
We visited a charming grotto, the entry to the cave deeply fringed with cascading ferns. The pool of water extends back into the depths of the cave. Apparently this has been a favourite swimming spot for the local kids for centuries. Now there is a rope, and a sign warning us not to approach the mouth of the cave for fear of falling rocks. I was amused to see three youths who’d happily ignored the sign and were enjoying their lunch by the edge of the water.
Tahiti was our last port of call. This time, next week, we’ll be home. I’m torn between longing to see my family, pets, friends and colleagues, and an equally strong drive to keep on sailing to exotic ports. This cruising life can become addictive.
We’re off on our travels again!
Tomorrow we start on our travels to Turkmenistan for a month-long exploration of the Central Asian part of the Silk Route. We’ll travel overland through Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan and Kyrgyzstan in various quirky expedition vehicles including jeeps and a Russian bus. At the end, we’ll have a few days R and R in Dubai to recover from the rigours of our travels.
Although we’ll be staying in hotels (some of them VERY basic), for one-third of our journey we'll be camping under canvas in tents we erect ourselves. No, this is very much not glamping!
As it’s been some 35 years since Cavan and I had camping holidays with the children, this is going to be a challenging experience, necessitating some investment in new, ultralight, equipment in the way of sleeping pads, bags and liners.
The requirement to carry such camping equipment seriously constrains the packing space available for other necessities. Choosing suitable clothing is a serious issue when the temperatures range from the high 20’s to lows of about 5 degrees in the high Kyrgyzstan mountains. There are further considerations as well: can I manage without my hairdryer? Will there be room for an epilator? After all, a girl needs a few simple personal maintenance tools to look her best for all those selfies. Then again, after roughing it for four weeks, what will I need for a stay in modern and sophisticated Dubai?
We fly from Wellington to Auckland tomorrow and on the 9th we travel to Dubai via a two-hour layover in Guangzhou.
If you are interested in following our travels I will be posting ( as often as we are in touch with wifi) a blog of our experiences.
This morning we arrived in Dubai at 2am local time , (10am NZ ), which means we've been travelling for twenty five hours, and the shower and bed in the hotel room were very welcome.Well, at least I'm clean. Neither Cavan nor I can get to sleep, so I've given up trying and am writing instead.I'm having a little rant about our experience yesterday and I'd be interested in any thoughts and experiences you all may have.We flew from Auckland on China Southern to Guangzhou, and on the same airline a second leg from Guangzhou to Dubai. The service, aircraft and food was all perfectly pleasant, BUT ...No sooner we were airborne, than the staff pulled all the blinds in the cabin down. At this point it was about 10am on a beautiful, blue sky day. The steward asked me to lower my blind but I refused, claiming the writing I was doing required natural light. Everyone else lowered theirs.For the next 12 hours of the flight the aircraft was in darkness. Remember, this was 10am in the morning - I didn't want to sleep then; nor did I want the thrill of watching a movie in the dark, and I'd have been hard pressed to read a book in that half light. I fear I embarrased my spouse by muttering, sotto voce, for most of the day, about the idiocy of this practice. I'm perfectly certain if we condemned our prison population to being walled up in a tin can in perpetual twilight there would be protests the length and breadth of the country. So what is this all about? Amusingly, on the second trip, which was at night and a certain logical familiarity might have suggested lowering blinds or pulling the curtains, not one blind was closed! Is this a purely Chinese phenomenon? I first encountered this practice five years ago when we flew from Singapore to Beijing. Again, I was the only person in the cabin who left my blind raised, but dammit, I wanted to see what Vietnam looked like from the air, just as flying over the Phillipines and other islands in the China sea was fascinating yesterday. A second flight from Shanghai to Singapore saw us sitting in the middle of the aircraft with no access to a window, so I had to put up with the hours of darkness. Never again! Do other nationalities shut out the light every time they get on an aircraft? I'm sure I've not noticed it anywhere else in the world.
The purpose of this first, very short, stayover in Dubai was to gather ourselves together before the flight to Ashgabat and the start of the Awfully Big Adventure this Sunday. When we return here after the Silk Route trip we’ll stay for a few days, go on a tour of Dubai and explore the city and its attractions in depth.
Given that I got 1 hour of sleep on Wednesday night, and Cavan managed a bare 2, we’ve been staying in the old part of the city only half an hour away from the airport and have concentrated on recovering from Jet Lag.
We’ve discovered a couple of good eateries close to the hotel and have enjoyed ourselves eating shawarma and drinking masala tea. We haven’t seen much of the city because when we haven’t been sleeping, a persistent haze of dust has covered the sky and obscured much of the view from our hotel window.
The effect is much like a misty day in Otaki and it was disconcerting to walk outside and find a temperature of 35 degrees baking the streets. I wondered whether the haze was caused by a sand storm, but the air isn’t gritty, and there’s no debris on the pavement. Whether this is the result of pollution is too early to tell, but it certainly spoils the view.
We leave here at 23.55 tonight and arrive at Ashgabat at 3.55am tomorrow morning. On Sunday we meet the others in our group and start our adenture.
We arrived in Ashgabat at 3 am, having left Dubai at midnight. What's with these times? I can't imagine flying into a city at 3 am for a business meeting. Perhaps business meetings aren't big here?
The airport deparature lounge was a pot pourri of different costumes and ethnicities. Cavan and I had fun playing 'pick the country' as we people watched. The women in the photo are wearing traditional Turkmeni costume. A group of them and their husbands had been in Dubai on a shopping trip. TV's, other electrical stuff, shoes, you name it. And some had bought in quantity. As we went through customs we watched as they unpacked boxes and boxes of gear for inspection. Whether they intended to sell it on, who knows. Trading is of course part of this region's history. What was admirable was how prepared they were, both for travel, and for inspection. They all carried large reels of duct tape and box cutters so that they could seal and unseal their parcels at will.
Our hotel is clean and the service courteous, but the amenities are simple.The internet is patchy and facebook doesn't seem to work. Some sort of censorship perhaps? Carpets are old and threadare; towels thin and mean, the woollen blanket on the bed likewise. On the plus side, there is a hair dryer!
The people are lovely. Genuinely good humoured and happy to help dumb tourists.
The Ashgabat circus, in an exotic white and gold circular buiding, is right opposite our hotel and Cavan and I are hoping to get tickets to go their tonight. The show features Akhal Teke horses, hounds (that look awfully like greyhounds), and eagles.
Tomorrow we officially start on our Awfully Big Adventure with a briefing at 10 am, and then we're into full-on tourist mode. Already our hotel room looks like a chinese laundry with shirts and knickers dripping off the line. With days of camping ahead of us we're trying to keep up with the housekeeping.
Last evening we crossed the plaza to the Circus and bought tickets . This is only the first day in Ashgabat, but the performance could well be the highlight of the tour. It was a magnificent, old-fashioned circus although full of up to date sophistication. The effects, choreography and skills were superb. There were jugglers, acrobats, tumblers, high-wire artistes, goats, doves, camels, a donkey and the wonderful Akhal-Teke horses.
I went up to pat one, and their coat is truly extraordinary with it's iridescent sheen. The trick riders were enormously talented. Imagine the nightmare it must have been as a cavalry of Mongolians charged down on a town - How frustrating to swing a sword at a rider and find they'd ducked beneath their horse and come out the other side! One of these riders was a little girl, who can't have been more than five.
Today the city tour: We started at the Sunday market where everything is there for sale, from goats to jewellery,but the scale of the place is so large it could take you a lifetime to find it all.
Then on to the City itself.
I had no idea! Ashgabat is magnificent. This is a city of white and gold - white for the marble, imported from Turkey, that is used on the buildings; and gold or gold leaf liberally applied to public monuments.
This is a CIty of grand design. Completely destroyed by a vicious earthquake in 1948 in which 100,000 people were killed, old Ashgabat disappeared. Initially it's reconstruction was determined by Russian Communist values, but in 1991 when the USSR fell apart and Turkmenistan achieved independence the scheme changed. There is a grandiose, monumental vision designing this city. It's buildings, it's vision is on an enormous scale by any measure.
I imagine this is how Paris felt when Napoleon started knocking it into the modern world, or maybe what London was like after the fire forced it to redesign itsself.
Every detail of this city has had thought and design put into it. I couldn't find any object, from lamp posts to monuments, that had been put together purely to be utiliterian. Everything has been designed to be asethetically pleasing. It's almost like being in an extended Disney land, except this is for real.
A part of me worries that, like Versailles, this creation may have beggared the nation. Still a larger part of me wants to applaud the vision that created all of this. Ashgabat, I would be a poorer person if I hadn't seen you. In an ordinary world, you are truly unique.
Day 2. Monday 14th May.
We left Ashgabat this morning bound for the Darvasa Gas Crater. By the time we were 10 kilometres from Ashgabat it had become apparent the pristine state of the roads in the city were not typical of the rest of Turkmenistan. We bounced and rattled our way north for the next six hours.
Our vehicle is a sturdy lorry, adapted as a Dragoman vehicle, which has clearly been built to survive damaging roads. It lurched from pothole to pothole with resilience. A bad bump caused the glass from a window to fall from it’s frame and slide into the wall cavity. Neil (the group leader), and Brett (in charge of the vehicle), stopped, patched the hole with plastic bags and duct tape as makeshift protection and we carried on.
The passengers clung on to their seats, safety belt or table and settled in for the long haul. I’ve developed a squiffy tummy – not a pleasant situation when we’re going bush camping this evening. So far Imodium has everything under control. I’m concentrating on sipping water and imagining the resultant weight loss I could achieve from a couple of days of fasting.
The country is bleakly desolate in all directions. Large chunks of Turkmenistan are covered by the Karakorum desert. We passed no towns and only a couple of miserable looking settlements during the entire journey. A few scruffy goats and camels graze the scraggly vegetation at the side of the road and we may have passed one human being.
To avoid the worst of the potholes, the truck and other road users are forced to weave from side to side of the highway. On several occasions the truck elected to drive along the wide gravel verge which while also pitted and corrugated, was still a smoother track than the promulgated road.
We reached the first of three craters about 5pm. All three are the result of the search for gas and oil by Russian engineers. The structure of the ground here is less stable than they’d imagined, and water runs close beneath the surface. Once they started drilling they penetrated the layer. Gas pressure beneath forced the water to the surface, and Turkmenistan acquired a new swimming hole. It’s a deep hole,, regrettably full of plastic bottles and other detritus.
The second disaster was not dissimilar. Here the ground had simply collapsed into a deep crater. Far below we could see bubbles of gas escaping from the layer of mud on the bottom. It was not unlike Rotorua.
The third, and most spectacular crater at Davassa was caused when the engineers, still looking for oil, found only gas. When the ground collapsed into a crater they were worried about the gas they’d inadvertently released into the air and deliberately set the crater on fire, assuming the gas would burn off in a few weeks. This was in 1971.
It was a real plus when our group finally bounced over the dusty road to the site so we could camp the night beside the crater. The fire is still burning furiously, and at night is the most spectacular sight to see. The temperature had dropped and a chill wind was blowing, so the warmth from the crater was very welcome.
Camping was surprisingly good fun. It’s been years since Cavan and I erected a tent, but we old skills came back to us. We had dinner under the stars cooked by other members of our group. I took a couple of Imodium and headed for bed about 10pm, but not until I’d taken a range of photos of the crater. As the night got darker, the scene became ever more spectacular. Birds, lit up by the crater’s reflected light, flew over looking for all the world like lovely fireflies.
It rained for a short while during the night, but the heat of the furnace soon had the tents dry and it was fine when we got up at 5.30am to watch the sun rise over the crater.
Day 3: 15th May 2018
After an early get up to watch the sun rise, we broke camp and were on our way by 8.30. The group is surprisingly efficient. Breakfast was eaten, tables and chairs packed away, washing up done (there is no drying up because wet cloths mouldering around the truck are considered to represent a health hazard, so we flap our plates and dishes around in a complicated form of calisthenics until they’re dry).
It was another long day of travelling over atrocious roads for several hours. Lunch was a picnic of left-overs, eaten beside the truck in a small little village. There was at least a public toilet, even if it was a squatter, and given my condition I was grateful to find it and overlooked the grimy conditions.
Mid-afternoon the nature of the country changed. We were approaching the Oxus which provides water to a large area of Turkmenistan through a complicated system of irrigation canals. Now the paddocks were full of rice and wheat and we began to see more settlements, stock and people. We frequently passed men fishing from the canals. I was ridiculously excited to cross the Oxus, albeit an irrigation channel. It’s one of the most evocative names I know!
Kunye Urgench is a giant necropolis and religious area. Most of it has been in ruins since Tamerlane sacked it and enslaved the population, removing them north to his own capital of Samarkand. Some of the ruins are being restored and it’s possible to see how magnificent the buildings must have been and what a magnet for weary travellers on the silk road. The use of blue tiles on the arches and domes is striking. Apparently the colour signifies the dome is blending into the sky to be closer to God (and consequently worshipers share the experience.)
Our second night of camping was in a large area of scrubby broom like bushes which at least gave us privacy when we needed the toilet in the night. I’m becoming a dab hand with the trenching trowel.
We were much slicker at getting the tent set up and at unpacking our gear. In spite of my doubts, I’m having no trouble getting to sleep on the inflatable pad, and the sleeping bag is warm and comfy. A couple of our number wanted to sleep outside, but the cold drove them inside after about an hour. It was a magnificent starry night, although I couldn’t recognise a single constellation in this unfamiliar northern sky. Fortunately, Slava, the lovely official Turkmenistani guide (and I assume government snoop), had a very useful phone app which identified them for me.
Our group is 23 in number, consisting mainly of people in the 50+ age bracket, although there are younger travellers in their twenties or so as well who are exploring the world’s more exotic regions. It’s a good collection of people and a very travelled bunch at that. It would be hard to find a corner of the planet that someone in our group hasn’t explored.
Tomorrow we cross the border to Uzbekistan.
Day 4. 16th May – 17th May. Khiva.
We tidied up the camp and were on our way again by 8.30. This isn’t a group that mucks about, and Neil, our leader is very good at keeping the pace cracking along. Apparently he’s ex-military and had several tours of duty in Afghanistan and Eritrea before joining Dragoman. He’s a very amiable, shrewd and capable guy who manages to remain unflustered through the various vicissitudes of guiding our group.
After a short visit to another historic shrine we headed up the road to Dashguz where we had lunch in the bazaar. Cavan and I got a meal at one of the tea rooms where we shared a table with other shoppers. There was only one item on the menu – a sandwich of juicy spiced meat, sandwiched between a wedge of fresh flatbread. All this washed down with bottomless cups of green tea. I’m feeling much better and my appetite has returned.
It’s always a strange experience to be a tourist, particularly in a place which is still relatively free of the pesky breed. I was alone, waiting for Cavan, when a woman rushed up to me, wrapped her arm around my waist and pulled me to her. I immediately feared I was being robbed, but no, she wanted a selfie, clicked away and left me with a warm smile and her thanks.
One of our group had stuffed up their visa application for Uzbekistan and had to stay on the Turkmenistan side of the border for twenty four hours until it becomes valid tomorrow. We watched her go off to her plush looking hotel with some envy. We are all grubby, incredibly dusty and longing for a nice shower.
The actual process of crossing the border from Turkmenistan to Uzbekistan was a tedious and prolonged business. We had to take all our belongings off the truck, lug them through the checkpoint where they were x-rayed, and then reload them the other side. Fortunately we still had Slava with us to ease the process, but it still took the group two hours to be cleared through the check point.
The sad thing is that we were in fact ‘fast tracked’ because we were tourists. The poor locals were left queuing for hours in the hot sun. They were carting large bolts of calico and packs of woven sacks, the kind used for grain and horse-feed. I assume there’s a market for this in Uzbekistan, but it’s hard to fathom.
Unfortunately, when we reached the Uzbekistan border, some 100 metres up the road, we discovered that another of our group had stuffed up their visa as well and also wasn’t entitled to enter the country for twenty four hours. It only took half an hour for us to be cleared through into Uzbekistan, but we had to wait another hour while Neil sorted out the problem.
Fortunately our companion was escorted back to Turkmenistan to join Fiona at her hotel for the night, and they’ll cross together tomorrow.
It was a great relief to arrive at our hotel in Khiva. It had taken a two hour drive from the border, and no, the roads are no better this side of the border than they were in Turkmenistan.
That said, there is obvious and immediate evidence that things are a lot more prosperous in Uzbekistan. The houses are of good quality – some of them extensive and attractive places you’d be happy to see in New Zealand. The land too is in better condition; the paddocks larger and well maintained, stock healthier and there is a general air of prosperity.
Our hotel is set close to the fortress of Khiva itself, and after a quick shower and woefully inadequate scrub-up we went to dinner in a local restaurant. The restaurant was within the fort, so our first sight of Khiva was by night. The food was great and for the first time this trip I managed to find some decent wine.
Musicians started playing and women were dancing. I approached to get a photograph and was promptly pulled into the ring of dancers. There didn’t seem to be too many rules to the dance, but a lot of arm gestures and booty shaking was involved. I had a great time.
Cavan joined me and ended up dancing with the men – some sort of Greek kicking thing.
We got back to the hotel and collapsed into bed.
Day 5: Khiva 17th May 2018.
Khiva is magnificent.
We started the day with a walking tour of the city. It’s enormous and beautiful with its minarets, palaces, harem and schools. The photos tell the story much better than I can articulate.Every corner was a new photo-opportunity, every street reeked of history.
By the time the tour finished at 1pm the temperature had risen to 30 degrees and we were glad enough to visit a restaurant for a large pot of green tea. To my surprise, these central Asian countries don’t have a coffee tradition. They are staunch tea drinkers. Fortunately I like green tea, and on a day as hot as this it’s very refreshing.
We were joined mid-morning by the two we had left at the Turkmenistan border. Apparently they’d managed the entire crossing in only half an hour!
We are off again early tomorrow morning en-route to Bukhara. It will be a full days drive, but we’re clean, our clothes freshly laundered and the dust of bush-camps has been brushed off. We’re all good to go.
Day 6. Khiva to Bukhara 18th May 2018.
The journey from Khiva to Bukhara took us 8 hours in the truck. Some of the road was fine, but the rest of the time we bounced and swayed our way across Uzbekistan’s desert.
This is doing wonders for my Fitbit statistics which are now regularly up in the 20000’s. I watch the numbers tick over with each pothole we lurch over.
Once beyond the influence of the Oxus and it’s irrigation schemes the land reverted to scrub and sand. We crossed a small river which had it’s source in the Aral sea. Otherwise it was dry and barren country.
We’re staying in a hotel hard up beside the old city, and after a quick wash and brush up our guide escorted us out to dinner at a private home that operates as a restaurant. The main course was Plov which we were shown how to make – although I lack the open fire stove needed to recreate this back in New Zealand. It was a delicious meal and a nice introduction to Bukhara.
Day 7: Bukhara.
We started our day at 8am with a walking tour of the city. Bukhara is of course a modern city, but our focus was the old quarter. Most of the city, (except for a minaret), was razed by Genghis Khan. Apparently while he was looking at the minaret, he dropped his helmet and was forced to bend over to pick it up. Reflecting on this, he decided that as all men bowed before him, he had bowed his head to the minaret and consequently spared the structure.
As a result, most of the city dates from the 12th century, and a good deal of building and restoration has been going on for the last 200 years.
Bukhara is a very attractive city – lots of beautiful Madrassas (schools) with their typical arched entry, two stories ( teaching on the ground floor, student dormitory and accommodation above.)
After the tour ended, I and two other women repaired to the hammam for a spot of R and R. This particular facility has been in operation since the 16th century.This was strictly women only. I enjoyed it immensely although it was a somewhat raw experience.
We stripped, wrapped ourselves in a large, tea cloth thin sheet the size of a small tablecloth, and put on the Croc’s provided. We were led down steps into the gothically arched hammam. I was leading our trio and was startled to suddenly have the sheet whisked from me, the Croc’s ordered off my feet, and be led by the hand through a thick plastic curtain into the main ‘treatment’ room.
There we were told to sit on the floor. You can imagine the sight – the women I was with were in their twenties and I’m a tad older! We’ve shared camping and a glass of wine together. Now we were all stark-naked, sitting on a stone floor and wondering how to place our legs decently. Two other women, strangers to our group, were being briskly scrubbed with hand mitts in a no-nonsense manner. I began to appreciate how Bandit must feel when I wash him.
It would be hard to imagine a sight more different to a New Zealand spa where women, clad in smart white uniforms carry out their services in a hygienic, carefully managed environment.
Our masseuses, an immensely cheerful and robust group of women, who gossiped between themselves incessantly, were of varied ages and physical type. The only detail they shared in common was their uniform, which consisted solely of a pair of knickers. This brief nod to clothing aside, anything else they had was displayed freely.
We were offered tea as we sat on the floor and then taken off to be scrubbed. Water was poured over us, and the mitts proceeded to remove every bit of dirt and probably several layers of skin. Our hair was thoroughly washed as well.
After a good scrub we were invited to lie on the stone floor on a wet sheet. We were slapped, pummeled, kneaded and massaged before a masque consisting of ground up peach kernels was applied. I’ve rarely felt so wet! The water and the room were very warm and comfortable, but lying face down on the stone floor of that chamber I was uncomfortably reminded of those movie prison torture scenes where unfortunate female victims are thrown to the ground and blasted with water. At least this was warm. I shut my eyes and drifted off. It was not uncomfortable.
Some-time later the kneading, slapping, massaging and thumping resumed before another coating of masque was applied.
Finally we were invited to rise from the floor, were given another thorough washing, and it was all over.
We struggled back into our clothes – inhibitions long forgotten and walked back through the town.
I should add that while we women were enjoying our hammam, Cavan and the other men had gone to the men’s equivalent.
We were a quietly happy group when we returned to our hotel. After a couple of wines we decided we needed dinner and ambled back into town where we found an excellent restaurant that served a great meal.
And then to bed.
Day 8, May 20th 2018. Bukhara City (2)
We had a day off today – an entire day all to ourselves, to sleep in, wander as we wished and respond to no timetable or imperative other than those we chose.
Consequently I got up at 5am. For the first time I found the internet uncrowded and Broadband intact. I gleefully uploaded days of Blog and photos. The frustration of dodgy connections was forgotten. Today I made progress. I’ve also managed to beat the blog site into obedience.
I’m not sure how or why requirements for posting have changed, but suddenly I was having to re-edit my site and fix up formatting errors that had suddenly appeared. Hopefully most of it is now cleaned up and I apologise for any faulty matter you come across !
We made a leisurely breakfast and I washed my hair to repair some of the damage the hammam had inflicted the evening before. Yes, it felt clean, but sadly lacking in conditioner. Now I feel restored to my former glory (albeit a cleaner version of same).
Cavan and I went to the bazaar where I bought the book stand I’d rejected in Khiva (too much money, too little space to transport it). I finally came to my senses and realised “if not now, then when?” and bought it. I will not pass this way again.
We stopped for tea and coffee at a tea house. Cavan had black tea while I enjoyed my cardamom coffee – thick Turkish style coffee laced liberally with cardamom.
Later, after enjoying our morning we returned to our room for a little rest. The tour resumes tomorrow, and we spend tomorrow night in a yurt. A little relaxation at this point seemed sensible.
At 5pm there is a wine tasting. I believe almost all our group have signed up for this – although there are a worrying number of sick people among our number. Cavan, and several others are now sniffing miserably having acquired colds. Others have succumbed to the stomach bug. I have an uneasy feeling that I introduced this to the group when we joined in Ashgabat. I’m staying mum about it though, because no one wants to be a ‘typhoid Mary’.
Day 9. Night in a yurt.
The total trip from Bukhara to our camp for the night took some six hours.
Our first stop was at a ceramics factory where we had a demonstration of the ancient processes of Uzbeki clay work. I was tempted by some of the stuff they had for sale, but common sense dictated a bouncy lorry wasn’t the best way to carry delicate items back to New Zealand.
Mid morning we stopped at an ancient caravanserai and explored it's camping facilities and the old roofed water storage pit. Imagine the number of camels, donkeys, horses and sheep not to mention humans, that all need water on any given night. The logistics of providing this in the desert is amazing.
Lunch was at Norata, an unexpected outpost of civilisation in the midst of a fairly arid desert. Between Bukhara and the Norata hills we'd had a continuation of the type of country we’d had since leaving Ashgabat – flat, arid with scrubby vegetation. Once we’d climbed over the hills, the plains before us were gently rolling, the scrub receded and although there wasn’t much green on the ground, the short dry grass at least looked as if it might provide some nutrition and we saw herds of horses, cattle and goats wandering freely across the unfenced land.
Norata was rather lovely – not just for the excellent lunch provided by the restaurant, but also because there is a charming mosque complex with carp in the pond. (A nearby Hotel development is tastefully mirroring the architecture and colour so that it blends into the landscape).
Above the town stands the ruins of a fortress constructed as part of Alexander the Great’s conquest. It’s dilapidated of course, but I felt a real thrill at the evidence of how much territory he’d claimed for Macedonia. It would be centuries before Genghis Khan matched and exceeded his territorial grab.
In the late afternoon we arrived at a lake where we all piled out of the truck for a swim. The lake owes its existence to Russian engineering which may or may not have got things wrong. Opinion seemed divided, but it was lovely to swim in the clear cool water although the water had a disturbing tendency to foam when disturbed. Theories ranged from Uranium disposal to natural salt deposits in the soil. I declined to put my head in, splashed about for a while and climbed out unscathed.
The yurt camp was fun and a pleasant way to camp. There were four of us to a tent. I was so tired I crashed out immediately, and so did Tania and Shirley the two Australian women who bunked in with us. Cavan has picked up a lousy cold and claims to have snivelled and sneezed all night long. As the rest of us were out for the count we will never know how much he suffered.
Tomorrow we head for Samarkand, which is probably the most evocative name of all the Silk Route towns.
Day 10: 22nd May 2018, Journey to Samarkand.
There were camel rides available this morning although Cavan and I didn’t take one. It made for a leisurely get up and departure from the yurt camp. I wandered out into the desert and tried to get a decent photo of a dung beetle, but it scurried along remarkably fast, and I had trouble keeping up with it. A slower subject was the tortoise that wandered into camp.
The drive to Samarkand took about six hours. Our route led across a wide plain bordered on each side by hills. It was eerily reminiscent of the South Wairarapa and I kept expecting to reach Masterton. As we travelled, the land grew steadily greener, and we even encountered a brief shower of rain.
As we came down from the hills we could see Samarkand stretching out in front of us – at first smaller outlying settlements that gradually merged into outer suburbs and thence to the town itself.
Samarkand is a modern city – at present there is no sign of anything historical, but I gather that we will have to go to the other end of town to find that.
We have a long walking tour ahead of us tomorrow. Our group meal to finish the day included camel’s testicles among the kebabs on offer. I politely declined.
Day 11, 23rd May 2018, Samarkand
I’m glad our tour has taken the route it did – gently introducing us to the ancient splendours of Central Asia in Khiva, building excitement in Bukhara, before going all out in Samarkand. Because historic Samarkand is exceptional by any measure and going around the circuit in the opposite direction could only be an anti-climax.
At the Mausoleum we climbed a long set of stairs towards a plain white portico. We were supposed to count the steps up and down – if we got them right we had pure souls and were blessed. Needless to say, I completely forgot the ritual.
That innocent white porch gives no inkling of what lies beyond. You step through, and wham, the extraordinary beauty of the mausoleum lined avenue hits you in the face. The nearest equivalent is emerging from the ravine at Petra and finding the Treasury building right in front of you. It’s an extraordinarily dramatic moment and I spent the next five minutes gasping out variations on “Oh, Wow!” as I snapped thousands of photos.
The buildings are vibrant in blue and turquoise – mosaic and ceramic. The colour is vivid and repeats itself in varied motifs and design along the route.
These are graves, and real people rest inside them. Many Islamic visitors, most of them women, seem to treat the graves as shrines and leave offerings of cash on them. Many pray. There’s a sign at the entrance instructing the public not to do this as its against Islamic teaching, but it seems largely ignored.
Apart from the staggering beauty of the site, part of the fascination is watching other people. Women in bright traditional costumes, both from Samarkand and further afield add exotic colour to the scene. They are just as fascinated by us and stop us to take selfies with us.
This is a site of religious pilgrimage of course, but it runs on an odd mix of ceremony, curiosity, commercialisation and conservatism. Cantor’s chanting prayers were found in several places.
Once we’d OD’d on chapels and tombs we moved on to the Madrassahs, Registan Square and the Mausoleum for Tamerlane and his family. I hadn’t appreciated that the Mughal dynasty of India were his direct descendants - Babur who was the first Emperor of the dynasty in India, all the way through to Shah Jahan (who built the Taj Mahal).
All of these buildings were built on a massive scale. Historically they fell into disrepair when the Silk Road faded in the 17th and 18th centuries after sea routes had been discovered, and soon took preference over the arduous inland route.
Civil riots also damaged the buildings. Many photos show what poor condition they’d reached before they began to be restored in the 19th and 20th centuries. Where they found the tradespeople from is hard to fathom, because some of the required skills in ceramics and mosaic must be specialised.
Today they look spectacular and a tribute to those who worked on them.
Day 12, 24 May, Samarkand (2)
We had a quiet day and pottered around the bazaar looking for souvenirs, before returning to the Hotel.
I had to ask for a second duvet last night – not because it’s cold, but because there’s a region- wide practice that makes no sense to me. Cavan and I usually share a generous double bed which is probably nearer king-size. Unfortunately, local hotels haven’t grasped that bigger beds require larger linen and use single sheets and blankets. As the only way to get the sheet to cover the bed is to turn it sideways this means that either your chest to your thighs are covered, or alternatively your waist to your feet. There is of course no option to tuck this arrangement in.
The only time we’ve had a well-made bed on this trip was when we had single beds in Bukhara. For once the linen fit the bed.
I think I’ve already mentioned that Central Asia doesn’t have a coffee drinking culture. Some cafes have invested in machines so that tourists can get their fix, but by and large the choice is tea – green or black.
Beer is widely available and popular, but wine is in short supply – this in spite of a wine-tasting session we attended in Bukhara. Uzbekistan’s wines proved to be palatable, if a bit ordinary. They have some way to go before they produce good quality wine.
Samarkand’s historic area is well-maintained, the gardens well-manicured and tourist police patrol everywhere. You certainly feel safe.
The rest of the city seems to be in transition. Most of the Russian imperial houses have gone although there are some from the Soviet era. It’s hard to define a specific architectural style here. Modern buildings are jumbled up with a mish-mash of earlier styles and it will be interesting to see how it all develops over the next 50 years or so.
The roads, even in the city, are bad. Manhole covers, for some inscrutable reason, stand 10 cms above the surface of the road and present a distinct hazard to car tyres. As the traffic moves fast, there is a sort of dodgem car effect created as the lanes weave in and out of each other. At least all traffic is meticulous about obeying lights at pedestrian crossings, although pity help you if you walk across slowly. Once the traffic light has turned green again the cars are in motion.
Tomorrow we head to Tashkent for a couple of nights, and from there we leave Uzbekistan.
Day 13, 25th May 2018, Samarkand to Tashkent.
I typed in the title to today’s Blog and thought, “wouldn’t my teenage self have been chuffed to know I was here?”. These are names to conjure with, exotic, mysterious and for many years of my own life span, completely out of reach to western travellers.
We left Samarkand at 8am, and our route initially wound through some promising hills – a pleasant contrast to the endless plains we’d encountered since Ashgabat. Alas, the undulations were short lived, at least in relation to the contours of the countryside. The road of course has continued to undulate in a pleasantly corrugated iron fashion throughout this journey and today’s roads were unchanged.
In between watching the scenery I’m working on my Rubik’s cubes moves. Brett, one of our tour leaders is a dab hand with the cube and makes for a very good instructor.
I was extremely frustrated to be unable to get a clear picture of the stork nests. They build them on top of power poles, and I understand from our guide that these can sometimes weigh in up to a ton and are frequently constructed on a foundation of the nests of other birds.
We had a toilet stop at a café making the most delectable meat patties inside a tandoori oven. I resisted temptation – the tummy bug still resonates with me, but the smell was delicious.
We’ve just arrived in Tashkent and are staying at a pleasant, if rather old-fashioned, guest house.
Tonight we are going to the Tashkent theatre to see a ballet, the Arabian Nights. Apparently the theatre is magnificent, so we are looking forward to it.
Tomorrow we explore Tashkent. We have three nights here before we cross the border to Kirghizstan. From them on we will be mainly off grid – camping in the wilds, staying in yurts and generally out of touch with the rest of humanity.
Day 14 – 26th May 2018, Tashkent
Most of Tashkent was flattened during the 1966 earthquake in which some 200 people died, and 300,000 were left homeless. They’ve rebuilt the city with help from the Russians (originally the Soviet Union, of course,) and the Japanese. Today it is a city of wide roads, tree lined boulevards and is shaping up to be a very attractive city. There are large parks and the people seem warm and hospitable. Many of course want to try out their English language skills so there are endless repetitions of “where are you from?” “how are you?” and so on.
We visited a lovely maddrassah – like most it now acts as a place of tourist shops. The associated mosque was also new, but had the massive distinction of holding the oldest copy of the Koran. This book was originally situated in Samarkand but the Soviets took it to Moscow and thence to St Petersburg where six copies of the work were made.
Subsequently, through a complicated series of museum manoeuvres through Central Asian countries, it worked it’s way back to Turkmenistan. They also hold one of the copies here. The original is made from deer skin, is hand bound and looks distinctly antique. It dates from the 8th century, so in the Muslim world must almost date from ground zero. It was published (if that’s the word) within a generation of the Prophet’s death.
Unfortunately we weren’t allowed to take photos, but it was a magnificent thing to see. Also contained in the building were numerous other copies of the Koran – from the 10th century to the present. Some plain, some highly elaborate.
We were equally unable to take photos in the recently opened Tashkent underground. Each station is decorated in unique and very beautiful fashion. The first we visited was full of lovely dark green ceramic pillars, with fascinating art work on the walls.
Two stations later the station was decorated to reflect Uzbekistan’s connection to Russian space exploration. A third had chandeliers. Unfortunately, security concerns mean that no photos are to be had unless you go on line and Google them. It was well worth the visit.
Tonight we say goodbye to four of our companions. We’ve had a lot of fun and shared so many experiences. I shared the Hamman in Bukhara with two of the women who are leaving, and I can testify to us all being sisters under the skin.
I believe four new people will take their place.
Rather disturbingly Neil has shown us photos of the camping area we are due to stay at in Kyrgyzstan. It is currently covered in snow, and new snow is still falling. As the temperature here today is about 30 degrees, it’s going to be a shock to the system to be bush camping in sub-zero conditions. The guides are considering their options. Frankly, I’m up for camping in a yurt in those conditions – the idea of setting up in our small tents is rather less appealing.
Once we leave Uzbekistan we will have no internet connectivity until we each Bishkek. As Cavan and I will be flying directly from Bishkek to Dubai, this probably means that we will be completely unreachable for about two weeks and of course I won’t be able to post any updates. I guess this is what they mean when they talk about living off the grid.
Day 15, 27-05-2018, Tashkent Bazaar
We went to the Bazaar as early as we could to avoid the heat of the day. This bazaar was the genuine article. Local housewives and families shopped for their groceries, purchased fashion, shoes and underwear and chose their meat requirements from amongst the live ducks, chickens and rabbits.
Alongside those creatures destined for the cooking pots were beautifully coloured cage birds. I wasn’t sure which I felt sorrier for, but in places like this, western sensibilities have to accept a different set of values. Our produce comes in plastic bags – I’m not sure this gives us the moral high ground.
The range of breads, fruit and sweetmeats was astonishing. It all looked delicious.
I took a photo of a sign advertising horse meat. The next time Bandit is silly about getting on the float I’ll be showing it to him.
Day 16, Tashkent to Fergana
Today we transferred from our bus to a fleet of vehicles. There were three six seater vans and three sedans. Cavan and I managed to secure seats in one of the comfortable cars which was a pleasant change from the bouncy bus. A couple of years ago a bus crashed on the Kamchuk pass, with some loss of life. Subsequently the government passed a law forbidding large vehicles from carrying passengers over the pass. The road was wide, open and of easy contour, bearing no resemblance to some of the more challenging routes we are used to in New Zealand – but there you go. One country’s normal is another nations challenge.
We climbed out of the city over the pass. There was a magnificent view of the high mountains from the top of the pass. Across the other side, the country was much drier and protected from the prevailing rainfall. We descended into the Fergana Valley. Away from the mountains, and presumably well-watered, the earth was fertile and intensively farmed.
This valley is a magnificent, wide fertile plain and distantly surrounded by high snow-covered mountains. This vast valley is shared by three nations – Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan and Tajikistan. It was disappointing to see coal fired furnaces belching smoke into the pristine air. By mid-morning the view of the mountains was occluded by brown smog.
Late in the morning we stopped at Kokund to see the Khan’s palace. This was a magnificently decorated building – not, for a change a mosque or massadah, but the palace of the last Khan. The walls were rich with mosaics, but the most stunning features were the brilliantly decorated high ceilings. Apparently the spaces formed between the beams creates a sort of air conditioning. Whatever the purpose, they were richly and elegantly decorated in beautiful rich colours and probably the best we’ve seen so far.
We stopped at a rather bizarre roadside café for late lunch. For reasons unbeknown a stream runs through the middle of it, and even more confusingly, placed within the stream were waterwheels which displaced a lot of water but to no apparent purpose. We had plov – but it was rather greasy and not a patch on the one we had in Bukhara.
Later still we stopped at a silk factory where we were given a tour and bought scarves and material.
Our hotel was nice, and a great day to find after a long day travelling.
Day 17, Fergana and Arslanbob.
The Fergana Valley is beautifully fertile and intensively farmed. It is fringed with amazing ranges of snowclad mountains that look wonderful in the clear morning light. As we drove towards the border it became obvious that the air quality on Kyrgyzstan’s side was vastly superior to Uzbekistan’s. Apparently 80% of Kyrgyzstan power is generated by hydroelectricity.
We passengers walked across the border with no problems from officialdom. In fact it was downright embarrassing at these crossings to discover that tourists are given precedence ove
It was bitterly cold as we left Arslanbob this morning and I was finally able to wear the down jacket that I’ve had in the bottom of my pack since New Zealand.
We had to retrace our route down from Arslanbob, there being only the one way in and out of the area. Again, we had to manoeuvre around horses, sheep and cattle being driven down the road.
Away from the valley the country changed rapidly, becoming steadily more arid and less attractive. We stopped at the market to buy provisions as we will be camping for the next two nights. We’ve been divided into teams for cooking duties – I’m in team 3 so don’t have to worry about menus and so on until the 4th June.
In the afternoon we followed a river route past a large dam that had created a lake behind it. Tonight we camped on the shores of this man-made lake, otherwise known as the Naryn Reservoir. It’s an open spot, and very lovely, situated as it is between hills and water. Rather surprisingly the ground was covered with seedlings that looked oddly familiar. The cognoscenti among us confirmed these were wild marijuana plants. I wasn’t entirely convinced – they didn’t smell so to me, but what would I know?
It’s been fun to go camping again with Cavan. We’ve proved we haven’t lost our knack for putting a tent up together, and the gear we brought along has proved to be excellent. Tonight it is windy and warm, but I’m picking it may get cold when the sun goes down, although at 6pm I’m still in shirt sleeves.
I need Brett to help me tonight with my Rubick’s cube. Bless him, he bought me one today so that I can get muddled on my own one. He is a dab hand at this conundrum, and it’s been fun to learn the techniques.
Day 19, Naryn Resevoir to camping beside a yurt in Kizart Ashuusu
God help me, I’m 66. Who knows what the next year will bring? It seems a miracle sometimes that I've made it this far. Still, if you have to have a birthday, Kyrgyzstan is a pretty good place to celebrate it.
We drove around the lake from last night's campsite and then carried on over the high pass that takes us from South Kyrgyzstan to the North of the country.
We passed mobs of sheep, cattle and horses, all being driven up the gorge to the summer grazing over the pass. Most of the houses we passed had beehives and there were numerous roadside stalls selling honey.
The pass was long and winding. The temperature got progressively colder until it was downright freezing in the truck. Windows and other vents were closed, and still the chill slipped in. We emerged at the top into a stark landscape, still largely covered with snow in spite of it being June.
We descended, and within a couple of kilometres the snow had melted, revealing magnificent pasture lands. We saw our first yurts and their associated stock grazing on the grass beside them.
The farmers spend summer up here with their families, the children having a long school holiday, until they all return to their villages sometime in September before the snow falls. The children run free in the country, herd the animals and generally have a wonderful time.
We’d enjoyed the sight so much that after we stopped for lunch at 2.30, Neil decided we’d drive another 160kms or so to a campsite that would allow us to spend time with these semi-nomadic shepherds and learn about their way of life.
This wasn’t a complete success as it meant we didn’t reach the site until 7.30pm and still had to put tents up and the group doing dinner had to start preparing it.
I can't believe how varied the landscape is in this country. After we'd left the pass behind us, we found ourselves in a rocky, arid landscape. The different colours of the sandstone is lovely, and we frequently passed exotic Muslim graveyards. I'd have loved to have stopped and explored them, but of course we had to keep moving.
For a portion of the drive we were allowed to climb up into the roof top seats of the truck and take in the view from up there. We were safety belted onto the high seats, wrapped up in jackets and rugs, and drven slowly for several kilometres down the gravel road. It was hopeless for photographs as the road was too bumpy, but it was a great experience.
Dinner was served about 10.00 by the exhausted, stressed chefs, and by the time we’d eaten, cleaned up and turned in, I was more than willing to turn my back on the world. It’s been the first time I’ve felt grumpy on this trip. Hunger and tiredness will do that. It was also bitterly cold once the sun went down. It was warm enough in my sleeping bag and liner, but barely. All too clearly I imagined it would only take a small drop in the temperature to leave me feeling cold. Cavan has a real cold and took a long time to settle as his cough became worse in the chill air. Tomorrow I’ll be ditching my cotton pyjamas and wearing my merino long johns!
Still, it was a wonderful birthday. I split a bottle of wine with Myrna, a young Dutch woman who shared her birthday with me, before heading for bed.
Day 20. Yurt Camp to Song Kul Lake.
We spent a couple of hours this morning with the yurt family who had become our impromptu hosts when our truck pulled up beside their campsite yesterday evening and asked if we could camp on their land. They were amazingly hospitable, and apart from insisting that we used their feral long drop, couldn’t have been kinder.
We got the chance to be entertained in their yurt, eat their food, drink kumiss (fermented mare’s milk which I’ve never tried before – not bad), and hear a little about their lives. Our Kyrgyzstani guide is magnificent. She translates for us, smooths issues on both sides of the language divide, works like a navvie, always looks good and is charming to boot.
A pleasant result of our long journey yesterday has been that the trip to Song Kul lake today is a reasonably short drive.
There had been some discussion about whether the pass into the lake basin would be open. Snow had fallen recently in the area and it is still very cold.
The road to the lake started as an alpine zig zag upwards, before leaving the grasslands below us and heading ever upwards towards the pass. Snow and ice was piled into banks at the side of the narrow road, and the drive had hair raising bends. I couldn’t help wonder what would happen if we had to turn the truck around on the road and retreat.
As it was the road was handled easily by Brett and the truck and we came over the top of the pass into a big open basin of grassland and a lovely lake spreading out in front of us.
The yurt camp we are staying at is delightful; our hosts hospitable and charming, and the beds warm and inviting. Cavan has been assigned to the “male” tent, and I’m sharing with five other women.
The yurts are fascinating. Mine has six mattresses on the floor. The walls are layers of padded felt and grass mats. Inside is a log stove which wonderful, silent people light at 6 pm, and refill at 8, 10, and I believe, midnight. The result is a warm, snug retreat.
I woke up the first morning and looked at the roof where sunlight filtered through the lining. It was like looking at amber.
There is a corrugated iron hut, with a permanently burning log fire, which has hot water for tea and coffee permanently on all day. As a group we assemble here for meals, but it’s also a space for writing up diaries, sketching (one talented woman is keeping a visual diary) and just chatting.
The toilets are clean, the floor painted and we have a choice of squat or western, catering to our individual tastes. Water to wash hands, clean teeth and shave is always available, and clean towels appear throughout the day.
There is even a ‘bathhouse’ where you sit on a stool and pour hot water over yourself while you soap off the cares of the day. We were allotted five minute slots, so Cavan and I shared to speed up the process, taking it in turns to pour water over each other’s backs. The main danger is being careless, forgetting the furnace is in the middle of the small room and bending over as you dress. I don’t think anyone burned themselves but the danger was ever present.
This is a heavenly spot.
Day 21. Song Kul Lake (2)
I had a wonderful, warm, sleep. The duvets were so warm I found them too heavy. I pushed them away for 2 minutes last night, then realised my mistake and pulled them back over me. To top it off, I woke up in this magnificent valley.
Breakfast was warm, tasty and very welcome. I’m beginning to realise the success of yurt culture rests on the shoulder of a ‘Grandma’ who keeps firm control over what goes on. This particular member of the species is a superb cook, has a great sense of humour, and I’ve no doubt has strict control over every other member of the family.
Our group had a free day today – some chose to hike up mountains, others went for walks around the lake. Cavan and I opted for the horse riding option.
We ended up in a group with four others. My horse was a lovely chestnut gelding, well-behaved, with a free-flowing walk. Because most of our riders were novices, we only walked, and even so, it was lovely. This is natural country for a horseman with beautiful rolling hills asking for a canter and nothing too difficult to negotiate. Cavan enjoyed himself as well, which was great as it must be 30 years since he last sat on a horse.
The guide had brought his dog with him – a lovely cross bred animal who enjoyed himself roaming the hills with us. I wondered what he was chasing until the guide pointed out the marmots.
These lovely little creatures would emerge from their burrows, stand upright like meerkats, and chirrup. The dog, not unnaturally, would then charge across the grassland to get them. Long before he represented any danger to them the marmots ducked down back into their burrows, and probably spent the day laughing at the hapless canine careering around above them.
Stock handling here is interesting. Our horses were simply tied up, some six at a time, to a pole near the camp. This was fine for the most part, except that one of the animals was a territorially aggressive palomino who attacked the others around him, causing chaos. The guide and other herders gradually untangled the mess and sorted out the hierarchy.
In Kyrgyzstan horses are regarded as any other stock, just like sheep and cattle, as a potential meat source. The best and most tractable are trained as riding horses, the rest turned into meat.
I suspect a three-strike policy exists for those horses chosen to bear humans – behave, or else face a very short future.
There are, of course, no fences to control stock movement. Horses are mostly hobbled. Cattle and sheep generally have a herdsman (or boy) to sit with them and steer them away from danger.
Mares and their foals are tied together. This doesn’t necessarily mean the mare is cooperative when they want to catch her. This situation is resolved by catching the foal and tethering it to a long line.
I had previously assumed long-lines required trees to stretch between, but of course, there are no trees here, so the long line is laid along a stretch of flat ground and pegged at each end. The foals are tied to this. Of course, their presence assures the compliance of their dams. I imagine this is how they are caught for milking by the herdsmen.
I had wondered whether the lengths of rope would cause damage to foals, dams and other horses, but they seem to have become accustomed to the hazards, and just stand quietly if they get caught up.
We came back to camp after our ride and I spent some hours catching up with my diary and Blog until my computer’s battery gave out and I had to return to writing my diary manually.
I had a bath before the climbers and hikers came back. For 50 Ksoms (about 80 cents) you get the house of the bathhouse, a bucket of water, a dipper and 5 minutes of sauna heated heaven.
Later we went for a walk. There was a raised platform some 200 metres from our camp with graffiti saying “Save Song Kul Lake”. I’m not sure what it means – whether it refers to water quality, plastic bag pollution, or tourism. It’s dated 2008, so who knows what it is trying to say. It is however, very clear that tourism is changing this pristine place. We walk too close to the animals and disturb them; we bring our rubbish; we bring change, pollution and a dilution of their own culture.
It’s hard to know that while we enjoy this unique culture and environment we are also part of destroying something beautiful, just by our presence.
Still, Kyrgyzstan is handling this threat better than most. In conjunction with a Swiss based initiative, they are practising something called Community Based Tourism (CBT) in which tourism and CBT have joined forces to provide responsible, community-based tourism.
Day 22: Song Kul to Kochkor.
I don’t think any one of us wanted to leave Song Kul Lake, but early this morning we were on our way. The weather had turned – we had rain, and there was a smattering of fresh snow on the hills surrounding the lake.
We realised how lucky we’d been with the weather the day before. While Cavan and I’d been riding, others had gone on hikes, or climbed the hills behind us – all in ideal conditions. Weather changes very quickly up here in the mountains.
Actually, it wasn’t all plain sailing getting out of the valley. The truck became stuck in the freshly wet mud, and we had to put metal plates down on the ground so that the truck could crawl its way out of the morass. It’s reassuring the truck is so well equipped that it can cope with these inconveniences.
Once we were free, the truck made short work of climbing up over the pass and down the other side to Kochkor. We’d stopped at a truck-stop on the way up to the lake, and the memory of those toilets haunts me still. I wish I could add odour to this Blog. We passed it today with a sneer of disdain.
For a change our trip today was designed to be short, quick and efficient. The main driver being that after several days of ‘roughing it’ we are all running out of clean clothes.
We have been assured that this homestay will manage to wash, and dry, our laundry overnight – a promise I’m deeply sceptical about.
Before we reached our destination, we did a tour of a felt making operation which was a lot of fun as yet another Grandma insisted on our participation in the production of a rug. We admired their craftmanship and of course bought a couple of rugs.
I haven’t quite become accustomed to the guesthouse system, where a family vacates its home for a bunch of strangers. On top of this they cook and clean for us, and in this particular situation, do our laundry.
I’m pretty sure that Cavan and I secured the master bedroom. Whatever, it was lovely to have a proper shower, wash my hair, and be warm and dry, even though my hairdryer drying that hair blew the fuse on our plug board for a few minutes.
Another plus is charging up all our electrical gadgets. My laptop had run out of power at Song Kul Lake so it was great to recharge the battery.
There was VERY limited Wi-Fi. I was able to check the bank balance and emails, although I failed to send any. I equally failed to upload photos to my Blog.
The food tonight was excellent. Kyrgyzstan produces remarkably good soups, based I imagine, on their wonderful fresh and tasty produce.
Unsurprisingly our washing returned to us soaking wet the next morning. We now have the dismal prospect of trying to get it dry at the next campsite when it’s cold and raining outside.
Day 23 Kochkor to Issuk Kul
Unsurprisingly, the washing hadn’t dried. It had been hung out in the car port on a cold night, with dew in the air, and rainfall. We are now carrying an additional two plastic bags of wet gear with us. There were several grim faces around the breakfast table as we absorbed the problem that this could represent. Our itinerary isn’t very generous at accommodating such domestic problems.
Neil announced this morning that our route has been changed due to weather conditions. Consequently, we will be spending the next couple of nights at yurt camps rather than ‘freedom camping’. As it’s now extremely cold, with, at altitude, snow in the air, the appeal of bush camping is rather limited so we all accepted the change with some relief.
The trip from Kochkor took in a visit to a yurt manufacturer. I have become rather enamoured of these large tents, and the man we visited was clearly a craftsman. He took us through the various stages of yurt construction, and this man was clearly the real deal. The skill, techniques involved, respect for his materials and sheer competence was amazing. Every detail, every material, served it’s purpose.
Later, after a packed lunch on the bus we arrived to watch an Eagle Hunter put his bird through it’s paces. As an aside, I imagine this must always be a difficult display for Dragoman to handle if there are any vegans or vegetarians on the bus. I’ve noticed however, perhaps not surprisingly given the adventurous nature of these trips, that there is small support here for fussy eaters, whatever legitimacy they may claim.
We are now happily ensconced in a well set up ‘yurt camp’ by Issuk Kol. Alas, the place is new, well set up, with clean toilets, showers, new yurts and a good central tent. It has also been established in a sand pit on the edge of the lake – the net result being however hard we try, we convey sand from one surface to another, a situation causing serious angst to the very house-proud owner.
We’ve also turned our environment into a Neopolitan laundry, with wet washing over every fence and washing line.
The poor owner has apparently come from a military background, having worked in the canteens. This explains her attention to detail, the fact her serving girls (so terrified they wouldn’t move if our guide didn’t help them) have their hair covered correctly in nets, and the welcome cleanliness that prevails. We aren’t an untidy group, but our needs are running counter to our hostes's, and causing conflict.
I just hope all the washing will be dry by tomorrow morning.
We will be heading into the mountains tomorrow to Jeti Orguz and it will be my group’s turn to cook. Neil, with unsuitably inappropriate glee, tells me we’ll be cooking in the snow.
Day 24 Jeti Orguz
Neil lied. We aren’t cooking in the snow. We’re in a beautiful upland valley and staying in yurts. Spruce trees surround our glade and a mountain stream rushes through it. To add to our enjoyment, horses roam free with their foals.
The weather has been changeable. Originally we were meant to spend two days here in Jeti Orguz, but rain had turned the road into impenetrable mud. It’s a gnarly road at the best of times and we must have bounced and bumped along it for an hour before we reached our camp.
There were camps lower down the mountain, but Neil has assured us that it was much too ‘touristy’ down there. We, of course being travellers, not tourists.
Earlier in the day we went to the ‘Fairy Canyon’. One of the most startling things about Kyrgyzstan is the variety of scenery – arid hills and valleys give way to fertile fields. The ‘Fairy Canyon’ is a sandstone gulch in which the various rock formations combine vividly different shades of ochre. It is dramatic and beautiful. Those of our group who’d travelled in the USA compared it to Arizona or some of the other dry states.
Then we drove up an adjacent valley where, for once, the road was smoothly graded and a pleasure to travel on. It transpires that a Canadian operated gold-mine operates at the far reaches of the valley and keeps the road pristine. This is Kyrgyzstan’s main source of national revenue.
We stopped some kilometres up the valley. Rather abruptly the terrain had changed from the somewhat arid lakeside landscape to steep, spruce covered mountains with lovely green glades between them. We parked by a bust of Yuri Gargarin who visited here after his space exploits. Not only is there a bust, but his face is carved into a large rock.
A rather sadder tale of this valley ( and some of the neighbouring ones), relates to 1916. At this time Kyrgyzstan was ruled by Russia. The time of course us just before the Russian revolution.
Russian troops fell out with Kyrgyzstani tribes and other ethnic groups and proceeded onto a course of genocide. The Kyrgi’s fled up these valleys which lead eventually into the high Tien Shien mountain ranges that run from here to China.
Russian troops would stalk the valleys, finding yurts, offering children sweets to tempt them out, and then murdering them, raping the women and killing the men.
Those that managed to make it deep into the mountains were foiled by the bitter winter snow that blocked the passes. Some made it to China, who didn’t want to receive them. Most died of cold, or were murdered on the mountains.
Estimates put the destruction in the hundreds of thousands, but in truth, no one will ever know how many met their death. They are remembered each year in a day of mourning. Many attempts have been made to find their bones and bury them appropriately, but it is recognised that the high ranges will hold many for ever.
Our group is responsible for cooking tonight. My first contribution to this has been to put a knife into my hand. I’d been intending to slice red peppers. Instead I sliced myself. The cut is deep, but just missed the tendon – although I could see it.
Neil dressed it, gave me a blue rubber glove to wear over the wound, and it was game on.
One of our group has done this job before so I’m just following orders. We’d provisioned earlier at a market, so we had everything we needed for the Butter Chicken and Chilli con Carne (or Chilli con vegetables, as this was the vegetarian option).
It seems a pity that we can’t stay in this lovely spot for longer than one night, but tomorrow we have to move on.
Day 25: 6th June 2018. Altyn Arashan
We walked from our camp site at Jeti Orguz to the village at the entrance to the valley. It was a beautiful route of about 9kms through grassy valleys fringed with mountains covered in Spruce trees. I felt like Julie Andrews in the ‘Sound of Music’ and gave a twirl or two on the meadow, although I refrained from bursting into song.
At the mouth of the valley stand massive sand stone hills that are a dramatic feature of the area. They are called the Seven Bulls, although I thought I counted more. I guess it’s all in how you number your bulls.
We drove on to Karakol where we had lunch in a café with really good Wi-fi. I was able to check emails, bank balances and even send an email to work. Of course, I’ve no idea whether they ever received it, but it felt good to be part of the modern age!
This afternoon we drove to Altyn Arashan. What a phlegmatic way to describe one of the most nerve wracking rides of my life. What a route! It’s affected annually by landslides, river flooding and rock falls. We had to transfer to Russian military vehicles to get up the road to the valley and the road appeared to be routed exclusively over a river bed and its boulders. Not that any normal vehicle could negotiate around deeply gouged muddy corners that tipped the whole vehicle over at 45 degrees. I wasn’t sure whether to be appalled that we were coming up here, or exultant at the thrill of the experience. New Zealand, you think you have tricky roads? Talk about Skipper’s Canyon? Eat your heart out. That road is strictly for amateurs compared to this.
The road was adventure enough, but when we arrived at our destination things took a turn for the worse. It seems that our rooms, newly built, were unready – not in the normal sense of a hotel booking where you may have to wait an hour for maids to make up the beds, but in the sense that all the bedroom furniture was still stacked in the yards, the beds and cupboards unassembled and lying about the place. A far cry from worrying whether they were covered with linen.
I ended up writing this blog while waiting for them to finish their work. Poor Cavan will be out in a yurt tonight which they are still constructing. So far there has been no indication that they are installing a floor, so he may have to sleep on the hard ground as we didn’t think to bring our sleeping pads on this journey.
Fortunately, we have brought our sleeping bags. If conditions don’t improve we are going to have a very bleak time tonight, even though the physical setting in this valley is glorious.
We plan to hike tomorrow. My hand is sore, but doing OK. I hope to change the dressing tomorrow. I’ve brought along the blue glove so that I keep it dry when we try out the hot springs that make this area famous. Our Hotel has access to three of them, and I look forward to trying them out.
Later: My room, shared with four other women, is now ready. It’s brand new, clean, and the beds look warm and comfortable. Alas, poor Cavan. His yurt is still under construction.
Dinner was a fairly dismal affair. Whether because EVERYTHING was in such disarray, or because the two women slaving away in the kitchen are genuinely incompetent, the meal was a bit of a disaster. It consisted of a stew of potatoes (and some spices, I presume) all of which was very nice. But the meat that was the other half of the stew was gristle filled, tough and largely inedible. I ate a lot of potatoes, drank some wine, and went to bed.
Later Cavan joined a group of defectors who have shifted to accommodation across the river. At 9 pm the yurt still was not complete, so he moved across, and reported the next morning that he’d had a wonderfully comfortable night in warm, dry facilities.
Even later we heard that those who DID use the yurt were leaked on during the heavy overnight rain.
Tomorrow we are hoping for a fine day and we all have individual walks and excursions planned.
Day 26: 7th June 2018, Altyn Arashan (2)
As I keep forgetting to keep my hand dry, its just as well that it’s healing quickly and cleanly. I’ve replaced the dressing with just strips and have covered the whole with a Velcro strap that Kelly gave me before I left NZ.
Cavan and I had a wonderful time today. We hiked up the valley following the road. Everywhere you look, beautiful photo opportunities present themselves. We both snapped hundreds of photos. Later we climbed down a hill and walked back to our hotel via the river bank. Horses grazed freely, although they are hobbled to restrict the area they can cover. Wild hyacinths were just coming into bloom. I identified wild crocus, buttercup, daisies and dog roses. This valley is an extraordinarily beautiful place.
When we returned to the Hotel Cavan and I had a soak in the hot springs. They are divided into four different baths, all at varying temperatures. After some experimentation we established that we could cope with bath 2 and stayed there.
As you might expect, the weather changes extremely rapidly, from warm sunshine to cold, windy weather that strips the warmth from your bones.
Our hotel has been invaded by South Koreans. This was somewhat unexpected, but there is apparently a connection between Kyrgyzstan and the Koreans. The hotel is now rather packed ( given it’s still under construction) and our group is outnumbered. Bizarrely, one of the Koreans came charging into our dinner hour last night with a camera woman and proceeded to attempt to interview us during our meal. I was more concerned that the microphone appeared to be covered by a muffle that looked like an Echidna. It’s hard to know whether this guy is a local celebrity in Korea or a complete pillock.
I watched him preen in front of a mirror and then take selfie after selfie over a thirty minute period.
Their group was accompanied by pack ponies. Our guide reported that their guides had expressed concern about whether they would make their goal of the lake at the head of the valley. Apparently Koreans have a reputation in this area for having beautiful new gear, but being completely unfit and not very organized.
Neill made us mulled wine tonight. It went down and treat, and was wonderful.
Day 27: 8th June 2018. Altyn Arashan – Karakol
Once again the weather gods have been kind to us. It was a blue sky morning, and we set off straight after breakfast to walk down the hill. The Russian vehicles will start up in about an hour’s time and pick us up as they catch up with us further down the road. Actually, the road conditions are so bad the vehicles barely achieve more than a walking pace at best, so we have quite a head start.
What a beautiful place this is. We walked 8 kilometres to the road’s half way point before the trucks caught up with us. I have to say the road doesn’t seem to be quite as bad when you’re on foot, but even so there are deep ruts and boulders, and you can only wonder how the drivers climb over them in the vehicles.
Once we were back in the vehicle we bounced and shook our way down the rest of the track. I’ve never encountered such a treacherous road. Skippers Canyon? It’s not even in the running; it’s strictly amateurish compared with the challenges of this road. One section zig-zags so sharply down the hill that the vehicles can’t take the turn in one go but have to reverse and get around in a three point turn. Of course, this involves manoeuvring on the edge of a precipice, but no one appeared to be concerned.
Once safely down in Karakol and checked into a clean hotel we took a walking tour of the town. There’s a lovely Russian Orthodox Church in town, dating from pre-Soviet days. I thought of my mother. This would have been her heritage if the Bolsheviks hadn’t intervened and turned her world upside down. I lit a candle for her in remembrance.
We toured the local museum which has exhibits from pre-history to modern times. The display of stuffed animals was a bit gruesome although interesting. Alas, (or maybe not?) there were no wolves on display.
Later we went to a Wi-Fi café, had an Albanian pizza??? (Apparently the particular sausage topping was Albanian), and a glass of wine before walking back to the Hotel for an early night. It was lovely to have good internet at the Hotel and be able to catch up with social media and upload photos and blogs.
Day 28; 9th June 2018, Chong Kemin Valley.
We left Karakol at 8am knowing we had a long drive ahead of us. Our route took us up the eastern side of Issyk Kol lake before turning west along the northern shore which we had to traverse to our next campsite.
At first we drove through fertile farming land along the edge of the lake, but after a few hours the scenery changed and became more arid and rocky. We began to pass resorts, of which there are many on this northern shore. Apparently this is where the citizens of Bishkek come on holiday. It is also a popular spot for Russians, Uzbeks, and of course, tourists. We saw a Ferris when and rollercoaster in the distance, so I guess it’s a bit like Blackpool.
The land became increasingly rocky until we stopped at a place where boulders of all sizes were scattered so thickly on the ground it was hard to imagine anyone every being able to farm the land. At some time in history there must have been a catastrophic flood from a local river which spread this debris across acres of land.
Using these rocks as their canvas, ancient hunters and gatherers painted and carved petroglyphs on the stones.
The stones lie in the open, with no protection from the elements, so they are faded and worn. Ibexes are the most common subject, commonly associated with pictures of hunters carrying bows and arrows.
Some drawings have shamanic purposes that predate Islam. Our guide explained that even today it was not uncommon for local people to invoke local gods for domestic matters. Islam is of course the dominant religion here, although Russian Orthodox makes up about 6% of the population.
Religion seems to be a remarkably tolerant issue in Kyrgyzstan. The guide has frequently reminded us of the complex ethnic mixing pot this country is, and that tolerance and respect for all has always been the Kyrgi way. Still, I do wonder whether 100 years of Soviet rule, when any religious observance was forbidden, may have contributed to the relaxed attitudes that prevail here. Two or three generations grew up in an entirely secular state, and although religion is now allowed, I imagine few younger people would be prepared to return to the old level of authoritarianism and restrictive practices.
We had an unexpected stop at the racecourse. It’s a fine, very attractive venue, particularly used for Central Asian sports such as horse racing, wrestling and other local competitions. A race began just as we arrived. The jockeys were young boys – maybe 15 or 16 years old. They all rode bareback – no saddles or stirrups, and of course, no hard helmets. Some of the boys didn’t even have shoes on their feet.
With no stirrups to stand up in the boys rode glued to their horses backs. The race ran for 5 laps of the courses, and although none of the horses were likely entrants for the Melbourne cup, the racing was tactical and demanding.
We continued to Chong Kemin. I’d assumed we’d arrived at our campsite for the night, but I was wrong. Two opposing villages had organised an equestrian competition. Among the classes were wrestling (where competitors attempted to pull each other off their horses; basket pick up from the ground at a gallop and a race between a young woman and a man. If the man won, his prize was a kiss. If the woman won, she beat the man with a quirt. Naturally we all supported the woman.
The final show stopper was goat polo. It was as ferocious and dynamic as you might imagine. Several competitors fell off during the game, which shows how vicious the game is as they stick to their horses like burrs. Apparently in the really serious, top level competitions it is usual for several riders to be badly hurt.
There was a change of ‘ball’ at half-time. Apparently the first goat was too light, so a second was sacrificed for the second half. Kyrgyzstan is NOT for the squeamish, but it is what it is.
Rather amusingly a large german shepherd dog participated throughout in the games and joined in every scrummage, nipping and pushing at the horses’ legs in the middle of the melee.
Our campsite for the night was across the road. The weather has again been kind, the site was beautiful and it made for a great final bush camp on this holiday.
Day 29. 10th June 2018. Bishkek.
We woke up to a perfect morning in the Chong Kemin Valley. The weather was already warm at 7am, although there was snow on the mountains that surround the valley. There were wild poppies growing around the camp, and the grass smelled rich and sweet with the scent of thyme and other wild herbs.
This was our last breakfast, and there was a sense of finality as we packed up the tents, loaded the truck and headed on our way. I’m torn between craving a bath, shower, clean toilet and leisure time and the sad knowledge that this really has been a trip of a lifetime. It’s been a remarkable journey through three extraordinary countries. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.
Bishkek was only a couple of hours drive down the road, and we stopped only once to visit the tower of Burana. This little tower is all that is left of a once large town that was important on the Silk Road. Archaeologists have recently started excavating the area and have found a large funerary complex. Graves and their associated stones have been found in number, and the variety of cultures represented – Nestorian, Buddhist and so on indicate how cosmopolitan the area was.
Cavan climbed the tower – although he was glad he had his torch with him as it was dark and steep inside. I remained outside to take the obligatory picture of him waving from the top.
As we drove to Bishkek, postcards, one for each member of our group, were passed round the bus so that we could write a message on each of them to each individual on the tour. It was a nice gesture as we’ve got to know each other really well over the last month.
We made Bishkek by 1pm and both Cavan and I made it a priority to climb into the shower and get clean. Actually, I took one look at the shower and elected to draw a bath. I soaked and scrubbed the dust of the road off in the hot water. Heaven!
We had a final group dinner to celebrate our trip. The food was lovely, the conversation lively. Many of our group are continuing to travel, going off respectively to Kazakhstan, Nepal and Georgia. This is a well travelled group of people who are not afraid to get off the beaten track.
We said our farewells early as Cavan and I have to leave the Hotel at 2.30 in the morning to get the flight to Dubai where we plan a couple of days break before returning to New Zealand.
It’s been a wonderful experience, we’ve met great people, seen many wonderful sights and had a ball. Would we do it again? Yes!
OK, the title is misleading. We're not in India yet, but in the final stages of packing for our flight from Wellington tomorrow.
Last year, when we went from Ashgabat to Bishkek, we were travelling slightly off the beaten track. This year's journey will be a far more conventional tourist trail around India.
Although I spent a couple of years in Mumbai, (Bombay in those days!) between the ages of three and five, I never saw anything more of India. I am looking forward to remedying that. Also, I want to see just how much I remember of the Mumbai of my early childhood.
Certain things still stand out in my memory - Chowpatty beach; Malabar hill, where my parent's flat was and the Breach Candy swimming pool where I learned to swim. I still hold a small silver cup for a 3rd place in the back stroke when I was about four years old. I also remember diving off the high dive - which in those days seemed impossibly high. Mind you, I probably wouldn't be brave enough to do it now.
As usual at this point in our preparations I'm torn between not wanting to leave home, and the excitement of the journey ahead. I love where I live so very much, and grieve each time I leave. But the lure of the road and all it can bring is inescapable.
Then again, Cavan and I travel very well as a team. Probably the happiest times of our lives have been spent exploring exotic places together, eating new foods and seeing different manners and customs.
We finally checked our tickets this afternoon and discovered that our flight from Wellington only brings us to Auckland one and a half hours before our international flight leaves for Singapore. The travel agent assures us that this will be ample time for us to go through customs and emigration. I hope they are right! Anyway, as a gesture of goodwill the agent has organised for us to receive 'assisted services' to help us get on the plane on time.
I was grateful until I realised she was offering us a wheelchair!
I will be blogging about our experiences, so do feel free to follow us!
We finally reached our hotel in new Delhi today at what would be 5pm on the 28th February in New Zealand. In other words, we've been travelling, either flying or waiting in transit, for a total of 33 hours. The various time-zones have played merry havoc with our meal times. I don't know whether we've been having dinner or breakfast. Either way, they've been served with wine which has suited the ramshackle connection to reality that travelling entails.
I'm completley knackered, but too wound up to catch up on sleep, which is annoying as I didn't sleep on the aircraft.
Still, however tedious the journey, there's nothing like the excitement of reaching a new country, or of starting a fresh adventure. It's a bit like childbirth - all the pain that went before is forgotten in the joy of the moment.
Our plan is to rest up today, and start fresh on the tour proper tomorrow.
I've shown poor judgement in assessing the temperatures we can expect at this time of year. When we arrived at 6am this morning, it was only 12 degrees centrigrade. Currently, at midday, its about 20. I was expecting temperatures of 30 or above, so I may have come underprepared. There's a smog over the city that probably helps keep the temperatures down.
I learned today that India's population is now 1.3 billion people. China's is 1.4 billion. Not a lot of difference between these two nations and the strain this must put on their country's resources must be incredible.
On a brighter note, the animal count for today has comprised one grey squirrel, a dozen or so monkeys, one pig and several pi dogs. The monkeys were hanging around on the edges of the local town green belt - a large area of trees and jungle that borders the town.
Looking forward to exploring more tomorrow when we go into the older part of Delhi. So far, traffic and smog excepted, Delhi looks like a pleasant, modern city. Our hotel is comfortable, and our fellow travellers seem delightfully compatible, if Australian!
We had a shower which felt wonderful after the long hours of being on the plane. I tossed and turned for an hour or two, unable to settle. There's nothing like the imperative of "you must sleep" to kill any tiredness. Eventually though, exhaustion won, and I dropped into the deepest of sleeps for some 3 hours.
We ended the day with a great meal and good company. Feeling bright eyed and bushy tailed for tomorrow.
What a great day! Delhi is a beautiful city with wide, cool, tree lined roads and avenues. It's clean, and even more surprisingly, lacks that usually pervasive Asian city scent of rubbish, sweaty bodies and an overnote of untreated sewage. Instead, smog excepted, the air smells clean and fresh. Even the smog had lifted by mnid morning.
It was cool again this morning - 10 degrees at 7 o'clock. We've been told that this is unseasonable, but it makes for a pleasant temperature to travel in as it rises to about 20 degrees by midday.
After driving past the red fort, we explored the Jama Majid mosque, the largest in India, capable of holding 25000 devotees. Last year we became accustomed to the bright turquoise and lapis lazuli decorating the architecture of Samarkand. This building was made of red sandstone, a beautifully stark and monochromatic effect that blended in to the Indian cultural tradition that Islam encountered as it entered the sub-continent.
Following that we had a wild rickshaw ride through the Chandni Chowk Bazaar. The streets were crowded and chaotic and the noise of beeping car and motor scooter horns was overwhelming as we bumped our way through the twisting lanes of the area. We were powered by our enthusiastically pedalling driver, but it must have been hot, hard work for him. I loved the myriad of shops - book shops, beautiful fabrics, metal workers, all crowded together.
After an amazing lunch of varied Indian food we drove past the India Gate, built to remember servicemen slain in World War 1.
Most moving was our visit to Ghandi Smitri, a museum dedicated to the life and death of Ghandi. It was in a house that he'd lived in for the last four months or so of his life, and he was assassinated here in the garden.
The walls were covered in photographs celebrating his life and mourning his death, and there was a wonderful room full of diorama picturing incidents in his life.
Finally we went to Qutab Minor, a tall tower built in the 12th century. It's beautifully hand carved and impressive. Equally so was the rather mysterious Iron Pillar which has stood in situ for 1500 years and not rusted.
This is shaping up to be a great tour. Our guide, Vikram, is polished, well-informed and a great leader.
We leave the hotel tomorrow at, heaven help us, 4.30am. Who knows what the temperature will be then? We're off to Varanasi.
What a day! Firstly we got up at the hideous time of 3.30am to catch the plane to Varanasi. Jet Airways have folded, meaning the flights we'd been booked on had to be transferred to other providers, and we've been fitted into their schedules as best they could. At least there was little traffic on the way to the airport at that hour of the morning.
The recent escalation of tension in Kashmir has put security services on alert at the airports. Young boys in uniform wander around with powerful looking guns, and I got thoroughly done over by security when we checked in. They made me empty all my hand luggage and went it through it item by item. They even checked my USB, cables and camera equipment.
Varanasi used to be called Benares, a name I'm far more familiar with. It's been called the "Learning and Burning capital" of India. The first refers to the large and eminent university founded in 1917. The "burning" of course refers to the burning ghats where bodies are cremated.
We started our tour with a visit to the temple on the site of Buddha's enlightenment. Close by stands the Bodhi tree ( or a descendant) under which he meditated. There were also the remains of a monastery near by, which still had an intact Stupa. The first worshippers of Buddha used these structures as the focus for their religion, the worship of statues of the Buddha not having started for another 200 years or so.
We had a couple of hours rest before our evening activity which was a visit to the ghats (the steps which line parts of the banks of the Ganges).
It was an amazing experience. First of all we transferred by motor rickshaw from the hotel to close to the ghats. If we thought the cycle rickshaw ride in Delhi was exciting, this topped it. Our driver wove and manoeuvred his vehicle through a hundred different, heart stopping, obstacles - the dense traffic, the cows, the crowds, all heading to the same destination. Once we were within a kilometre of the river we had to get down and walk the rest of the way. I'd thought myself fairly used to crowds, traffic and kamikaze drivers from our earlier trips to China and South East Asia, but this was something else! The trick is just to keep on quietly walking in the desired direction and let the traffic work round you - but there were some nerve wracking moments.
The Aarti, or prayer ceremony of thanks to Mother Ganges takes place every single morning and evening throughout the year. The current statue in the temple by the river is from the seventeenth century, but it replaced earlier statues that had stood in the site for thousands of years.
I've rarely had a more impressive and powerful experience. The chanting, the crush of people - some like us there for the spectacle, but many more attending as part of their religious responsibilities.
This is a fire ceremony, and as night fell we went out in a boat onto the river where we could get the best view of the priests as they conducted the ritual.
Unnervingly, for a period of some twenty minutes, we mislaid a woman from our group. She'd lost sight of us as she followed us down to the water through the dense crowd. So dense in fact that it was impossible to see her. It was a very concerning situation, and we could see just how tense our guide was until we were reunited. I imagine losing a client must be a guide's worst nightmare.
First thing this morning we were back at the ghats. There were crowds of course, but this time the majority were in a neat tidy queue, marshalled to the side of the road by barricades, all heading in the opposite direction to ourselves. They were waiting to get to the local temple to perform ritual puja. It seems we are in the middle of the festival season, hence the crowds. I later found out the queue was over 3 kms long. Our own local churches would kill for such attendance numbers!
We made our way down to the water again. There was a different vibe this morning. People were here in family groups to bathe together. Men, women and children shared the river - the women discreetly modest, while the men, though still circumspect, were more inclined to splash around in the river.
Some were here as part of a mourning process for relatives cremated the day before - the men would have their hair shaved off, then bathe in the Ganges to wash away their own impurities, the sins of their ancestors and their family. Later, dressed in fresh clothes, they would emerge from the ceremony cleansed of their sins.
I took the opportunity to do my own spot of Ganges bathing - although I limited myself to washing my hands, face and neck. I understand my sins are now eliminated, my family's sins are cleansed, and I've helped any erring ancestors on their way through the after life. There's a pleasing sense of freedom to be able to start again so clean and fresh. I've always envied Roman Catholics and the confession process which achieves much the same thing.
Naked Saddhus or holy men stood or sat in their tents. They were covered in what looked like ash and were grey and ghostly. They believe they were born naked, will die naked, and don't see the need to alter that state in the years between. Apparently, between festivals they disappear back to their ashrams in the mountains, ready to reappear as required when the next festival occurs.
After we left the ghats, we visited the local University. Established in 1917 it is one of the pre-eminent learning establishment, and competition to attend is very high.
We attended the campus temple to Shiva. I rather like the casual but obvious devotion Indians show to their gods. Popping in for a puja, or a chat with Shiva or his priests is simply part of a normal day. Equally admirable is the inclusiveness of Hinduism. Our guide was careful to establish that Hinduism is not a religion - simply a way to live a good life. In a sense, Hindus assume that everyone is already Hindu, but hasn't realised it yet.
I've wracked my brains since, trying to think of any religious wars which have been started by Hindus, and failed.
Later in the afternoon we visited a weaving factory. Actually, factory is the wrong word - this is a cooperative and operates as a kind of guild. Not only do they use punched cards to guide the weavers through the patterns, but four families can still weave the old patterns without the cards, relying entirely on memory. A father will work with a son - and they will only be able to create the same specialised pattern - which is repeated as many times as required. We looked at the threads on the loom, all shifted and guided by memory and skill. Humanity has achieved mighty things, but it will be heard to recreate this when the last qualified weaver of this technique hangs up his shuttle.
We bought a rather nice table runner. I coveted a duvet and pillow slip set, but shuddered to think what a dog and cat could do
What a long day!. We left the hotel in Varanasi this morning at 7am, and arrived in Khajuraho at 7pm. The closure of Jet Airlines meant we had to drive, and its a fair distance, the travel made worse by the state of the road.
India is building it's infrastructure and upgrading it's road network along many of it's existing highways. In 10 years time the roads will be wonderful, but at the moment there is a lot of disruption, and our bus had to pick it's way through endless roadworks and diversions.
In the words of our guide, there are only three requirements for driving in India. Good brakes, a good horn, and good luck. We must have been in possession of all three, because we made it through safely, although my driving style has probably been irretrievably changed by the experience.
Freight trucks made up the majority of traffic - brightly decorated - and not particularly speedy. Our bus regularly overtook them - across solid yellow lines, around blind corners, you name it. The technique is to pull out and ignore oncoming traffic unless its the size of a truck or bus. Bikes and motor cycles can be disregarded and pushed to the outskirts. In the event of an oncoming truck, then the two vehicles will slow down sufficiently to pass 5 cms apart before carrying on. If this results in a temporary 3 lanes of traffic, that's fine.
Improbably it all seems to work and everyone is courteous.
The countryside is richly fertile. Stock don't graze the fields which are reserved strictly for crops, instead the cattle graze the side of the road, and live their lives alongside humanity. Most appeared to be fed with chaff and hay as well, - but some unfortunately were eating plastic and other rubbish that littered the border of the roads.
Rather concerningly, since my camera and equipment was passed back and forth through the x-ray machine at Delhi airport, my card reader no longer works, and I can't download photos. The card itself appears undamaged as I can see the photos on the camera itself. Either the card reader, or the drive on my laptop was damaged, so I'm now using my phone as a camera so I still can take and access photos, and I'll worry about those on the camera when I get back home.
We attended a folk performance this evening, which was all very colourful - but we were glad to get to our beds.
Day 5 Khajuraho – Agra
Yesterday was a tiring day, and the hotel we stayed in at Khajuraho was so lovely that I don’t think any of us wanted to move on. It was another early start though, to get us to the temples ahead of the crowds so that we could enjoy the carvings. One effect of the tension in Kashmir has been to limit the number of tourists, so we find ourselves pleasantly uncrowded by other travellers.
The temples at Khajuraho are world famous for their frank depiction of sexual activity, and are the original Karma Sutra, or instruction in the Art of Love. The carvings are quite lovely and not at all the pornography I had expected – Yes, they are explicit, but there’s a nice sense of humour at work in the stories they tell. Thus a voluptuous young woman, her back turned to us, studying her face in a mirror has a cute dimple on her bottom; the god Ganesha looks on in amusement at the couple making energetic love in the panel beside him.
There wasn’t a lot the ancient’s left out of their carvings: bestiality, threesomes, soixante-neuf, you name it, there it was depicted. An explanation for some of the panels is they were a kind of recruiting poster for the armed forces, depicting soldiers going off to battle, and the carnal pleasures that awaited them on their return.
Four hours drive further on, and we’d reached the town of Orchha where we toured magnificent seventeenth palaces. One was given to the Maharajah as a gift when he visited Orchha. He only stayed in it one night – talk about conspicuous consumption! I was pleased to find a couple of vultures sitting on the roof of the palace. They’ve been in very short supply – as they are scavangers they’ve been dying off because of all the chemicals being injected into the cattle. The problem is so big that Parsees (or Zoroastrians) who place their deceased in the ‘towers of silence’ and rely on vultures to dispose of the bodies, now have a problem because there aren’t enough vultures.
When we reached Jhansi we caught the train for Agra. Its always a bit of fun to try out different forms of public transport. We travelled in luxury in an air conditioned carriage. They fed us a full meal on board as well. The most impressive sight was the porters who carried our luggage on and off the train to the coach. They must have been carrying at least 50 Kgs each on their heads.
Finally reached Agra and collapsed into bed. Tomorrow is the Taj Mahal.
Another extremely early call so that we could reach the Taj Mahal by dawn.
I cannot overstate how exquisitely beautiful this place is. None of the photos I’d ever seen do it justice. The white perfection of the building is subtle and nuanced in reality. Most of the photographs I have seen make the mausoleum look like white plastic.
The light changes, minute by minute, sometimes gold, sometimes white. The white marble sparkles and glitters where the light catches it. The carvings have been rendered with exquisite skill and the total design is beautifully balanced – a light, airy confection made of hard durable marble. We could only wonder at the skill of those ancient carvers and inlay workers who made such a marvel. And of course, the heart-rending story of Shah Jehan’s grief for his lost wife. What a package to take on board!
After we’d had our fill of the Taj, we toured Agra’s Red Fort, the original part of which dates to the sixteenth centuries. It’s still in use today by the Indian army, so we only had access to part of the structure. It would have been a monstrous building to try and storm if you were an invader.
Finally we visited a marble workshop where we were shown the intricacies of inlay work. Tiny minute fragments are ground to shape, and embedded into marble. We admired the work, most of which was far too large to transport, although the factory was more than willing to pack it up for us. We contented ourselves with a set of marble inlay coasters as a memory of a special day.
The day started at a rather more civilised hour which was a relief to us all. Some 45 minutes drive from Agra we visited Fatepur Sikri, the capital of Rajasthan built by the Emperor Akbar in the sixteenth century. After fourteen years the capital returned to Agra due both to lack of water on the site and the distance from main highway routes rendering it a difficult place to rule an Empire from.
Cavan, who was here 50 years ago, remembers it as a ruin, but the Indian archaeologists have done a fine job restoring the structure in the intervening years. As India has an embarrassment of antique ruins, it must be an extraordinarily difficult job for historians to prioritise which structures to save and restore. One fact which Cavan recollected clearly from all those years ago was having been shown a stone on which hapless criminals were required to lay their heads to be crushed by an elephant. As a form of execution it’s rather deliciously gruesome. The stone still remains, neatly embedded in a lush green lawn.
After lunch we drove 5 hours to the National Park. Tomorrow we hunt for tigers.
Up early before the dawn today so we could be out in the open trucks to look for tigers in the park. It was chilly enough for me to put on a jumper and my jacket. The hotel provided rugs to wrap around us, and I was grateful for mine as we drove off down the road. Once we were in the park proper, and our speed dropped, we began to warm up.
We had a sighting of a sloth bear (actually a black, indistinguishable shape hidden in the scrub), and were assured this was a rare event, these creatures being both nocturnal and inhabitants of the denser areas of jungle. I’ll take their word for it.
We also found monkeys, deer – both Sāmbhar and spotted, and some birds. The guide reminded us that the purpose of the morning’s activity was to find tigers, so there was no stopping for pictures. We bounced along through the park, frequently meeting other searchers equally unsuccessful in their search for the tiger.
I was resigned to failure and reminded myself that big girls not only didn’t cry, but they didn’t throw tantrums over missing big cats either. I wasn’t sure I’d convinced myself, and our truck seemed headed for home, when our way was blocked by four approaching vehicles. Our truck cleared the way, then abruptly swung around to follow the other trucks. The hunt was on! We bounced vigorously up hill and down dale over the rutted tracks in a convoy of excited tourists. We were just about to climb a hill when the whole party came to a juddering halt. I assumed the first vehicle was having trouble climbing the slope, but no. There was a tiger asleep in the middle of the track.
We were about the sixth vehicle back, and although the guide kept pointing it out to us, the ‘tiger’ was just a non-descript patch of white, hidden by the vehicles in front of us and intervening scrub.
We waited, craning our necks, for so long that we’d begun to think the creature was dead. The relief when she started to move! Very slowly and casually she lifted her head and looked around, before getting to her feet and moving a few feet to the left where she relieved herself. The trucks didn’t seem to worry her at all, and we were able to follow beside her for several minutes. I suppose she was used to all the clamour and activity, because she didn’t hesitate to squat and defecate before resuming her amble down the track. All part of her morning routine I presume. Eventually she found another comfortable spot and sat down.
After a while we left her in peace and returned for our own breakfast.
Later in the afternoon we went out in the park again. We’d been told we were unlikely to see tigers again, but I’d hoped for jackals, hyenas and maybe a leopard (although they’re up in the high ridges where we weren't going). We saw many deer, and a variety of birds, but no jackals or hyenas.
Then, towards the end of our trip we found another tiger. This time a young mother, No 84. The guide, who knew her, told us that she had her cubs hidden close to the wall of the park. He obviously knew her habits sufficiently to be able to predict where she would appear. We, and 17 other vehicles jostled for position and tracked her for about half an hour. I got some great shots, but I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with our harassment. Celebrities suffer from the paparazzi, and this is what it looked like. And of course I recognise the hypocrisy in that thought because I was equally as determined to see and photograph the tiger. The zeal and enthusiasm with which we all followed her was a reminder that we are all still hunters at heart.
I realise this intrusion is what guarantees her survival, and that of her cubs. The money tourism brings in pays for the park and for those who protect her and her species. Even so, I was glad when we all left her in peace and went back to the hotel for dinner.
We were sad to leave the national park, but early this morning we were on the road . The highway was good and we'd reached Jaipur by lunchtime.
After a quick lunch, we were out and about again. We took a trip into the old city , or the 'pink city' of Jaipur. Actually, it's not pink, but an attractive shade of terra cotta. As Jaipur currently holds the title of the most connected and 'smart city' in India, the government has stepped in to both recognise this, and enhance Jaipur's position as a draw card for tourism. Accordingly it's refurbishing all the old city, installing a metro beneath it, and renovating all the facades, as well as painting it a consistent colour. The result is amazing - and although many buildings we saw were still in a work in progress, this will be a stunning city in a couple of years time,
We went first to the ancient observatory. These enormous scientific instruments could, three centuries ago, tell the time (by its a sundial), with an accuracy of 2 seconds. We checked it out with our modern digital watches, and can testify to its accuracy.
Alongside what westerners would consider 'proper' scientific instruments were those that could aid in establishing your correct horoscope. As the date, time and location of your birth is critical to the accuracy of any horoscope cast, these instruments were vital in ensuring your readings were accurate.
Later we explored the city royal palace of the Rajah of Jaipur. The present incumbent is only 21 years old, and currently studying in New York. He's allowed a portion of his vast city palace to open to the public.
The wealth these Rajahs had at their disposal is incalculable - certainly the palace, it's decorations, public areas and overall design were fascinating and magnificent.
Later still this evening we went to dinner. Cavan had organised to meet up with a friend from 48 years ago who had shared a portion of his life in Tehran in the 1960's.
Elderly man greeted elderly man, and their wives tentatively introduced themselves.
What a pleasure this evening was. Cavan and his friend recalled events and refreshed their memories of their long distant pasts and I was privileged to spend the evening with this charismatic and competent woman.
Any traveller embroigled in a foreign culture will testify as to how hard it is to enter another mindset. We can visit temples and stare at memorials, but unless we have teachers to interpret what we see, we remain illiterate.
I was fortunate to listen to this lady as she shared some of her India with me.
Truly, life puts us on unexpected paths, but the simple joy of this evening, spent in congenial company with intelligent, sensitive companions, will remain a highlight of our India trip. I only hope the friendship can develop, and these lovely folk visit us in New Zealand.
Mercifully we had a later wake up this morning! I would hardly describe our travels as physically arduous, yet the constant transition from place to place, combined with early hours, uncertain scehdules and the need to pack and repack each night, does take its toll.
Today was a simple tour of Jaipur which started with a trip to the Amber fort. Aside from it's magnificent location on the hilltop above Jaipur, the vast linkage of walls surrounding this fort is impressive. Not quite the great wall of China, but a significant feature all the same.
The loveliest part of this palace/fort was the Sheesh Mahal, or mirror room on the upper terrace of the palace. Inspired by religious art forms in Goa, artisans had broken mirrors into small, convex pieces and formed intricate carpet patterns on the walls and ceilings of this room, interspersed with other works of art - all tied into a beautiful,, aesthetic, whole. I photographed it but nothing could do justice to the nuanced shades and sparkle the mirrors produced.
Later we toured the bazaars by rickshaw. I'm constantly embarrassed about the energy the drivers have to put in to shifting us fat foreigners around. It felt like a moral victory when we got back on our own feet and entered the markets unaided - an expensive exercise as the shop keepers are skilled with their sales pitch, and most of us ended up buying stuff we never intended to.
Tomorrow we are off again, this time to Pushkar. Jaipur has been lovely and the internet service has been better than excellent. After the frustrations and delays elsewhere on our travels, it's been a joy to encounter a stress free service.
oll.
This morning we drove from Jaipur to Pushkar. The roads in Rajasthan are superb - a marked difference to those in Uttar Pradesh. The infrastructure of road and rail, not to mention IT technolocy is a reflection of the propsperity of this state. Much of its income is derived from tourism, Rajasthan being well provided with palaces, forts and various colourful sights.
Pushkar's claim to fame is the temple of the Lord Brahma, the creator, the only operational such temple in the world. Pushkar is situated where Lord Brahma dropped a lotus flower, and where the petals landed a lake was formed in a valley surrounded by hillocks on three sides.
Apparently there was an important ceremony, attended by gods and humans, which required Brahma and his wife to officiate. Everyone had assembled, but Lord Brahma's wife was late -presumably fixing her makeup and dress for this important occasion. TIme was running out - the auspicious time for the ceremony was passing, and there was pressure on Lord Brahma from the other gods and guests to perform the ceremony - which of course he couldn't do without his consort. In desperation, he was urged to marry a local girl - a ceremony which only took a couple of minutes - which then allowed him to proceed with the ritual.
Alas, once the ritual had started, Brahma's wife belatedly arrived. Furious with her husband for her betrayal in marrying another and starting the ceremony without her, she cursed him and swore that no other temples dedicated to him would ever again be built. Other gods interceded, but couldn't sway her - which is why there are no other temples to the Brahma in this world.
After exploring the town and the ghats of Pushkar we took a ride on a camel cart to enjoy the sunset before returning to the hotel for dinner.
The camel cart lurched, the road was uneven, and we passed through areas strewn with rubbish and alas, a dead camel was also present. Small children begged - for money for chappati, but more humorously, many also begged for chocolate biscuits!.Still, the colour of the carts, the gentle surge as they made their way up and down hill, the soft sand underfoot for most of the way and the wonderful sunset compensated for the distractions.
There was enough haze to take the heat out of the sunset and allow some magical photography. Again, a magical day and a wonderful tour.
More travelling today.
For the last few days we've been heading steadily westward across Rajasthan towards the great Thar desert. The countryside is getting increasingly more arid although crops are still grown. Fenugreek, cumin and other spices prosper in the dry soil, and scrubby trees, used for feed, dot the countryside.
We stopped at a Gaoshala - a retirement home for all the cattle that roam the streets. Cattle are of course sacred, and not to be harmed, but when injured, old or unwanted they come to one of these numerous state or privately funded facilities and receive medication, care and a place to live out the rest of their lives. Although these were sick animals, they were being well looked after. We saw one cow being massaged; others wore bandages. All were fed and cared for.
The facility also cares for unwanted peacocks, other birds, monkeys and donkeys. It seems to be the local equivalent of the SPCA.
Tonight we're staying in a 15th century fortress which has been converted into a heritage hotel and stands right on the edge of the desert itself. It's the most magnificent place - truly beautiful. There's not a detail that hasn't been well thought out. Our bedroom is the size of a ball room, bathroom ditto. The grounds are lovely and the service is expectional, I felt like a Maharanee.
It was a six hour drive from our wonderful oasis at Kihmsar to the city of Jaisalmer.
The road was good but narrow, and almost deserted by Indian standards - I gather this route was only recently completed, and therefore undiscovered by the majority of traffic. We drove for hours through semi-fertile land - the presence of the arid desert so close to the boundary always present in every block of land left unattended and unwatered.
We are pretty close to the Pakistan border here, and have been warned to keep our passports handy, as security is tight.
In the evening we drove out to a Brahmin crematorium from which it is possible to get the best photos of the Jaisalmer fort at sunset. I so miss my camera. There is only so much a mobile phone can do in different light conditions.
When I get back to NZ it's going to take about a week to download all the photos I've taken on the camera. Those I'm posting on the Blog, or facebook are of course from the Samsung phone.
Tomorrow we actualy get to explore the golden fort, which looks like fun.
What a fantastic fort Jaisalmer is. It's a town, complete in itself, and still functions as such today, so that all the usual business of life was carrying on as we made our way through the narrow, medieval type streets. We dodged cows, motorbikes, markets and the usual crush of people as we wandered through the ancient thoroughfares.
The beauty of the town lies in it's golden sandstone which wonderfully clever craftsmen have carved into intricate designs and decorations on the palace, temples and Havelis, or homes of the wealthy merchant princes who made their fortunes trading on the ancient silk road. I can't even begin to imagine the skill and dedication it would take to carve blocks of stone into delicate lace and fine screens, shutters and balconies. Imagine the disaster of dropping a hammer or chisel on a half-formed panel and cracking it! Hours of extraordinary labour must have gone into these buildings.
I was doing well, resisting spending any money, until we came to a shop selling handcrafts made by women from the desert villages. I should point out that Jaisalmer is only 150kms from the Pakistani border. Given the recent tensions between India and Pakistan, surveillance has increased, we were told to keep our passports with us at all times. Jaisalmer is a military town, and there was a large army presence in the town. Clearly tourists aren't permitted to travel much further west into the danger area. To solve this, village women work at home, and sell their produce through a shop in the fort. What marvellous needlework - patchwork rugs, wall hangings, cushion covers, runners, - you name it. All made from old, finely embroidered and decorated women's cast off clothing. Oh well, someone has to support the local economy, although I'm not sure how we're going to get out bags on the next airline given they now way considerably more than when we left home..
Fast forward to the evening's entertainment. After a short siesta we boarded the bus and travelled some way outside Jaisalmer to the real desert. There we had camels to ride for half an hour or so until we reached the dunes in time to see the sunset.
I had a camel with inadequate hardware - well my driver hadn't really sorted out the gear on board. I had a VERY short stirrup on the left (I think this was a preloved fan belt). Unfortunatley the right hand stirrup was nowhere to be found, and his attempts to effect running repairs were unsuccesful. As a consequence, with my left knee up to my chin, and my right foot groping for a loop somewhere in the vicinity of the camel's knee, I had a very wobbly ride.
Frankly, I was so unbalanced, I gave up. It was easier to ride without any stirrups at all as all we were doing was walking.
It was a lovely ride out into the desert. When we stopped, about half an hour before sunset, our guide was waiting with a bottle of rum. Other hawkers had also sold us beer or other drinks. By the time the sun had set, we were well liquoured up, and were a happy bunch riding our camels the last half kilometre or so to the bus. I've got some cool shots of the sunset. My phone takes much better sunset pictures than my fancier camera. Also, and really cool, I managed to buy another card reader in the fort this morning. It's taking hours for the computer to work, but 630 photos are currently uploading from my camera. I can't wait to sort them out!
There was a bus drive of about an hour from the camel site into town. Our guide had procured a bottle of Indian Rum, which he shared with the coach. As a result it was a happy, not to mention inebriated, load of passengers who rolled up at the silver market to inspect their wares. I pity the guys in the shop!
We finally made it back to the coach and were transferred to our hotel where several sore heads got put to bed. Tomorrow - Jodphur!
Our group has been gutted by the terrible news of the Christchurch massacre. Of our seventeen members, three are New Zealanders, the remaining 14 being roughly half and half Australian and British. The Antipodeans are united in their disbelief, and we are all shocked to the core - this sort of thing has no place in NZ. Half the world's maps don't even feature New Zealand on them, so how did this bastard find us, and how was he able to purchase a semi-automatic?
It was a five hour drive to Jodphur on good roads that ran straight and true through the desert. Scrubby trees eek out a living on the dry soil. They must get barely enough rain each year, but somehow they survive.
As we neared Jodphur the land changed, becoming rocky and hilly. My NZ heart rejoiced to see the hills. Since we arrived in Delhi we've been travelling over vast plains - most of them fertile - that spread for miles in every direction with barely a hillockl in sight.
We had a brief walk around the Jaswant Thada. It's pretty, like a mini Taj Mahal, being built as a memorial to her dead husband by the widown of Jaswant Singh II.
The massive Mehrangarh fort is built on a rocky hill that rises, a bit like Edinborough castle, above the town below. In spite of numerous battles and sieges the fort has never fallen, and looking at the ramparts, it's clear to see why. To ensure the fort was propsperous and pleased the gods, a man was sacrificed and placed alive and walled up in the foundations for it's success. He volunteered for this, and a plaque on the wall records this sacrifice. His family was of course looked after from then on. He may have thought it worth the price, but it would be a bitter way to die.
The path that leads into the fort passes massive gates, then a second pair of gates 100 metres further on. The third set of gates are set around a corner so that war elephants couldn't build up speed to smash into them - also, fearsome rows of spikes are set at head height to deter the animals.
The palace inside the fort is beautiful. There were ornately decorated meeting rooms around every corner - and this place is a maze. Still owned by the princely family, a trust maintains the property. The tourist trail through this warren has been well organised. We were provided with a headset and player, and were able to wander from post to post over the fort, receiving clear information at every point.
There were tremendous collections on display - palanquin and howdahs; swords and armour; clothes and textiles.
As we descended from the fort we passed the sad red imprints of women's hands beside the gate - the place where the wives of the Maharajah stopped to print their hands before going out to die on his funeral pyre.
We piled into jeeps this morning for a visit to some of the different ethnicities that ply their trade around Jodphur. First of all, the BIshnoi tribe. They are strict vegans, and believe themselves to be caretakers of their environment. We were told a rather horrid tale of how, back in the sixteenth century, villagers gave their lives to prevent a grove of trees being felled. Some 350 of them were slaughtered before the maharajah, who'd wanted the wood for his palace, called the massacre off.
We were treated to an opium ceremony. Indians drink their opium like tea rather than smoke it, and after watching the brew prepared and filtered, we were all offered a taste. I imagine 'tourist samples' contain 0.0000001 actual opioids, but at least I can now claim to have been an opium user with all the deliciously decadent connotations the phrase implies.
Next to another tribe who specialised in pottery. It was fascinating to watch the potter spin his wheel - the simplest of all constructs, solely consisting of a 150 KG stone, balanced precariously on a wooden spindle. Using a stick as a lever, the potter got this thing spinning at an amazing pace, before putting the lever down and using both hands to centre and work his clay on the wheel as it spun.
Finally to weaving village, where we watched Dhurrie rugs being made. I remember having these around our home in Karachi, and can testify to their long term durability. One still graced my room when we first arrived in New Zealand, although I don't remember what happened to it subsequently.
Our hotel in Jodphur has been rather below average, so it was nice to go to lunch at a rather pleasant restaurant, before being taken to another textile warehouse. This one specialised in producing products for high end international designers - Versace, Hermes, Burberry and so on. Beautiful embroidery, scarves, pashmina and bed linen was on display. Their contract with the fashion houses allows this factory to make 5% more product than ordered, and sell it for a profit as long as no logo or label is attached. They managed a brisk trade with our group.
We did a quick trip to a local palace, built in the early years of the twentieth century in art deco style. Frankly it was disappointing. It had looked fabulous from a distance, but close up it lacked the exotic magic the older places have in abundance.
FInally a rickshaw trip followed by a walk through the local market. The noise, crowding and general bustle of people and traffic in the narrow lanes is colossal, although we were assured this was the quiet season, and everything was at a lull untiil the next wedding season starts up in about a month.
It was a full day, and we were glad to get back to the hotel and have a shower. Later we found a couple of musicians in the roof top bar playing drums and sitar. A lovely way to end the day.
It was an eight hour drive between Jodphur and Udaipur, broken only by a visit to a Jain temple at Ranakpur. The interior of this temple is extraordinary, White marble is intricately carved until it resembles lace. 1444 finely carved pillars, no two alike, support the domed ceilings. Truly a work of beauty.
As our drive continued the countryside changed dramatically. The road climbed through jungle over the range that separates Rajasthan into two distinct climatic areas, passing family groups of monkeys lounging alongside the road.
The descent on the far side of the range was through green, fertile fields rich with crops. A team of bullocks circled a well, hauling water up from the depths to irrigate the fields. Farms and their attendant buildings looked prosperous. We've left the desert behind us.
Our hotel is a lovely white building set high on a hill overlooking the lake. We have a beautiful view from it which takes in the temple and the palace that we will visit tomorrow.
Udaipur is lovely. Nestled in a basin in the hills, the town is set around a series of lovely lakes, some of which are man made. After a week or so in desert country, its been lovely to reach a place where water runs freely. Centuries ago the lakes were drained at various times to allow the building of the palaces in them. Now these islands house grand heritage hotels.
The palace, situated on the shores of the lake, is enormous. The original structure has been divided into four parts - two of which are occupied by hotels, the third used by the royal family, and the fourth, which we visited, is open to the public.
I got side tracked from all the historical architecture when I caught sight of the guard's horses. Well known for the distinctive inward curve to their ears, these are magnificent animals. I hadn't realised how big they were, standing at least 16.2 - 17hh. I had imagined them smaller and finer. Apparently the Maharajah has a breeding programme and produces some fine stock. I was amused to see two were skewbald. Maybe Bandit has a new career ahead of him.
After the palace we cruised the lake, and stopped for morning tea on one of the islands. Later we toured an art studio which specialises in the art of punctillo. This technique is of ancient origin and used in the paintings throughout the palace. Many of them tell specific stories of events in the royal court. Most revered is a white stallion who, although badly wounded himself, saved his master from death in battle. An enormous painting, with a cast of thousands of warriors, tells the story. A statue to this animal stands at a roundabout in Udaipur itself..
We rounded out the day with a visit to the local folk art museum and a puppet show. Tomorrow we fly out of Rajasthan and continue our journey in southern India. I can't recommend this trip highly enough. Every single day has been exciting and rewarding. The food has been of high quality and I've over indulged. A diet lies in my future.
We've left Rajasthan - first catching a flight to Delhi, and then a second flight to Aurangabad.
Indian security seems to have it in for me, or else the sheer quantity of electronic stuff I travel with confuses them. I was savvy this time, and had removed my card reader and SD card from my carry on luggage. I didn't want them to be corrupted again. I had to remove everything from my hand luggage - computer, kindle, tablet, camera, plugs, chargers, power banks, torch, umbrella - you name it. Finally they settled on confiscating a small allan key that fixes my camera to a belt attachment. A small annoyance in the scheme of things, but wildly irrational. I fail to see what danger a two inch length of allan key presents to the aircraft.
Aside from the minor irritation posed by security - and they are on high alert after tensions with Pakistan and probably the terror attack in Christchurch - the rest of the journey was tedious but uneventful.
We arrived at our hotel about 8pm and went to dinner. India has the most idiosyncratic alcohol legislation I've ever encountered. Our guide, Vikram has explained them to us. To sell liquour, a vendor has to apply, with a substantial, non-refundable payment, to the State - by which I mean the individual states of India, not the whole nation. Successful applicants are drawn by ballot, and then pay a large amount to purchase the licence. Obviously this generates a large amount of money for the individual states.
The price of the licence depends on the sort of use that will be made of it. A large international hotel will pay squillions, smaller enterprises pay a lower rate and so on. This scaling means, to limit their costs, most of the hotels don't have a bar in the mini-bar. Some can only sell alcohol such as wine in the restaurant part of the hotel, meaning you can't take a drink out to sit by the pool.
Others, such as the hotel we've just moved into, can only sell liquour in the bar - but not in the restaurant. Bang goes the opportunity of a drink with a meal.
Also as a result of this licensing, a bottle of wine will only be licensed for sale in one particular state. You cannot cross the border from Utter Pradesh to Rajasthan with a bottle of wine, even though you may only be travelling 20 kms to a friend's house. This would be smuggling.
It's all part of the fun of travelling!
Now that I've been able to upload photos from my camera, I've posted some of my favourite animal shots.
The Ajanta caves were reached after a four hour, exceptionally bumpy, ride over a road that is being renovated. Short stretches of excellent new tarmac were interspersed with much longer stretches of bumps and potholes. My fitbit step counter was working in over drive!
Once we'd descended into the valley we left the buses for a 2 km walk to the temples. The temperature was in the mid 30's. We've reached 'heat' at last! Up until now the temperature has barely reached 30, but today was a scorcher, the heat being reflected off the volcanic walls of the valley.
Palanquin's were on offer for anyone who felt they couldn't manage the climb. Our party staunchly refused their help - although I had a secret desire to try them out, just for the fun of it and the experience. We did see a couple from another group using them, and they did look particularly unstable as they went up or down stairs carried by four bearers!
Mind you, the palanquin bearers stalked us throughout our trek into the gorge. They were like wolves, keenly spotting the weakest members of the party and targeting them with their sales pitch.
The 'caves' are actually a misnomer, the temples inset into the basalt walls of the gorge having all been carved out by hand using simply a hammer and chisel. It must have been hot and heavy work - particularly in the early stages when they'd have been working in a narrow space as they chiselled out from the ceiling down.
All the caves are dedicated to the Lord Buddha - and the temples were carved between 200BC and 500AD. Apparently there are about 1000 of these temples scattered around the neighbouring country, although this particular group had only 29. They'd been covered by jungle for 1000 years until a British hunting party stumbled upon them in 1819.
Each temple has murals painted on the walls - given their age, it's remarkable how many have survived. They tell the story of Buddha's life, and include lavish court scenes, musicians, princes as well as the Buddha himself.
We were a very flushed, over heated group when we made it back to the restaurant at the start. Iced beers, cokes and waters were consumed in profligate numbers. I was told the staff were particularly happy on hot days as they did much better business with the tourists.
We returned by the same bumpy road, so we were well and truly stirred and shaken by the time we made it to the hotel. What a fantastic day! I wouldn't have missed it for the world.
Day 21 Aurangabad – Mumbai via the Ellora Caves.
Today is Holi and this morning we celebrated it in the hotel garden with staff and other guests. The hotel provided colours – bright red, green, yellow and purple – and we began to play. I understand the conventional and courteous way to commence operations is to take a handful of powdered colour in each hand and apply it gently to either side of someone’s face. This is quite a seemly approach and unlikely to cause offence. Needless to say, it took our group about 20 seconds to pass this point. Vikram, our excellent guide, duly pasted my cheeks with colour before rubbing a handful into my hair. It was game on! A lot of fun, very colourful and a very cheerful event which ended with music and some dancing.
Vikram has assured us the colour will wash out of our clothes with no effort. He has also advised us to wear white shirts so the colours show to best effect. I suspect this is a man who never does domestic tasks as it took a 20 minute shower to get the powder off my skin – and although I’d shampooed it twice, my hair was still streaked with green in the afternoon. I wasn’t alone – a fair number of women wandered around with variations of pink, green or yellow hair. We all agreed we were mortified by the mess we’d left in the hotel showers and towels. The colour flooded down the plug hole and clung to any roughness in enamel surfaces.
I think we all sagged a bit as we drove to the Ellora caves. Yesterday’s visit to Ajunta was wonderful – but it was also gruelling and extremely hot. Temperatures are now 26 C at night and 35+ during the day. Secretly none of us were that keen on another round of cave temples.
How wrong we were! The first couple of caves we visited were straight forward, the main difference between them and the Ajunta cave is that these are Hindu or Jain – Ajunta being exclusively Bhuddist.
The third temple we explored was extraordinary. The Kailish Temple, dedicated to Shiva, is an entire temple, but out of the rock.. The builders started digging down from the top, shifting some 200 million tonnes of rubble, to create this masterpiece. In other words, they didn’t dig a hole, and then build a temple in the crater. They carved it from the rock they were excavating. Any mistake would have been a disaster. Remember this is 9th century AD, and took 200 years to complete. Some mastermind must have had a vision of what it was going to look like, and worked out what needed to be left, and what removed at each level.
Later we flew to Mumbai. Security is still tight, and I’ve got used to hassles at check in. We arrived at our hotel in Mumbai at 11pm and were all grateful to fall into our beds.
Day 22 Mumbai – Kochi
This morning we had a VERY quick overview of Mumbai. We were driven past Chowpatty Beach, up Malabar hill to the hanging gardens where we stopped for five minutes for a photo opportunity. I was disappointed we didn’t have time to check out the place we used to live when I was a child, but they pointed out the lane that led to it. At least I recognised the Kamala Nehru Park and the large “old woman who lived in a shoe” type shoe. Good to see children today are enjoying it as much as I did. Later we visited the big arch called “The Gateway to India”.
The dhobi ghat, or outdoor laundry centre was fascinating. I’d never seen it before, but it’s where hundreds of kilograms of washing are washed outside every day in open air troughs. Then the washing is hung on long lines to dry before being ironed. How the dhobis keep track of who’s the washing is, or where to return it is beyond me. The operation is enormous, chaotic, and somehow works.
I think we all felt the time our schedule allowed us to stay in Mumbai was inadequate. THere's a lot to see here, and we all felt short changed. It might have been better to have omitted it entirely.
In the afternoon we flew to Kochi. We are now in Kerala, and it’s a very different India to what we’ve experienced so far in Rajasthan. Our new guide, Ajith seems very nice.
Day 23 Kochi
We are staying here for two nights, so it was an opportunity to get the clothes we wore for Holi washed. Alas, and as suspected, the Holi powder did NOT wash out of our clothes easily, in fact the entire wash came back a delicate shade of pink and had to be dumped into the waste baskets. I suspect Vikram, who assured us that cleaning these clothes is simple, has never done a days domestic work in his life and relies on a host of dhobis and other servants to get these tasks done. Certainly our clothes were trashed - although we had deliberately worn stuff we could dispose of iff needed.
Kerala, I’ve discovered, has a very different culture and history to northern India. A large proportion of the population are Christian, and churches abound. Kerala was one of the first places to adopt Christianity, dating from the mid 5th century AD, consequently Christianity in the state well and truly preceded Roman Catholicism, and is Orthodox in nature. When Catholicism did arrive there was some friction between the two sects, although eventually they appear to have settled their differences.
We visited the Dutch Palace - built by the Portugese to propitiate the Raja when some sailors trashed a couple of shrines. It became known as the Dutch Palace when the Dutch renovated the building after they'd kicked the Portugese out.
Later we explored the Basilica where Vasco de Gama was buried, although his remains were later shifted to another town further south.
Finally we went down to the water to see the Chinese fishing nets - this simple device for launching the nets involves a cantilever system weighed with heavy boulders. Very effective, and we had fun launching the nets and hauling them in. At this time of year, just before the monsoon, there are little fish to be had. Even so, it was gratifying that the women's team launched and lifted their net efficiently but managed to get more fish than the men - by two small tiddlers! Anyway, the waiting birds were happy.
It is hot. Finally the heat has caught up with us, and it is taking it's toll. We walk more slowly and get tired more easily.
The exciting thing about this whole holiday is that every single day has brought amazing new experiences. I can't think of a holiday that has provided us with a richer sense of a nation's history and culture while all the time being entertaining and adventurous. Hats off to whoever designed this itinerary.
We drove today about an hour and a half south to a small village called Nedumudy. There's not a lot to see there, it's main significance being as a launching pad for our overnight houseboat. These are converted rice barges known as "Kettuvalam". They are quite stylish looking boats, with a large, airy, open space in the bow protected from the sun by woven bamboo roof. At the rear of this area a dining table had been set up, while further forward was a comfortable sitting area - setees, chairs, and a couple of wonderful mattresses to recline on as we drifted past the rural beauty of Kerala. Our boat had three double cabins on board. They were simple, yet comfortable, with ensuite bathrooms.
By this stage of our journey, our tour has divided naturally into smaller, interest based groups and we shared this part of our adventures with an English couple and an Australian woman. , Over the last few weeks we'd fallen into the habit of sharing a drink or two together in the evening, while we discussed how great our day had been. Accordingly, it was a convivial bunch that set sail aboard the NeeduKamal.
On the water a light breeze cooled the heated afternoon to something slightly bearable. When we docked, the heat was intense. Nevertheless, we dutifully disembarked for a walk around the village, and a visit to the local Basilica which had just commenced a service.
Old respect dies hard, and I'm never comfortable about intruding on an active site of worship - but the place was magnificent. When the priest and acolytes emerged from the curtain that hid the holy of holies - well naturally we had to stay until the whole was revealed.
In New Zealand we are so very casual and dismissive about religion, and yet in India it is a natural part of life. While separation of religion and state may be a given in India, it is quite clear that every single person we met was deeply spiritual. Prayer, meditation and worship form a perfectly normal part of their day. Are they more credulous than us, or do they have an understanding we lack?
What we did see was Christian Churches in Kerala with queues outside them waiting for access to the church for matins or mass. We'd seen similar signs of devotion in Varanasi with the long queues for the temple there. It was hard not to wonder whether our scepticism is really enough, and how much richness we miss out on by eliminating spiritual and moral considerations from our day to day philosophy.
We watched the sun go down over the backwaters, and photographed the sunset from every possible angle. Later we went to bed, the boat securely moored for the night, knowing we'd be up at sunrise the next day to catch our connection to the next part of our itinerary.
I don't imagine anyone wanted to quit the houseboats this morning, but we had to, so we trooped back on the bus for the trip to Kovalam. Each one of us is aware we are counting down the final hours of this holiday, so there's a slightly elegaic cast to our conversations in these last few days.
We reached our hotel, and had the rest of the day at leisure - and we all needed it. Wonderful as this trip has been, noone would describe it as restful. It's not so much the early starts or long hours on the bus. Rather its the sheer volume of material, variety of experiences, the colour, the people, the noise and the beauty of the place which all take enormous mental effort to process, catalogue and appreciate.
I wonder how hardened travellers like Marco Polo coped. I suppose everything was slower - no faster than a horse or camel could traverse in a day, so maybe absorbing new experiences proceeded at a more genteel pace.
Our hotel is lovely, set next to the beach where the Indian Ocean caresses the shore. I understand that in the Bander Aceh tsunami, the waves did a good deal more than caress, and that sustantial damage was done to the state.
We shared dinner tonight with the sad knowledge that tomorrow, after a morning tour, we all go our separate ways. This has been an amazing group to travel with. Worldly, well-travelled, and relaxed, they've been fun throughout the exigiences of travel. Another group that left New Delhi and paralleled us for much of our northern India tour seemed to be in a permanent sulk. Nothing pleased them, and it wasn't hard to see how one bad egg could influence an entire group and spoil a holiday for everyone. We've been very luckly with our companions.
Our guide Ajith was determined to show us all Trivandrum had to show. Incidentally, Trivandrum is NOT the way the locals spell it. A little like the Welsh, their language contains way too many vowels and consonants for normal folk. I was grateful for the abbreviated version!
Our guide was determined we got full value on this, our final day in India. We started with a trip to a fishing village near Kovalam where, arriving early in the day to beat the heat, we were lucky to climb down to the beach in time to watch men pull nets in from the sea. There must have been twenty or more men sharing the load as they hauled the heavy wet net in. The guide explained the catch brought in from the ocean by the fishing boats was usually sold but the take from local nets was shared amongst the men for their own use in the village. If this is so, it was lean pickings. They’d have been lucky to get a small sprat each, for all their efforts. It is recognised that these don't generate profit - just enough to go around for the families to eat for the day. I have to say the takings looked small. A savvy housewife would be hard pressed to stretch the take into a family meal. It took an enormous amount of man power to pull the net in, yet the return was minimal. I couldn’t determine whether this was due to off shore overfishing by larger commercial boats, or whether the small catch was a reflection of the season.I
The village was prettily arranged around a bay. The Muslim community, with its mosque, was on the northern side of the bay, while the southern, Christian, side had an attractive church and a statue of the Virgin looking out to sea. Between these two lay the brightly painted fishing fleet pulled up on the shore.
As the boats came in, the catch was immediately claimed by the fishermen’s wives and daughters who set up shop on the beach. This impromptu market happens every day, and selling the fish is exclusively a female responsibility, and they pride themselves on being savvy dealers.
Later, in Trivandrum, we toured the Kanakaunnu Palace, with it’s marvellous frieze of horses supporting the outer edges of the roof. We toured the treasures stored there. There is unimaginable wealth tucked away in these palaces – truly those princes lived well.
We stopped at the art gallery. How artists express their views of history is always fascinating – here were western colonial artists celebrating the Raj, more modern, Indian artists focussing on a newer India, and some international painters drawn to India’s dramatic landscapes. I was deeply moved by a small painting simply entitled ‘Johar’, focussing on a group of women lining up to enter a firelit room.
As waves of armies waged war in the north, particularly in the wars between the Hindu princes and the Islamic Mughals, there were several occasions where royal women, realising their side had lost, chose to commit suicide rather than fall into the hands of the invading army. They were accompanied by their maids and other women servants who presumably also preferred a quick fiery death to being raped, humiliated and enslaved. The largest recorded number to die together was 17,000.
I hadn’t heard of this rite before, and mass, ritual suicide by women is almost incomprehensible to my western mind, but it happened on several, well-documented occasions. I’m only surprised it hasn’t featured in GOT!
Our final dinner together in the evening was a sad occasion. I imagine all of us had made new friends and made tentative attempts to keep in contact once we returned home. Like most ship-board friendships we also knew the odds against this occurring were high.
The 4 hour flight from Trivandrum to Singapore was miserable. Although run by Singapore Airlines, usually reliable for a comfortable flying experience, the aircraft was tiny, packed and had no on-board entertainment. The cramped conditions made it impossible to sleep, even though we didn’t depart until 11pm, and we arrived in Singapore at 5am tired, grumpy and with a 16 hour layover ahead of us.
For the first time ever we took advantage of Singapore airports facilities, booked in to an in-terminal hotel – and slept the day away. I’ve never been in such a quiet hotel – which makes sense I suppose seeing most guests would spend their time asleep.
It was a much better flight back to Auckland. The aircraft was larger, and there was space to spread out and get some more sleep as well as watch an in-flight movie. I also have to comment on how nice it was to return to a normal level of airport security after India’s draconic measures. Habituated now to emptying out everything in my hand luggage I started pulling out my Kindle, connectors, leads, drives and plugs, only to be stopped by a startled official who assured me that they were only interested in my computer.
And now we’re home looking back on the most amazing experiences. I can’t recommend visiting India highly enough – it offered a densely layered experience, and wasn’t at all what I expected, being much cleaner, modern and developed. Their internet provision leaves NZ in the dust, and it was sobering to see the effort India is putting into renewable energy sources, into gender equality, education and reforestation.
But of course, it was the colourful clothes, the vivid skies, rich history, beautiful buildings and wonderful people that made the whole trip such a delight. Thoroughly recommended!
1. Travelling South
Travel in the time of Covid 19.
Flying south from Wellington is a slightly surreal experience these days. New Zealand travellers are out and about enjoying their own country; the airport long-term car park is full, and there are plenty of people—many with children, enjoying the airport lounge.
It all looked like business as usual: except the only aircraft in sight were ATR’s; there was no security to pass through at Wellington airport; no air bridges and Air New Zealand, while doing a stalwart job of keeping the nation moving, kept tweaking flight times. Even with an amended schedule, the flight out of Wellington was an hour late.
The delay didn’t bother Cavan and me. We toasted each other with a glass of bubbles and nibbled happily on lounge food. A large proportion of the passengers though were families heading for Queenstown and skiing during the school break. When we arrived in Christchurch, they had a mad scramble across the tarmac to connect to their flight.
Most of the rest of the passengers disembarked at Christchurch, headed for the rugby game.
Our Invercargill flight timetable had also been tweaked, so we arrived in Invercargill at 5.40 pm. It was already dark, which was a pity, as I’d have enjoyed seeing something of the town.
We reached our motel, directly opposite the Victorian water tower building, and had an early night.
Bluff—Port Adventure
This morning they picked us up at 8.30 am and transferred to Bluff, where we caught the ferry to Stewart Island,
Foveaux Strait has a gnarly reputation as a stretch of water to be respected. Although I’m usually an excellent sailor, we’d pre-prepared by taking a Sea Legs tablet each. Whether because of the prophylactic or because the catamaran ferry cut smoothly through the seas, we were both fine. The crossing took about an hour, and as soon as we were in the lea of Stewart Island, the seas calmed. By the time we’d reached the wharf, we were sailing across a millpond.
Our skipper expects the weather to deteriorate, so after the formality of a life jacket briefing, it was all aboard to Port Adventure so we have a head start on the cruise to Port Pegasus tomorrow.
Although the sea was a little choppy as we headed south, there were no sea-sickness casualties amongst us passengers. We reached Port Adventure in time for lunch.
We’d sailed with the Milford Wanderer some years ago, and our enjoyment of that trip had led to our returning on this cruise. In the ten years between trips, the ship has had a major upgrade. Our cabins now have doors, beds instead of bunks, and a toilet and shower right outside. A vast improvement on previous arrangements. The beds look warm and comfy, and each cabin has a heater.
Even better, the food remains at the same top-level of quality. The lunch John and the crew set out for us was top notch, and the evening meal even better. I’m not going on a diet this week!
In the afternoon we sailed into Port Adventure and anchored off Salty Beach. We could tender ashore and walk the length of the beach.
The sand had a peculiarly dense quality, being largely comprised of granite granules. Scattered across the sand were small granite stones of a wide variety of colours. They were as pretty in their own way as shells—and there were also a few large, brightly coloured paua shells.
The beach carried the imprint of the tracks of white-tailed deer, possum and kiwi. Here and there were patches of scuffed-up sand hard against the bank that separated the beach from the hinterland. These are a sign of sea lions who come ashore, scrap up the beach and then climb up to sleep in the bush's undergrowth line above on the bank.
We climbed the bank by a short ladder they’d tendered in on the boat. The bush is very different to that I’m used to further north. The undergrowth is thicker, with low growing ferns, turpentine bushes and moss. Higher, the taller trees, rata, manuka and a thick leaf tree, mutton-birds grub, related to rangiora, all show damage from the wild weather that must prevail most of the year around.
As they tendered us back to the Milford Wanderer, they took us on a cruise around the adjacent bays: of Abraham's bosom. A ship was moored in one of the bays. It turns out that the owners had left Auckland in late January and been sailing around NZ ever since. It was fatuous but inevitable to ask them “How did your lockdown go?” I doubt if they’d even realised there was a pandemic on in the rest of the country!
A brief presentation about Rakiura (Stewart Island) rounded out the evening—and then it was time for bed in our comfy, if narrow, beds.
Port Adventure to Port Pegasus.
None of us will starve to death! It was a wonderful, cooked breakfast to start the day. Porridge and cereals. (It’s been years since I indulged in porridge with brown sugar and cream!) Then a cooked breakfast—eggs, hash browns, sausages, bacon and tomatoes.
As soon as the dishes were done, the anchor was weighed, and we were out to the open sea on our way down to Port Pegasus. We’ve been warned the seas can rock-and-roll down in these parts, so Cavan and I prepared with another dose of Sea-legs and our patches are still in place.
It was a four hour sail to Port Pegasus, and yes, the ship did bump and grind. Still, passing all the islands where Maori have rights to go mutton-birding each year was fascinating. Some baches (cribs for my South Island friends), were substantial.
If I take no other image of Stewart Island with me, it will be the mass of islands off the coast. Heck, even the islands have islands—and almost every cove is adorned with one or two.
We broke the journey at the Lord river where we could shelter for ten minutes from the choppy seas, recover our health and have a cup of coffee or tea,
The staff were good: there was plenty of crystallized ginger to suck or chew and ginger and lemon juice to drink. The seas were rough, depending on where we were in relation to the land, and whether we went with the wind and water or against their flow. Occasionally we had to cross them, which made it rather less comfortable. I believe some passengers were sick, although I didn’t see anyone vomiting.
We passed through Whale passage into the Port Pegasus waterway, and within minutes the water was quiet, people felt better, and they served lunch.
After lunch we landed ashore, and climbed along a gentle ridge until we reached a plateau that gave tremendous views of Gog, Magog and Bald Cone. The track was overgrown, with tall hebes and manuka that were as tall as I, and a strong underlayer of mosses and ferns. As all the undergrowth frequently obscured the ground surface, some care was needed not to get a foot caught in tangles of roots across the track.
There is no ‘bush’ as we normally understand it. The strong southerly winds that blow across this place must ensure no tall trees can stand. All the plants are low, or on a lean, and the land is boggy and the track muddy. When we reached clear land, the rocks were granite.
In a few places, previous travellers have piled the flat stone layers into cairns. It was a bit of a scramble, but the view was wonderful when we reached the top, taking in a wide vista of the rugged granite peaks that frame the landscape.
Then, back to the boat for a shower, and an hour cruising in Port Pegasus’s northern arms. Tomorrow I believe we intend to climb the largest of the peaks, Bald Cone. Not sure what I feel about that. I’m fine going up slopes, but I have two left feet when going down again.
Port Pegasus.
It was a full-on day today. First, a hike up the mountain called Bald Cone. It’s a fairly imposing granite monolith, and I’d viewed it with trepidation when I realised yesterday that climbing it lay in my future.
They tendered us off the “Milford Wanderer” at 8.30am. Accessing the track involved an initial climb up the ladder to get us up the bank above the water. I have used the word ‘track’ rather loosely. It comprised a steep, muddy, slippery climb up through the bush that clung to the lower slopes. Heading up the slope, I couldn’t even imagine how we would make it down it again safely as I'm crap at going downhill!
Above the bush line we entered a land of scrappy, burnt out manuka, with fresh grasses growing between it. Apparently a fire three years ago burned this area out. I was grateful for the moribund manuka as at least we had something to cling to as we hauled ourselves up the trail. Our hiking poles were not just useless, they were an active impediment as they became caught in the scrub at regular intervals. Uneven ‘steps’ up meant tromping through thick mud and drawing up to the next level by clutching the manuka and scrabbling for purchase. About three quarters of the way up the manuka gave way to more open ground interspersed with large slabs of granite which we needed to cross. Unfortunately, the granite expanses were frequently covered in treacherous lichen. I saw several of our fellow passengers slip and fall traversing these.
It was one hell of a scramble, but eventually we made it to the top. The view was magnificent, and we agreed we were all glad to be there. Crazy, smooth, enormous boulders of granite balanced precariously on each other, blocked any chance of reaching the real summit. We were happy enough to be where we were!
Coming down was a nightmare—slippery, very steep and ankle breaking obstacles littered the track. At one point I slipped and fell. The fall was minor enough, just a slide on the mud which ended with me on my bum in wet sludge. Unfortunately, as I fell, my head encountered a manuka branch which pierced my forehead. No actual damage done, but like most head injuries it bled freely, covering my face and coat, and putting a pretty pink rinse through my hair.
Richard, our guide, patched me up with Elastoplast, and we continued on down. My legs were quivering with exhaustion by the time we reached the ladder at the bottom. Boots, trousers, socks and jackets were all covered in gooey, filthy mud!
However, an excellent lunch restored us, and we were ready to go kayaking in the afternoon. It was lovely to be out on the pristine, clear water. The “Milford Wanderer’ moored in a quiet cove and we could paddle around the little islets that scattered the bay. We discovered a blow hole! As the waves hit it, wind would filter through from an opening further round and utter a great “whoooing” noise.
I saw fish jumping and wondered what was beneath the surface of the bay, forcing them to do so. Other passengers who had elected not to kayak but toured the bay in the tender later told us they’d encountered two sea lions—which would explain the fish’s antics.
Finally, a trip in the tender to the bell-topper waterfall.
It was a busy day. I expect to sleep well tonight!
Port Pegasus.
Our day started with a walk through the bush to Broad Bay. It intrigues me that getting into the bush above the water level almost always seems to require a rather dodgy climb up a ladder to reach the top of the bank. Today, our access to the bush was up a water-way. Consequently, the rocks we had to clamber over to reach said ladder were wet and treacherous.
Once in the bush a narrow trail ran across the isthmus from South Arm to Broad Bay. Beautiful bush and a reasonably easy track, although muddy in places. It was a much more gentle form of exercise than yesterday’s walk!
When we emerged on the sand at Broad Bay, we found sea-lions also enjoying the area. Four young males and an adolescent female were frolicking in the water—although I suspect the female wasn’t so much playing as being pestered by the males.
After a while curiosity consumed the sea-lions and they came down the beach to examine us. Apparently, size is a sign of dominance. Richard, our guide, told us that should a sea-lion approach too closely, we were to lift our hiking sticks up over their heads, increasing our size, and the sea lions would back off. I tried this, and it gave one young beast pause. But, as soon as I turned my back, he followed me (us) for some way into the tussock as we left the beach. Fortunately, he gave up after a short while, and we entered the bush unmolested.
Once we returned to the boat (and I’m always grateful to make it safely across the ladder and rocks to the tender!), we had lunch on board before lifting the anchor and heading for Paterson Inlet where we will camp tonight. They promise us the weather should be kinder on this cruise. Nevertheless, Cavan and I have taken our Sea Legs tablets and are all ready to go.
Six hours later we’re in Paterson Inlet where we've moored and had dinner. As a post-prandial exercise we then boarded the tender—most of us with one or more alcoholic drinks inside us!—crossed the inlet and then had a brief walk down to ocean beach to spot kiwis. We’d taken the precaution of covering our torches with red cellophane, as apparently the red light doesn’t disturb the birds. I was sceptical about our chances of seeing any kiwi. In my experience, wild-life rarely appears on demand. But, by the time we’d walked half the length of the beach, sure enough, there was a large female trotting around on the sand.
Apparently they feed on sand-hoppers, and this bird was busy fossicking through the seaweed to find them. We watched for fifteen minutes or more, and the red light trick must have worked as she certainly wasn’t bothered by us. Unfortunately, the lack of light meant I couldn’t get a decent photo, but what an experience. We all came home buzzing!
Maori Beach and whaling station
What a perfect day! We were all a little high after the kiwi experience the previous night. And first thing this morning we were tendered ashore for a short hike to an old whaling station. Note: no scary ladder climb was required to enter this trail! We were simply dropped off on the shore and followed the track around. Actually, ‘whaling station’ isn’t entirely correct. This was a maintenance station where the “chaser boats” that supported the enormous mother ships were maintained at the end of each season. The site is a ruin now, a cluster of concrete foundations, propeller’s, old springs, and rusting axles.
I find it extraordinary to consider how short a history pakeha New Zealand has—and yet, there are already a huge number of sites we’ve visited where our forebears struggled and strove to create settlements, establish industry and survive incredibly harsh conditions. There is a melancholy vibe to these places. A reminder that much we do is vainglorious and will not survive our own generation.
Once back from our walk, the Milford Wanderer sailed north, passing Oban, and finally weighing anchor at Maori Beach. There, we tendered ashore, and had the most lovely walk through the rich bush to Port Williams. It was about an hour’s walk, through ferny undergrowth, with enormous Rimu trees towering over the lower levels. There was an airy aspect to the growth—very little grew between ground level and the top of the canopy. It made for a very pleasant route—especially as the track was beautifully constructed, well gravelled and drained, and a joy to walk on.
We returned to the ship - had a shower—and settled down to celebrate our last night on board.
The last day. Ulva Island.
Ulva island was probably the most anticipated visit we would make on this trip, so it seemed appropriate that it would be our ultimate experience.
Also, it was the beginning of the end. First thing this morning we packed our bags ready for departure. Although we had the full use of our cabins for the day, the crew requested that they be allowed to strip our beds ready to parcel up the dirty linen and offload it on shore when we passengers left the Milford Wanderer at Oban for the ferry to Bluff.
After breakfast, Gadget, a pest control dog who works with DOC to detect any rats or mice that are present, visited us. This formality was a precursor for our trip to Ulva Island. The sanctuary is mouse and rat free and obviously a lot of effort goes in to maintaining that status.
Gadget was a delightful little Jack-Russell/Fox terrier cross. They put her through her paces, searching for a prepared bait of sawdust from a mouse’s cage.
Gadget could not discover any rats present on our ship, so we were free to go ashore. We wandered the tracks of the island for the best part of three hours. As the tracks were beautifully well prepared and maintained, it was easy walking. We saw saddlebacks, kaka, kereru, fantail, robins, tom-tits and weka. Infuriatingly, all too often they flew off just as soon as I had the camera focussed on them, so I wasn’t able to get the shots I wanted. Still, they were lovely to see in actual life.
Rather worryingly, we found the body of a recently deceased cat along the shoreline during our walk. It brought into sharp focus the need to be ever vigilant in protecting these sanctuaries. I couldn't imagine how the cat had reached the island.
We returned to the boat for lunch, and then it was all over. We sailed to Oban, said goodbye to the crew, and boarded the ferry to Bluff. Magically, the sea was as smooth as silk—nothing rough about Foveaux Strait today. When we arrived in Bluff, we discovered it was VERY much colder there than it had been on Stewart Island.
Tomorrow we are being picked up at 5am, to get to the airport for our first flight to Christchurch. We’ve a 3 hour wait there, so we can catch breakfast before our flight to Wellington.
It was a magnificent holiday.
The FINAL, final day.
Alas—late yesterday evening we received an email from Air New Zealand telling us that our flights today were cancelled, and re-booking us on replacement flights 30 hours later. Grrrrr. By this time we were looking forward to returning home. A hasty check with the Motel that they could accommodate us for another night; an equally frantic check that we still had carers for the pets and horses back at base for another couple of nights, and we settled down for an unexpected day in Invercargill.
In fairness to Air NZ, I should say that when Cavan walked down to the Motel office to sort the extended booking out, he reported a thick fog was covering everything. So, presumably, our flight, due to depart at 6am, hadn’t been able to land.
So, Invercargill! First of all, it’s cold. Much colder than Stewart Island! There is frost on the Motel’s grass, which lasted the whole day. We walked into the park across the road from the motel, and the duck pond was frozen—we watched several birds landing and skidding along this impromptu, slippery runway!
Fortunately, we were well prepared for the chill. We may not have looked the most glamourous of tourists with our hiking boots and warm coats, but we were very comfortable as we walked into the CBD.
It’s been fifty years since I was last here—an 8-year-old on my motor scooter. That was the holiday when Cavan and I first met, and by the time we reached Invercargill, several of us young people had been travelling around the South Island, in a loose grouping, for a couple of weeks or so. Cavan and his travelling companion, Dave, were on their 650cc AJS, which rather outclassed the 150cc Vespa!
I don’t really recall much of Invercargill’s CBD from that trip, and at the moment, they are knocking down an enormous block of it for a new development. We checked out Hayes hardware for their motorbike collection—particularly the Burt Munro memorabilia.
We stopped for a cup of warming hot chocolate, before walking down to the transport museum. Those old vehicles are always fascinating, and their condition and maintenance a tribute to the museum. The working vehicles—the farm trucks, trailers, and transport vehicles took my fancy. Our old Bedford horse truck would not have seemed out of place!
Finally, a lovely end to the holiday with a meal at the Saucy Chef restaurant.
If the weather gods and Air NZ smile on us, we'll be home tomorrow evening.
Postscript.
Was it a wonderful holiday? Would we recommend it? Did we enjoy it? A resounding yes to each of those questions.
This was our second “Real Journey” Discovery trip aboard the Milford Wanderer, so naturally we now have an emotional investment in the vessel. Not only was it nice to rediscover the ship and her crew, but the upgrades that had occurred in the intervening years made this very much more comfortable than our Fiordland experience some dozen years earlier.
This is a unique environment compared to our previous trip into Fiordland. There, much of the beauty lay in the lofty peaks which framed the fjords, the lush bush and dramatic vistas.
Stewart Island is different. Generally, the hills are low and bush clad. Much of its distinct appearance comes from the beautiful beaches—either white or golden, which lie between the outcroppings of rock, fringed with kelp, that run out into the bays. The water is so beautifully clear and unpolluted. The colour on the sea is lovely. And the islands! Every bay and cove seems to have its own collection of little islands associated with it. When we kayaked, we paddled around and between them. They add focus to every seascape photograph. I had no idea that Stewart Island would be like this—from the large, mutton-birding tiriti islands with their substantial dwellings, to small, islets, they defined the scenery.
The variety of the bush is endlessly fascinating—and always different to the Tararua Range variety I am accustomed to. Everywhere we went there was an impressive amount of ground cover—be it fern, moss, grasses or plants I couldn’t identify. The higher canopy varied; In Port Pegasus, the most southerly area we visited, windswept, stunted manuka, mutton-bird grub and hebes provided cover. Varying in height, depending on where it was, there were few tall trees in this harsh environment.
Further north, and more protected, the ground cover was lush with varied ferns that grew in mass profusion. The canopy was thirty feet or more above us, with little mid-level growth. The result was a unimpeded view into the bush around—a lovely, airy, open experience.
Even on Ulva Island, where the mid-level growth was thicker, it was still thinner than I am used to, allowing unobstructed views across the forest.
What did I enjoy most? The kiwi encounter on the beach; ditto the sea-lions. It’s a real privilege to see animals free in their own environment.
What challenged me the most? Definitely the climb up Bald Cone. I came to realise the tramps I’d previously done had been on relatively well-prepared tracks (even though some were ‘tramping tracks’). I was initially daunted by having to climb ladders to even gain access to the overgrown, unformed trails with their slippery mud, tricky roots and lichen-covered rocks. Did I love it? Yes, of course! I may have said a few rude words as we descended the steep mountainside, (I hate going downhill), but I wouldn’t have missed the experience for the worlds.
Would I recommend it? Hell, yes. The crew were wonderful. They cared for us, patched up any hurts, fed us fabulous food, and were fun to be with. This was a unique opportunity and a real privilege to see a part of our country very few every get to experience. If you can, try it for yourselves.
Auckland was showing off the last of its summer weather when we arrived there - so much so that my denim jacket, long-sleeved tee, and jeans soon seemed overly warm. Fortunately, I didn't give in to the temptation to strip back on the clothing because the weather in the Chathams was a different beast altogether. Some of our companions acted in haste and lived to regret it when we arrived on the island after the 3-hour flight.
The weak late afternoon sun, slanting below the low cloud, made our first impression of the Chathams a bleak affair. A chill, brisk breeze was blowing that made for a rocky aircraft landing and a cold welcome to the island,
In the dim light, it was hard to make out many details other than an overall impression of paddocks filled with pestilential weeds and a flattish, low-rising landscape. The land and the few dwellings we passed during our bus trip to the hotel seemed impoverished and poorly maintained.
The hotel was welcoming with a bustling, cheerful atmosphere. The rooms are modern and well-appointed. Our king-size bed came with a remote control to lift the feet or head of the mattress or provide a welcome massage. Things were looking up!
Even better was the quality of the evening meal. Rich fish chowder, blue cod and tiramisu. All of which went a long way towards us forgiving our first chilly impressions of the island.
By the time we went to bed, we considered the Chathams had redeemed themselves and were looking forward to the next day.
Our hotel room looks directly onto the Waitangi harbour. When we opened the curtains, it was to see fishing boats quietly bobbing away in the bay. The sun was shining, and although it was obvious it had rained in the night, the day looked promising enough.
They had warned us that the weather would rule our tour activities, and the schedule would vary accordingly.
Carefully wrapped against the chilly wind, we made our way onto the bus and up Tukitiki hill, which has a fine lookout over Petrie Bay, Waitangi, and the cones of distant volcanos. We learned the Chathams are on a different tectonic plate to New Zealand, being on the eastern side of the Chatham Rise. Accordingly, they don't have earthquakes and the volcanos are pleasingly dormant.
Below the lookout we studied the fine wharf built to provide a safe mooring for the vital supply ships that provision the island. Because of the lack of suitable local materials, they had built the wharf of concrete blocks, shaped like complicated five-finger game pieces that locked together to provide stability in the turbulent waters of the island coastline. It was an impressive bit of engineering.
Our bus then took us north to the Go Wild Apiary which produces honey from indigenous pollens using Chatham island bees. The bees came originally from England and Europe and have been separated from the rest of the world for so long by the Chatham Islands' remoteness that they are entirely disease free. The Apiary owner took us on a tour of their property, following hand made paths they have created through native vegetation of Mingimingi, Tarahina and Pouteretere. It was an admirable enterprise, and I wish them well developing their dream - it looked like an incredibly labour intensive project.
The visit was interesting, and the foliage attractive, but the biting wind was an issue. I had thought myself more than adequately protected by my layers of clothing, but it turned out that it was only just enough in such conditions. I will try harder tomorrow!
After returning to our trusty bus, we turned back south, driving across the lower part of the island to Owenga. Our route took us through several local farms (all land on this island is privately owned, and there is no Queen's chain, so gaining permission to cross is critical.)
My first impression was confirmed: an awful lot of land was lying neglected carrying a massive burden of weeds - gorse, lupin being the most predominant. Fences lay in disrepair and it was plain in many cases that basic maintenance work wasn't getting done.
I had a brief, white man's colonial moment of deep irritation at this neglect until reason asserted itself. Everything on this island has to be either imported - or, in the case of produce - exported to New Zealand for processing. There are no abattoirs, milk processing plants or other local facilities. Profits on farming are probably woefully thin, while costs are astronomical.
Add to that the reality that the Chatham's main enterprise is fishing, with farming way down on the list, and the reasons for the conditions became obvious.
We paid a moving visit to the statue of Tommy Solomon, the last full blooded Moriori. I recalled reading Michael King's History of New Zealand some years ago where he recounts the story of what happened on these islands. A history of genocide, injustice and one which marks a sad part of New Zealand's history.
It was notable that the farms surrounding the statue's location - owned by the Solomon Trust, were amongst the tidiest and best looking land I've yet seen on the island and showed what good farming could achieve here.
Back to the hotel then for a meal of whitebait, Hapuku and a chocolate brownie. I get the feeling there will be no point in starting my diet this week.
A calamitous start to our day! Cavan woke at 4 am with a dramatic bout of vomiting and diarrhea. Fortunately, we always travel with a well-equipped medical kit, so he dosed himself up with Panadol and no-dia. However, in spite of his efforts, he had to withdraw from the day's activities and take to his bed. He slept on and off for the rest of the day and was still feeling awful in the evening. A RAT test established it wasn't Covid related, which was, I imagine, a great relief to our group, the hotel, and our tour guides.
While Cavan slept and recovered, the rest of us had a quick tour of Waitangi township - the bottle store (unmarked, but apparently everyone knows where it is!), the catholic church, the hospital, and the medical centre.
Then the more physically fit of our group went to the Henga Scenic Reserve. A beautiful track led through regenerated native bush up a well-maintained track to a lookout on the summit with scenic views for miles, giving a very clear sense of the geography of this part of the island.
Henga walk only took a couple of hours to complete, and although it involved a gentle climb, it was an easy grade for all of us. The hardest part of the exercise was getting across the three large, open paddocks between the coach parked on the roadside, and where the bush line began. The Chathams is a windy place, and we had to fight the full force of the wind as we made our way across the exposed ground. It made manoeuvering the stiles ludicrously hazardous: As soon as you lifted a leg to step over; the wind threatened to send you tumbling off balance, It was a good thing the stiles had a good post to cling on to throughout the manoeuvre.
We were back at the hotel for lunch and I could check that Cavan was still alive, although shivery and sleepy. I left him to his slumbers after re-dosing him with Panadol.
Our afternoon comprised a drive to the south coast. In contrast to my earlier comments about raggedy farms and poorly maintained land, this part of the Chathams showed sign of prosperity and good-management. The paddocks were grassy; the stock looked healthy, and it was clear this area belonged to a different socio-economic group. The houses were attractive, well-maintained, and well-constructed wool sheds and farm buildings were evident.
Apparently, a lot of this success derives from the natural phosphorous fertiliser flung up on to the land from wave activity over the Chatham rise resulting in the exceptional grass growth this part of the country enjoys. A marked contrast to my earlier observations of poverty and deprivation.
Everywhere along the coast we were in sight and the sound of the powerful sea. We watched spectacular wave activity over the offshore reefs. Truly, it would be a brave race of people venturing out onto that sea.
The Chathams have set a portion of this land aside down here as a bird reserve. The fenced the land off 30+ years ago, and the regeneration of the bush is spectacular. For the first time we saw rich fern life in the undergrowth as well as taller trees. Apparently there have been efforts made to reintroduce Albatross to nest in the area, but so far none of the birds have been prevailed upon to lay their eggs here.
Cavan is back in the land of the living and appears none the worse for wear. Which is just as well because today was a busy day.
First thing this morning, we explored some of the closer attractions to Waitangi. It transpires that Toni - our hotelier, landlady, tour entrepreneur and entertainer extraordinaire, has her finger in a vast number of Chatham Island pies. More power to her, her charm and intelligence.
She gave us a fascinating talk about a large painting in the dining room; the subject being a French ship and some Island waka plus a French Navy lifeboat. Based on a true story, it was a historical depiction of a ship that was alternatively rescued by native warriors who then massacred the French crew when the situation turned tense. Cultural misunderstandings happen all the time - but this was a very personal piece of history, and well presented.
Then on to the bus to see a few local attractions - The Norman Kirk recreational area and the staff accommodations for hotel staff. Regrettably, at this last venue, one of our older members tripped, fell and needed some serious first aid. It was a fascinating exercise in just how competent and prepared Chatham Islanders are for all exigences. With the patient fixed up and sent back to the hotel, our journey continued to Kopi Farm.
Here, the inheritors of a block of land are seeking ways to use their wonderful heritage as a tourist attraction and as a reserve. They've cleared tracks through the most amazing punga forest - that also grows Kopi and other native plants. Kopi is the Chatham Island name for Karaka. There may be some difference between the two - but I could see none.
I've never seen such dense bush. The punga form fortress like barricades; while the other bush plants, less rigid in their structure, grow resiliantly around them. This forest is some 150-year-old so is very close to what the original flora of these islands must have been like. May it continue to flourish.
The owners are currently building their home here, and we were fortunate to be shown through it. I can only admire the strength and energy they are bringing to this project.
After lunch on the bus, we travelled to the Nuku reserve where we enjoyed a 1 1/2 hour walk through the reserve. Formed in the 1980's its a treasure house of Nikau palms and other regenerating species. It was a pleasure to find Weka, hunted for food in the Chathams, opportunistically asking for food from us tourists.
I'm realising that much of the vacant; wilded farmland that bothered me so much may well be part of a conscious regeneration plan for restoring Chatham Island bush. Surprisingly, the Chathams suffer from drought. The rainfall is light - and even though it rains almost daily, the average annual rainfall is only about 800 millimetres - a situation that will hopefuly be reversed by the regeneration of the forests.
As a final treat we stopped by the lagoon to fossick along the tide line for fossilized sharks teeth and kina spines. Some millennia ago, a rise in the Chatham Rise saw numerous species suddenly stranded on the shores of the lagoon. These creatures eventually fossilized. And today we sought the many fossils that lie hidden in the sands. I found two shark teeth, and will treasure them as a heritage from the long deceased fishy ancestor who died on these shores.
Home to a hot shower and a good Sunday roast dinner.
I must confess to being just a bit weary after today which has surprised me. It's not the walking - well we've barely done 9000 steps which is less than I'd do in a normal day. But its the combination of exercise and brain activity. There is so much to learn about this fascinating place that I think my brain is getting exhausted trying to absorb every precious bit of information.
Today we went north-east. For those of you unfamiliar with the peculiar geography of Chatham Island, I would refer you to a biology diagram of a uterus and fallopian tubes, This is the basic shape of the island. An enormous inland lagoon - a relatively thin area of land surrounding this - and arms out at the northern end that extend to the west and east.
The south, (the major settlement of the island), and the south coast, form the base of the womb and the cervix.
Today we headed out to explore the north-eastern tip of the island. There is no route up the eastern coastline due to the lagoon, and the channel left open to drain it, so our route took us back over familiar territory along the banks of the western side of the lagoon. I'm taking a certain pleasure in being able to recognise places we've already explored as we pass them.)
SH1 as they call this road, turns a right angle at the northern edge of the lagoon and carries on to the eastern point. We stopped briefly for what should have been a wetlands walk, but erosion from recent storm activity had washed the track away and made the descent to the beach a drop of a couple of metres.
It's pleasing to see that the wetlands have largely been preserved, and left intact. Black swan move languidly through the waters, but there were few signs of other birds. The islanders are making it a priority to bring bird life back to the island by creating reserves to encourage them. Weka however are common - so common in fact that the islanders hunt them and make them part of their diet.
Our first stop was to see the Hapupu or Tree carvings. These date back hundreds of years and unfortunately are now so badly degraded that only a few remain, and they are hard to decipher. The Moriori carved them into Kopi trees. Apparently these trees are undateable because they don't build rings like usual trees, but have a soft, cork like interior which isn't possible to date. Settlement largely destroyed the forests they stand in when stock were allowed to graze in them. Pests destroyed the canopy, and pigs and cattle wrecked everything else - consequently sun and rain entered in among the trees, causing the carved bark to flake off. What remains is a mere imprint on the trunk, almost like a faint carbon copy - and I expect these will disappear in a few years.
By lunch time we'd reached a coastal village in the Kairanga station which is run by a Moriori Trust. It helped, of course, that the weather today was warm and beautiful. The village was prosperous, the harbour attractive (although lethally dangerous, given the number of rocks and reefs that dotted it. We watched sailors bring in their catch along the wharf which has long been condemned, but island style, is still used.
Lunch was at a prosperous local farm where the owner - a hoarder on an Olympic scale, has the remains of a Sunderland flying ship which crashed into the lagoon in the 1950's. Not much remains of the carcass, although it was interesting to climb inside.
From there we travelled across farm tracks and private land, to the seal colony. A completely different geology is apparent here, the rocks being schist. They made for a very attractive site, and we watched the seals - a good many of whom were juveniles - dive and swim in the crystal clear water.
Finally we turned for home, but stopped briefly on the way to explore the ruins of a German missionary station. Very little remains of this venture. 5 missionaries worked here for some years but never made a conversion. 3 of them eventually married and photos show an attractive, substantial home on the site surrounded by rich gardens and orchards. Apparently their descendants still live on the island, although the site has long been abandoned.
By the time we turned for home we were all a little tired. It takes an hour and a half to drive the distance, which makes one think about the logistics of buying in supplies. Like so much on this island, transport is a key problem.
It was quite a relief today to discover our schedule was less rigorous than the day before. We were on the bus at 9 for a short trip to the museum. Newly opened, this was a surprisingly comprehensive and informative little museum, covering Chatham Island history, geology, flora, fauna and settlement. I spent over an hour enjoying the exhibits. I'm glad we didn't come here earlier in our trip. The places we've been to, and the knowledge that has been shared with us, has made us appreciate this display even more.
I was fascinated by one diary entry; some time in the late 19th Century a man discussed his wife's day. He informed us that their guests had left, and that it was nice to relax in some peace. His wife had washed the sheets and blankets, also aprons and towels (all in a copper, of course: no washing machines then.) Following this relaxing activity, she made a loaf of bread, 5 pies and a couple of cakes. She showed another woman how to use the sewing machine, before heading outside to do "the dairy, as usual". This turned out to involve milking 5 cows. It's extraordinary how hard our great grandmothers worked. All this, before playing the pianoforte and providing some entertainment in the evening!
Our next stop was at the Red Onion Cafe and Gallery - a charming pot pourri of items for sale or enjoyment. I bought a novel about a shipwreck on the Auckland Islands a century of so ago. I remember seeing a TV documentary about the event, and it looked like an appropriate read while in the Chathams.
After lunch - our last picnic of this trip - at the Norman Kirk reserve, we drove northwest to the Basalt columns. I'd been looking forward to seeing these, having heard about them from a friend. We climbed down a short hill to the beach. Out at sea, in the bay's mouth, was a wild display of the sea's strength as the waves crashed in long, surging breaks over the reef. I only wished I was skilled enough with my camera to capture the beauty and power of the sight. Certainly, it gave credence to our guide's advice not to venture close to the water - there was a strong surf break even at the edge of the shore.
A combination of pressure and erosion has forced the basalt into these shapes and columns, stacking them into tiers. One of our group commented the only other place he'd seen such a phenomenon was in Ireland.
A short drive further north to Port Hutt. For the first time, we found a harbour that looked enticing and possible to a non-sailor. It's a pretty place; the home of a small fishing fleet and fish processing plant. Although the land, like everywhere else on the Chathams, was private, we were allowed to walk along the beach in the afternoon sunlight.
The Admiral Farm had invited us for a meal. This farm belongs to the parents of Toni, our hostess at the Chatham Hotel. Lois, her mother, showed us around the large gardens. It was a lovely spot - although Lois complained she couldn't find staff to help with the work - which would have been considerable,
As a keepsake of our holiday I bought a jewellery Haupapa (tree carving) from the gift shop to remember the Chathams by.
Dinner was a bit of a learning experience. My mother wasn't a great fish eater or fish cook, so I've never been very confident about kai-moana and tend to avoid it. Tonight we had smoked Blue Cod wings - I had to be shown how to eat them, but they were delicious. Paua followed this. I'd only tried this delicacy once before and hadn't enjoyed the experience, but this was lovely. I suspect knowing how to cook it properly makes all the difference.
The rest of the meal was equally enjoyable. Crayfish, steak and a smorgasbord of salads. The wine and drinks flowed freely courtesy of the hotel's generosity, and a merry band of satisfied travellers were eventually driven back to the hotel for the night.
Its pouring with rain and very murky - so generally speaking, a lay-day. While the rest of our group pottered around the hotel or wandered through the village to the store, Cavan and I elected to walk the Henga track. Cavan had of course missed out on this when he was so sick last Monday.
The Hotel lent us a car. When I asked whether they wanted to see my Drivers Licence, they just smiled and waved me away. The keys were, of course, left on the front seat of the vehicle. It wasn't so long ago that we could behave like this on the mainland, but times in Otaki have changed all that.
The walk across the open paddocks ensured we were well and truly soaked by the time we reached the cover of the trees. Even so, it was vasty preferable to the first trip I made here when we battled gale force winds across these fields.
The track was lovely; and as is the way of these things, seemed much shorter to me this time that on the first outing, I'm pleased Cavan got to see it.
On the way back to the hotel we stopped to help Toni shift some cattle back into their paddock. Once we reached the hotel we had showers and changed our clothes. The next challenge was to get our soaking boots and jackets dry so they could be packed up for the trip home tomorrow. Naturally the radiator in our room doesn't work (although they have left us a handy pair of pliers to twist something or other to gurn it on). Even with that tool, we couldn't manipulate it, so we sneaked our wet gear into the drier in the laundry.
With the weather preventing any other sort of activity, we had another trip to the Admiral Gardens. This time we watched a lovely video about the Chathams and the importance of restoration and conservation in these fragile ecosystems.
The weather has stayed bad all day, so we are all hoping that we'll be able to fly home tomorrow.
5.00 am: Up early to get packed up - a complicated process as we've made our room our home for a week and sorting ourselves out took some doing. Breakfast at 6, and then the news; We won't be driving out the the airport early this morning as the weather is too bad.
8.00 am: They have postponed our flight for a couple of hours. I'm nervous we'll miss the connecting flight home to Wellington from Auckland. This could prove to be a disaster as it is also Easter weekend and travel will be at a premium.
11.00 am: There will be no flight off the Chathams today. Actually, I'm not surprised. The cloud is down on the deck, and no attempt at convincing myself that met minimas are being met is very believable.
Its pouring with rain, of course, as well. As Cavan and I had done the Henga walk yesterday, there wasn't anything very much left to do, although we walked up the hill to the Waitangi Store (owned, of course, by Toni's sister). Is there anything in this town that ISN'T owned by this family?
God bless the support team at home who have stepped up to cover the additional 24 hours of care for our animals while we're away. There's some gallows humour. A friend remarks "Welcome to the Hotel Chathams. You can check in anytime you want, but you can never leave."
I contact Air NZ to change our Auckland to Wellington flight from Thursday to Friday. Fortunately, I've booked flex-fare tickets so the process isn't too painful. Mindful that we may not fly off early, I've booked the Air NZ flight for 6pm/
The rest of the day passed with me catching up with my writing. Also: I've started reading Kate Quinn's "The Diamond Eye". It's proving an excellent choice to while away the hours with and is as enjoyable as all the other novels she has written. If you can, then read it.
Rinse and repeat the next day:
5.00 am: Up for showers and packing - except its much easier to get the bags packed today as we didn't really unpack anything yesterday. I tried to look outside to see what the cloud height was, but it was too dark to see. Breakfast at 6. By now the news is coming in of the promise of a fine day. The excitement in the dining room is palpable. We've enjoyed our stay here, but now we want to go.
7.00 am. They loaded the cases onto the van, and half an hour later we follow in the bus. An easy check in at the airport and by 8.30 we've boarded the plane and on our way.
10.30 am: We've arrived safely in Auckland. I finished The Diamond Eye on the flight. DOn't you hate it when you finish a good book?
A problem: Somewhere in transit between the Chathams and the luggage arrival belt at Auckland, my suitcase has been badly dinged. I bought these suitcases (fine Samsonite ones) back in January 2020 - pre-Covid of course. We were booked to go to Turkey and up the eastern coast of the Caspian sea in May. Naturally this was cancelled. As a result, this trip to the Chathams was the first time Cavan and I have used the luggage. My poor case, wrecked on it's maiden voyage! Frankly, the damage is so severe I suspect someone must have driven a vehicle into it. Samsonite cases do not damage easily. Fortunately, the fine team at Air Chathams are on to it for which I'm very grateful.
We changed our Wellington flight from 6 pm to midday, so were back in Wellington by 1.30 pm. Grrr: Holiday traffic. We had a smooth trip from Wellington to Paraparaumu where we took the old road to the PekaPeka merging lane. I'm glad we did. At least we kept moving most of the time. We peered back at the traffic coming up the Expressway and it was at a standstill. I've never seen the traffic so bad.
Home now and safe. Several loads of washing done, and several more to go. It's good to be back, but it was a cracker of a holiday. I'm very glad we've been to the Chathams. It's a fascinating place.
Day One: Wellington to Opononi
It was an early start this morning. The alarm went at 4.30 and we hauled ourselves out of bed in darkness. In spite of our best efforts, it still took an hour to get organised, so it was 5.30 by the time we were heading down the drive in the car.
Reilly and Pascal have seen it all before and were suitably depressed. I had a long chat with Reilly and told her she would be well looked after in our absence, and we were only away for a week. She didn’t seem very impressed, and buried herself down onto her bed with a very miserable look on her face. I guarantee the second we have left the house, she’ll be up on our bed, making herself at home.
We were travelling light – by our standards at least, so getting through security was relatively painless. We made our way to the Koru Club planning to share a celebratory champagne with our breakfast, only to find they no longer allow guests to access alcohol until 8 am. This put a bit of a dent in our mood. I wouldn’t usually drink at 7 in the morning – but on the first day of a holiday? Then we realised we were later than we’d planned and had precisely 5 minutes to bolt a cup of hot chocolate before boarding our plane.
It was a relief to be aboard and have the aircraft doors closed. We were on holiday.
We’re joining a guided tour for this break – it seemed easier than driving all the way up to Northland, or flying to Auckland and then hiring a car. Things began to look up when we were picked up at the airport in a Mercedes and driven to meet the coach. Finally we could sit back and let everyone else do the hard work.
I’ve never been north of Auckland, so it was interesting heading out of the city. The route ran through lovely rolling countryside and although I know urban sprawl is a necessity, I grieved at the loss of good arable land to a mass of frankly boring mass-produced housing. It must have been beautiful before the city began to expand northwards.
It took a long time to get beyond the boundaries of the city, and it came as a slight shock when our guide, Suzanna told us we’d just passed the Covid boundary separating Northland from Auckland. Covid has affected us for less than three years – and the boundary has been down for a while, but it seemed like a piece of ancient history. Anyway, New Zealand weathered the Covid storm remarkably well, so it was all worthwhile.
Further north we turned west. Our trip takes us up the west coast to Cape Reinga, returning via the east coast.
Our first stop was at the little township of Matakohe to see the Kauri Museum. Pakeha settlers first came to the area in 1862 and the museum was established to celebrate their centennial and pay tribute to the pioneers. There are exceptional displays and dioramas and the most exceptional showcase for the amber Kauri gum which was polished and carved. I resisted buying any, but some of the pieces for sale were lovely.
Also on display were the old machines used to fell the trees, and some gigantic cross sections of trunks of what must have been enormous trees. It seemed sad they’d fallen, but there was a fine display of beautiful furniture made from it, some of which had been in the Governor General’s home.
After lunch we headed north through the town of Dargaville and then northwards towards the west coast, finally arriving at the twin beach settlements of Omapere and Opononi where we stay for two nights.
I’ll sleep well tonight. It’s been a long day.
Da1 1
It’s a 17-hour flight from Auckland to Dubai, all at night. I defy even the weariest traveller to sleep for 17 hours, let alone for those of us scrunched up in cattle class. Then, once we’d reached Dubai, we had just long enough to get the train to a new terminal for our 8-hour flight to Barcelona.
In addition, because I’m a nervous nelly and constantly terrified that we’ll miss our flights, we left Otaki early to get to Wellington Airport. This in itself was not such a bad thing, as we enjoyed the hospitality of the Koru Club while we waited for our flight to Auckland. There’d be no posh lounge waiting for us at Auckland International as our flights to Barcelona were by Emirates. Effectively, we wouldn’t eat again until we were in flight to Dubai, and best guess said that wouldn’t be until 10pm.
The Emirates in-flight food was good by airline standards – although they were noticeably stingy with the drinks – and I don’t just mean the wine. I only managed to score one small cup of coffee at breakfast time, leaving me severely under-caffeinated.
By the time we arrived in Barcelona, some 48 hours after leaving NZ, we were thrilled to be off the aircraft. Our legs felt heavy and wobbly from lack of use, and our eyes and noses were scratchy and dry from the air conditioning on the plane. It was great to get through customs and out into the fresh air.
We’d arrived in Barcelona a couple of days before our Tour began to allow ourselves a bit of R & R before the hard work of being a tourist started. I’d pre-booked rooms in the hotel the tour would use – what I hadn’t fully taken on board was that the hotel wasn’t actually in Barcelona – but in a seaside town some 100 kms up the coast.
Trying to sort out bus or train routes and timetables without fluency in Spanish proved too much for my tired brain.Adding to the problem was that the next day – May 1st- was Mayday and a public holiday, so no public transport options were still available. We opted for taking a cab. A rather more expensive option, but by this time we were so tired we just wanted to get to our destination, have a shower and a sleep.
Our taxi driver was a cheerful kind of guy and managed the journey at warp speed. I’m not sure what the limits are in Spain, but I suspect he exceeded them.
We finally arrived at Lloret Del Mar and found our Hotel on the beach. Too tired to do anything else, we showered and collapsed into bed for 14 hours. We’ll explore tomorrow.
Day 2
Mayday: Spain celebrates it as a public holiday – so many people are out and about in Lloret Del Mar today.
We woke up in time for breakfast after 14 hours of sleep (apart from 30 minutes in the middle of the night when I woke for a wee and to check emails. I’m still unsure how Spanish time relates to time in NZ. I need to get a handle on this fast before I drive everyone dotty, texting them at 2 in the morning for a chat.
Our tariff includes a buffet breakfast – and what a superb feast it is, with everything from the conventional “English” bacon, black pudding and eggs; to lovely chocolate pastries, fruit and, the best find of all, champagne. There’s nothing like a glass of champagne on a holiday morning to set a celebratory tone for the day. Cavan, a recently recovered teetotaller, joined me as we toasted the start of our travels. As our sleep overdose had made us both a bit muzzy, the added alcohol rendered us remarkably mellow as we set out to explore the town.
It would be fair to say our first view of the hotel room was underwhelming. We look out over scrappy tiled rooves and apartments needing a good freshen-up. The sea could only be seen by leaning out of the window and peering hard right. We’d gone to sleep tired and grumpy.
What a change sound sleep, good food and a glass of bubbles can make. With fresh eyes, we discovered the hotel was on the beach. Restaurants line the street between us and the golden sand that falls towards the clear, blue water. From this front promenade, little alleyways lead into the town. We turned inland and followed one lined with bars, a chemist and little cafes. Another turn, and we were in a piazza surrounding a beautiful little church. The restaurants around the perimeter were popular and bustling. We made a note to return here for dinner. We then made our way back to the beach.
Following a restorative hot chocolate, we headed south along the promenade to the end of the bay, where a track led up to a statue of a woman gazing out to sea. The path led us to another charming bar in a wooded bay edged with rocks. The water is crystal clear, and the natural beauty of this resort is inescapable.
We headed back to the hotel, and to my surprise, the brief sit-down I’d anticipated ended up as another two hours of deep sleep. I can’t ever remember being sufficiently relaxed to do such a thing. I can only assume we were both still sleep-deprived from the journey across. I’m glad we took the time to arrive a day or so early, otherwise, we’d have been wiped out when the actual tour began.
Dinner at our chosen restaurant was as lovely as we’d hoped. A selection of tapas followed by tiramisu for me and lemon tart for Cavan.
It’s been a lovely day.
Day 3
We’ve dealt with sleep deprivation: Now we must adjust our bio-rhythms to the new timetable. Although we went to bed at the respectable hour of 10.30 last night – and although we both fell asleep quickly enough, we both woke up, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at 4.00 am and couldn’t get back to sleep. We texted back to NZ, played with social media, even did our daily Wordle. But there was no return to sleep for us. I hope we get in synch with Spanish soon because this is our last lay day. The tour begins tomorrow, and there won’t be any time for slopping around in a daze when we are supposed to visit important tourist sites.
In line with our R & R programme, we breakfasted at 8. Then a leisurely walk northwards along the promenade to the end of the bay, where lies a small castle. We were too early to be able to visit inside it, so we followed the track that wound along the rocks below the castle itself. The way was beautiful, being built along a trail following the contours of the bays some metres below us. The water was a lovely turquoise blue and invitingly clean and clear. I remember the Mediterranean as a polluted sea, but no evidence was visible here.
Connifers shaded us, while we saw prickly pears growing against the castle walls above. Further on there was more evidence of the castle structure running down to the sea. At one point a tunnel had been constructed through a rock barrier between two bays. Then, abruptly, the track climbed steeply up the cliff. It was a beautifully created track, but the climb was arduous, and I was glad to reach the top. A signpost told us the next village was some 11 km further on – which was rather further than we’d intended for our stroll. We retraced our steps and stopped at the bottom for a decent coffee – Cavan had a milk shake. Further to the coffee – I’ve found it difficult to get a decent cup of coffee since we’ve arrived. You certainly can’t get one in the hotel which simply supplies a rather nasty machine-based variety, neither hot nor tasty. It was lovely to get the real deal on this occasion.
We made our leisurely way back towards the hotel.
We had lunch at one of the cafes outside on the promenade. Sangria and a couple of tapas. Lovely. I refuse to consider what this life of decadence is doing to my waistline.
The rest of our group arrived this afternoon. We’re going to be proper tourists! So, breakfast tomorrow is at 7.30, and we’re on the road by 8.30. Goodbye to our relaxed holiday.
Day 4
It’s the first day of the tour today. I’m glad Cavan, and I had the time to chill out before it started. Members are still straggling in from various flights. One lot got turned around 1 ½ hours into their flight and then had to wait a day before they could leave Australia on a different flight. So there were some exhausted people in the group today.
We drove an hour or so into Barcelona. It’s a bustling city and must be an absolute misery for the tour bus drivers to negotiate. We were dropped off a block or so away from the Sagrada Familia. I’d been looking forward to seeing this masterpiece, but I was underwhelmed. I hadn’t appreciated that Gaudi’s plans got lost in the wars – so everything since is a reconstruction and interpretation by others about what he originally planned. Consequently, several architects have pottered around, adding their bits to the building and I thought the result was an inchoate mess. Even more disturbing, the bits of the building that were first constructed, and are the only parts actually overseen by Gaudi appear to have deteriorated considerably. The carved sandstone looks as if it's melted wax the way it straggles down – and while Gaudi may have deplored straight lines, this looks as if it is rotted. Add to this visual distress, the area was packed with tourists and thieves a constant worry – which no doubt also added to my distaste. I’m glad I’ve seen it, but it wasn’t the gem I was anticipating.
The bus took us on a tour around the city. It is evident that hosting the Olympic games provided an impetus for a whole tranche of building projects and improvements. Buildings were tidied up – the old bull ring is now a shopping mall – and the port was cleaned up and opened up as a recreational area for the populace. Some very valuable yachting real estate now lies moored in the harbour. We then toured the old part of the town which was lovely. Narrow streets and loads of history. It’s easy to forget the enormous cultural shifts that have occurred in Spain over the centuries. We saw the palace, and right next door was the office of the Inquisition. I’d temporarily forgotten about the Jews being driven out of Spain. Stones from their old graveyard form part of the structure of the palace. And the Inquisition’s offices make a nice tourist sight, until you think of the torture, religious persecution, and appalling treatment meted out to so many in the name of religion.
We had time to wander around and have lunch at the market. This was probably the most exciting site of the day. The market was teeming with people, and the variety and vibrant colours of the displays were amazing. My camera tried to capture some small part of it, but nothing could capture the vibrancy and noise of the environment. Cavan had fresh oysters, shucked out of their shells, and bought a bag of assorted sweets.
Then back ‘home’ to Lloret del Mar.
Day 5
It has been a long day. We were up early, ready with our bags packed for the long journey from Lloret Del Mar to Madrid. Even at this late hour, there were still new people, freshly arrived from the airport to join us.
Apparently, a law in Spain says that bus drivers may not drive for more than 2 ½ hours at a stretch before an obligatory half-hour break. This means that tourists also get convenient toilet stops at regular intervals.
It was fascinating watching the landscape change as we headed west. In the Barcelona area, the hills were covered with forest, but as we journeyed on, the land became increasingly rocky and barren. It is evident that Spain is in the middle of a drought – but even in good years, this must be an area always short of accessible water. Irrigation is widely used. The infrastructure behind the farming that is going on in this land is extraordinary and must cost billions of dollars. I assume the water is drawn from the aquifer, but pipes led across rows of grapes or olives. Any small area that COULD be planted, WAS planted. I had to admire the effort that went into these efforts. Later, as we drove through Aragon, the land became even less arable, and the crop shifted from grapes and olives to grain. I couldn’t establish exactly what it was that they were growing, but acres and acres of land are covered with this crop.
As beef, pork and chicken are in plentiful supply in the markets, the animals are either housed inside or farmed elsewhere in the country. There were very few signs of any livestock. Over the day I saw one small cow shed with what looked like calves in. Later a couple of horses and a handful of sheep was it.
We stopped for lunch in the square at Zaragossa – the basilica is beautiful and it’s a charming area to wander around in. Our lunch was superb. We had tostadas – or an open sandwich on toasted bread. Cavan opted for the salmon, and I chose anchovies on red peppers garnished with grated egg. My lunch not only tasted fabulous, but it was beautiful to behold with its wonderful colours. We washed it down with a nice little rose – and I was brave enough to have yet another stab at getting a decent cup of coffee. This one was acceptable but still not up in the ‘good’ category. I’ve discovered the Spanish, at least in this northern region, don’t really understand coffee. Nor do they seem to drink tea. Lots of chocolate of course and plenty of wine and beer: It’s refreshing to see people so relaxed about the ‘sins’ we worry about in New Zealand, ie, smoking and drinking. Here it’s just an enjoyable part of life – like the champagne Cavan and I have been quaffing every morning for breakfast.
We reached Madrid about 9.30, so we were too tired to do anything more than get organised, shower and go to bed.
Day 6
The local tour guide arrived this morning for our exploration of Madrid. We’d been told to be downstairs at 9.20 am – there is no parking outside the hotel for taxis or buses – instead, there is a temporary loading zone for them to pull into that takes them marginally out of the traffic of a hectic city road. The buses have pride of place, with an area of two bus lengths labelled for their use, and behind them, there is room for about three taxis. There is a rough roster so companies can load their tour groups onto the buses, but it works better in theory than in practice. As the drivers have to park, frequently reversing into the tight spots of a road full of traffic, there is plentiful room for tension between the taxis and the various drivers.
It turned out that 9.20 was an optimistic best guess, and we finally climbed on board at 10 am.
It was surprisingly cool waiting in the morning shade of the street, and I was glad of my coat. Later the temperature climbed to 30 degrees. Once aboard, we embarked on a driven city tour. Madrid is a large city and our guide concentrated on the historical and cultural areas - palaces, gardens, museums, etc. Spain has such a rich, multicultural history reflected in the buildings. A great deal of municipal money is spent on maintaining this heritage, as most buildings were in good repair or wrapped in scaffolding for refurbishment.
Later we left the bus, deep in a dungeon-like parking area. A good deal of Madrid’s infrastructure is underground. Hence there are a lot of tunnels, and parts of the city roads disappear beneath the ground. I was only glad someone else was responsible for navigating through the maze of darkened passages. They are narrow, and I’m again impressed at the competence of our drivers in coping with these conditions.
We wandered through plazas, past basilicas, churches and municipal buildings. A highlight for me was, of course, the mounted police. The markets were hectic, with scores of people bustling about, but the buildings were lovely. We stopped for lunch in the Plaza Mayor. Yet another superb meal. I love the Spanish habit of bringing bread or olives out as soon as a client sits down. We both had delicious salads. The food here is wonderful and so rich in flavour.
The afternoon excursion – an optional side trip, was to Toledo. I knew little about this town aside from knowing of Toledo Steel. It's also the Damascene work that the town is famous for. A steeI substructure has a pattern engraved in it. Then gold is inlaid into the cuts. The whole is then put into a moderate oven to bake – so the steel goes black and the gold melts into the cuts but doesn’t run. I bought a cheap damascene ring as a memento. My hands feel naked without rings.
Toledo would have to be one of the highlights of this trip. It’s a perfect, well-preserved, walled medieval town. I wish I remembered more from Bernard Cornwell’s Sharpe books. I know he described so many of these towns, but I don’t have them with me to reference. Anyway, the town is exquisite. We explored the old, separate quarters – Jewish, Christian, Moor. It seems incredibly sad that a nation could comfortably manage racial and religious diversity for hundreds of years before Christianity regained control. Then of course, the Jews were expelled, Moors were marginalised and the Inquisition swung into action.
Later, back at the hotel, another lovely salad sat at tables arranged along the footpath, enjoying the people-watching. I never have time for this at home. There always seems to be something I should be doing instead of relaxing. Here I have no problem with just sitting quietly, enjoying the company, the food, wine and letting it all drift past me.
Day 7
The Prado Museum! What a place of wonder it is.
We were let loose in central Madrid this morning by the statue of Neptune. Various options presented themselves - wandering around, shopping, looking at the modern art exhibition, or going to the Prado. We only had two hours and spent twenty minutes of that precious time queuing for tickets, so our visit to the museum was at best a very brief overview.
It was wonderful. There were so many fabulous works of art - some recognisable, but most of them a completely fresh experience. I was blown away by the El Greco paintings. I've only ever seen a couple of them in art books - and the reality of them is extraordinary. The quality of light in them, the expressiveness of the characters - even occasionally, the humour.
Rubens isn't my favourite artist, but his depictions of women left this woman much more comfortable with the various curves, dimples, and creases inherent in the female form. At least his women looked real, and as if they'd had a meal,
After an all to short time in the museum we hit the road again. We're headed for Portugal by way of Badajoz. Badajoz itself doesn't have a great deal to recommend it, so we stopped just prior to the city in a little town called Merida. Cavan and I have great memories of the Mexican Merida we visited all those years ago - we'd never realised the name came from Spain originally. We wandered around the ancient Roman ruins - quite a nice little theatre and a somewhat decrepit ampitheatre.
Then we took a little train around the town. It felt like being a kid again, but it was a lovely way to get around the town and see the sights. I was taken with the storks nesting high on the ancient aqueduct.
Tomorrow we cross the border into Portugal
Day 8
Off to Portugal this morning - and the border was literally 5 minutes down the road. What an easy business it is to cross from country to country under the EU. Silly Britain!
The countryside remained much the same - gently rolling hills, and enticing open woodlands which are now chiefly cork trees. It is interesting to see where the bark has been harvested from the base of the trunks. The groves are filled with these trees, all with their own plimsol lines.
This beautiful countryside has me seething with frustration. It's perfect riding country, and all too easy to imagine cantering across it. Where the bloody hell is everyone? I know Spain and Portugal produce excellent equestrians and some magnificent horses - so are where the Iberian equivalents of me and my friends? Surely there should be groups of ladies of a certain age trotting over the open grassland and careering giddily through the open rides of the woods? As it is, I've barely seen a horse in the entire time we've been here, and certainly no one on horseback.
The storks have taken up residence in the power pylons. On one we counted nine or more individual nests. The nests are enormous, and I suppose the birds are safe enough in their high-rise apartments.
Portugal is an hour behind Spain, so we reset our watches as we crossed the border. Another plus has been that our coach - unable to receive it in Spain, suddenly sprung into wifi life in Portugal. It's always nice to feel connected - even though we leave Portugal iin a couple of days.
Once we reached Lisbon, we stopped in the town centre for a few hours wandering around. Another magnificent meal at lunchtime, and I bought a cork hat.
Later we checked into our hotel - probably the best we've been in so far, and walked down the road for dinner by the river. I hadn't realised - or perhaps, thought about it might be more accurate, but we can look down the river to the mouth and see the Atlantic Ocean. I detest Columbus and his vicious behaviour in the New World (Even the Spanish condemned him), but there is a sense of the excitement they must have felt as they slipped their moorings and sailed out into the unknown.
Day 8
Sardines. They are available during the months without an 'R' in the name. Hence May to August. They are a particular specialty in Lisbon, and we tried them grilled for lunch. I'm not a great fan of food I have to perform surgery on, but it was worth it. We were each served four fish, clearly grilled over a charcoal flame - along with a few baked potatoes that also bore the signs of having been cooked in the ashes. A light salad complemented the meal.
In spite of the work involved in removing head, tail and spinal column the fish was tasty and light. I imagine a real connoisseur would eat the whole creature, but I'm wary of fish bones.
We had lunch at Cascais, a pleasant seaside town where the seriously wealthy hang out and look exclusive when their town isn't being inundated with tourists. Then up to Sintra for a look at a hill village. It's all very picturesque.
First thing this morning we'd had a walking tour of the old city of Lisbon. I'd seen photos of this place, and the most obvious feature is the tiled veneers on the buildings. Three centuries ago Lisbon was rocked by an enormous 8.3 level earthquake that flattened the town. Unfortunatley it was a Saint's day and most of the population was at Church which meant it killed them as the Churches collapsed. Those that survived rushed down to the river to be safe beyond the collapsing masonry. They hadn't factored in the giant tidal wave that swept up the river and washed them away.
To top it off, a fire broke out in the devastated town and destroyed anything that was left. When the town was rebuilt, they covered the exteriors of the buildings with tiles as protection against any more fires. Tiles, of course are fire-resistant, having already been superheated in the kiln.
These colourful old neighbourhoods, which used to be the homes of working class folk, are now being bought out by wealthier investors who turn the old villas into B & B's. The government is currently passing legislation to limit this activity before the old quarters are lost forever.
Day 9
Another transition day - this time from Lisbon to Seville - or from Portugal back to Spain. My Fitbit Versa has a varied response to this sort of carry on. It insisted on staying on Spanish time for a full 12 hours after we'd crossed the Spain/Portugal border going to Lisbon. On the return trip, it managed the transition from Portugal time (1 hour behind) to Spain time within an hour.
We had traveled south from Lisbon into the Algarve, Portugal's southernmost region. As we traveled it was apparent that the architectural style had changed from tiled, or coloured houses, to whitewashed villages with terracotta rooves.
We stopped for lunch in Faro - a pretty little town, mainly used as a holiday town for those less wealthy than the good inhabitants of Cascais. It's a pretty little port, with the main claim to fame being it's ancient area, cathedral and town.
The cathedral was sufficiently baroque and creepy to be a satisfying site for a visit. It even had a 'bone' chapel, merrily decorated with the skulls and other bones of the dearly departed. I was intrigued by a large manuscript of ancient music - alas too far away for easy inspection.
After the exploration of the cathedral, we repaired for lunch in the old quarter. How women in Portugal, or Spain for that matter, manage to wear stilettos is beyond me. I'd break my ankle on the tesselated tiles that cover the pavements, let alone the cobblestones, within seconds. They're uneven, spaced at heel-catching intervals and liable to rock under the unwary foot. Even in my Skechers I found walking on them a slippery project, and I can imagine they're lethal when wet.
By the time we made it into Seville we were all tired. Our hotel is enormous, and although we'd been assured that it was a great hotel, it looks more like a particularly dreary prison externally. A large building, it's art deco exterior is painted a peculiarly drab mix of faded dull green and equally faded drab pink. I held out no hopes for a decent stay.
Inside - well. It's a fabulous hotel. Swish, modern, clean and very pleasant to stay in. Although their particular form of suite numbering is confusing. Anyway, a good night's sleep awaits.
Day 10
Seville is a particularly attractive city set on the banks of the mighty Guardalquivir river - a river large enough for ships to travel down it to the Atlantic Ocean. It was the trade and travel up and down this river in the 15th and 16th centuries that made Seville the wealthiest and most important port in Europe.
Most of the sites we visited today were relatively modern. Seville has had a couple of world exhibitions - most notably in 1929 and 1992 and many of the buildings from that time are beautiful. Some have been built in extensive grounds and gardens which are public and very beautiful.
We caught a bit of a flamenco dance while visiting the massive Plaza of Spain. thi
Day 11
There was a little drama at breakfast - one of our group collapsed, the ambulance was called and she was whisked off to Hospital. In Spain it appears that all treatments are free and State funded which is just as well as later reports indicate she has pancreatitis and will need to stay in Hospital for at least a week. As a group we've simply had to move on without her - as have her friends; the guide had to point out that their travel insurance won't reimburse them if they leave the tour for a friend.
It all seems a bit brutal, but we're having to cope with a new set of parameters. One of our group has now got Covid. Of course the opportunities for isolation are minimal when he has to be on the coach with us every second day. Leaving him behind isn't an option. He and his wife wear masks, and they keep apart as much as they can, but even so it increases the risk to us all and I hope we don't contract it in time to get back to Wellington.
Our first trip the day was to a vineyard some miles outside Grenada. The party split in two with us alcoholics taking one bus up into the mountains while the others did a tiki tour of the area by coach. This vineyard has only just begun to develop the wine tasting service as a project, so little flaws showed up: They didn't have enough wine to sell; the access to the site was up a steep, gravel drive with no turnaround for the coach. I believe the driver may now have more grey hairs as he had to reverse downhill on said narrow track, back out of the gates (and there was a deep ditch either side of the entrance way, and turn round on the equally narrow road outside. He managed it but I bet he was cursing.
The wine was lovely, being varietals of Muscat or Cabernet; the tapas were tasty and sufficient and it was great to be able to sit back for once on this trip and relax. The steep crags of the mountains soared up beside the little vineyard; there were a pair of nesting vultures flying overhead; the sky was blue; the temperature warm (but cooler than down in the plains.)
Later we drove down to Grenada through the mountains. These rocky, barren hills are the result of the area having been the seabed back in the day before being upthrust by geological activity. Its very much a contrast to the rolling plains that we've seen throughout the rest of the country.
Grenada is a big city, but our guide took us through the lovely old part of the town, through a maze of cobbled streets that twist and turn as they wind down the hill. There were wonderful camera shot angles of the Alhambra, and it was cool enough in the shade - although the afternoon sun was fierce when we were out in it. We went through the old quarter, the jews quarter and the moorish quarter before we stopped for a very welcome drink of water at a cafe and returned ot our amazing hotel. Each room is as large as an apartment. It's all very luxurious for our last stay in Spain.
We had a fabulous dinner in the hotel restaurant before an early night (or one that passes for it in Spain). We were in bed by eleven.
Day 12
Today was all about the Alhambra. In fact, a lot of our pre-journey preparation involved the Alhambra. For reasons best left vague, TripADeal didn't include tickets to the Alhambra in the price or organization of this trip. Their excuse is that there are only limited tickets to the site at any one time, and to prevent scalpers, individual tickets need to be bought by patrons and matched on arrival against their passports. I can't see this holds a lot of water as TripA Deal had all our passport details for months prior to the trip. It would have been easy enough I would have thought for them to do the job themselves, and organise a group tour. As it was, we all held different tickets, purchased online from a multitude of different providers which meant we were coming and going all through the day. Cavan and I held tickets which meant our tour started from the bottom of the hill and worked up. Others had tickets that started from the top of the hill and worked downwards. Some had omitted to get tickets at all. It was all a bit muddled and ad hoc.
Add to that, we had to organise our own transport to and from the Alhambra; the receptionist at the hotel told us there were no taxis available (although her off-sider, quietly went ahead and organised one for us anyway), and this was the first independence we'd enjoyed in the last two weeks of travel - which of course made it nerve-wracking to suddenly have to be grown-ups and look after ourselves.
Somewhat to my surprise, it all worked out extremely well. The Alhambra is a consistent series of photo opportunities, the gardens are wonderful and it was a very pleasant three-hour tour. Our guide was Katya, a young Russian woman who had come to Spain to study, and then stayed on.
This evening we go to Flamenco dancing, and tomorrow we are up early to catch the ferry to Tangier. It will be goodbye to Spain and Portugal. We've spent all too short a time here.
Day 13
We are in Morocco. It's taken the best part of a day to get here. We had a very early start in Grenada - up at some ungodly hour and on the bus by 6.45 am. This was a particularly cruel schedule for those of us who'd enjoyed the wonderful flamenco show the night before. My goodness, they were fantastic dancers.
It was a 3-hour trip to Algeciras. Then another hour or so before the ferry for Tangeir took off. And of course, the dismal process of passport checks and, even worse, the misery of putting luggage, jackets, and everything else through security checks. Then, even worse (as we don't travel lightly) the physical stuff of lugging your luggage upstairs and downstairs through the rituals of ferry boarding.
By a happy accident, Cavan and I were amongst the first on board the ferry - and by equally fortunate happenstance, we discovered the queue for passport control into Tangier on board. We were sitting. happily sipping our bottle of bubbles, whilst the rest of our tour group were queueing up through the rest of the cabin and into the cafeteria.
I took photos of Gibraltar. Firstly, I had never realised JUST how close it is to Spain. Secondly, it would have been one of the first photos I took, all those years ago in 1959, as we sailed back to Karachi after my father's 3 month leave. I'd been given a Brownie 127? as a present from my Aunt and Uncle. My early efforts at photography is still enshrined in a box somewhere around the house.
Once we'd arrived in Tangiers, we met up with our new guide, Habib. He led us around the Tangier Medina. I confess to enormous ignorance, but I hadn't realised how green and fertile this part of Morocco is: nor had I realised how affluent and modern Tangier was. It's startlingly beautiful, it has a stunning harbour, and the old Medina is my kind of place. Heaven on a stick, and if I hadn't been so exhausted, I'd have enjoyed it better. As it was, a good meal and a hot shower before bed have restored my mojo.
Day 14
I didn’t know what to expect from Morocco – but I envisaged a parched, rather bleak land reminiscent of Israel, Jordan and other Levant countries. Instead, Morocco is a delight. We left Tangier this morning and drove south to Fez. The land is rich and fertile – and frankly, a lot more attractive than much of Spain. The early part of the journey took us through intensively farmed plots of land which seemed to be worked traditionally by hand. Some of the hills deserved to be called mountains, and crops of olive trees climbed up the slopes. We saw women scything hay and gathering in crops. Donkeys are everywhere. I imagine every household has at least one of these handy beasts. After seeing how depleted they’d become in the Indian sub-continent, it’s great to see them here being a valuable part of everyday life.
Later we moved up into the enormous Sais Valley, where the hilly land to the north opened up into a vast, rolling plain. Here money and modernity had kicked in. It’s hay making time, but up here the crop is mowed and baled by machinery. Trucks with hay stacked high were gathering up the bales. I’d have offered to help, but we had to move on.
We stopped at the charming hillside town of Chefchaouen. Many of the houses are painted a soft, Wedgwood blue to ward off evil spirits. We wandered through the old medina and climbed the Kasbah to take photos. On the way down I had my hands painted with henna, which is definitely the closest I’m ever going to get to being inked.
We stopped at the ancient ruins of Volubilis. It was a substantial town in Roman times, but most of it was destroyed in the Lisbon earthquake of 1755. We’d heard about how terrible it was when we were In Portugal, but this is miles away from the epicentre. It must have been one hell of a shake.
We reached Fez about 7pm. We are staying in a wonderful Hotel – Les Merinides. This is the second magnificent hotel that Morocco has offered us. David, one of the guides during the Spain trip had assured us that Hotels in Morocco were awful – shows how much he knew, and reveals a lot about his prejudices.
Tomorrow we explore Fez itself.
Day 15
Habib, our tour guide in Morocco is several classes above the guides in the Iberian portion of our trip, He's a constant source of information - and it's pertinent, useful stuff that a traveller would want to know. He's also exceedingly energetic, managing to use every spare second of the day with activity. Consequently, we are exhilerated, informed, and tired!
Yesterday we explored Fez, and in particular the Medina which is a vast maze of routes and passages, some so narrow they are barely more than shoulder-width wide. I was delighted to visit the tanneries. Yes, I'd seen those vast vats on TV, but there's no substitute for seeing them live and in action. There are dozens of them with men treading the hides, rinsing them drying them out and every other activity you can think of - and the smell is at a particularly penetrating level of horrid. I can only imagine how those workers must stink at the end of the day. I can't imagine it's an easy odour to get rid of.
The Medina has little enclaves of specialist workers scattered all through it. Metal workers tap away in the street next to the dyers with their hanks of wool and fabric. There are dozens of tailors, potters, weavers, and of course hawkers, all jostling for attention and occupying their time-honoured place. It's obvious that many of the businesses have been handed down in families for generations.
The kids seem sweet, but you have to remind yourself that most of them are accomplished pickpockets and keep an eye on their antics.
Later in the day, we went to a concert of local dance and music - mainly drumming. It was OK, but only just. Still, it was a bit of fun.
Day 16
It was a long drive today from Fez to Rabat. We stopped briefly at Meknes to see the mausoleum, a fine memorial to a Moulay Ismail. I don't know a great deal about the man, but I recall he was a great military man and competent leader. He cut a deal with the Corsairs who rampaged around the Atlantic Coast and the Mediterranean. I remember reading a book "White Gold" about them raiding the coasts of England and Ireland to steal white slaves that ended up in Morocco. I was surprised to discover he was regarded here as a saint, and people came to his shrine to ask for blessings!
Rabat is a beautiful city. Spotlessly clean, and with some fabulous buildings. The economic downturn of 2007 hit hard here, and combined with Covid mean that a lot of projects have remained unfinished. The Opera House is stunning, We had a brief tour around the Mausoleum of Mohammed V and the Hassan Tower. I took photos of the guards and their horses. They are a stocky little breed although we were told they were a cross between Arabian and Barb lines. They looked strong and sensible - also somewhat flat.
Day 17
Rabat to Marrakech. It’s a long drive – 320 kms, so we had an early start this morning. Touring life has a strange rhythm and pace; although no individual activity is particularly tiring or grueling, there soon develops an accumulative weariness forged by a multitude of strange hotels, beds, and bathrooms. Changing food types and meal times take it’s toll. And overarching is the sheer challenge of absorbing so many new scents, sights, tastes, and practices. Trying to use the language is fun, even if the best you can manage is ‘please’ and ‘thankyou’. How multilingual folk cope, I have no idea: I find myself constantly saying “bon dia’ in Spain, and ‘buenos dias’ in Portugal and Morocco. As to saying thankyou, I’m now fluent in about six different languages – none of which I tend to use in the appropriate country, so I end up sounding like the village idiot.
The drive from Rabat to Marrakech saw us travelling from fertile farmland to near-desert conditions as we climbed out of the plains and into the hills that form the entry to the high Atlas mountains. Marrakech was originally a large oasis that grew. I love that, in keeping with this history, there is a determined plan to plant palm trees in every conceivable bit of space. From the air, the town must indeed look like a haven of green in the desert. The colour of the earth has changed as well – from the yellow ochre of the lowlands to red. And Marrakech is known as the Red City.
Once we’d arrived we had lunch on the terrace of a restaurant in the Medina. The food was lovely, and we had a fine look out over the old city, at the minarets and tiled roofs. The food was also wonderful. Somewhat unfortunately many of us have developed queasy tummies. I’m keeping the no-dia close to me! There are few more awkward and nerve-wracking situations to be in than on a touring bus and suffering from the runs.
After lunch we toured the gi-normous Jemaa El Fna square. The noise! Snake charmers, monkey wallahs, stalls of every description. The effect was overwhelming – Cavan and I found a quiet café with a terrace overlooking all the bedlam, and I enjoyed a couple of cups of mint tea. I’ve become a fan of this drink and it’s certainly soothing on a gurgling tummy. Later, and revived by our drinks, we ventured into the chaos, and Cavan bought a couple of T-shirts. My purchases were limited to a new pack of Imodium.
The hotel is wonderful – but sadly lacking in reliable wi-fi. For reasons best known to Spark, my email address has come adrift from its password, and it took me 4 hours to persuade the reluctant hotel wi-fi to connect me to Spark long enough for a reset. Reception has been very patchy as well, which explains why I can’t upload anything to my blog site. Altogether though, Marrakech is a delight.
Day 18
We spent the morning exploring Marrakech. Habib took us to a government-operated emporium filled with every exotic Moroccan thing the heart could desire. Pottery, jewellery, embroidered goods clothing, perfume, statues, lamps - from floor to floor every corner reveals new wonders. I felt like a child in Ali Baba’s cave. I had a moment of joy when I came across an almost identical copy of the brass coffee percolator that his factory staff gave to my grandfather as a present when the family had to flee Moscow in the Russian Revolution. From the kerosene lamp in its stand beneath the machine, to the glass knob on top to check on percolation, it could have been a 3D copy of my old treasure, albeit in shiny silver tones.
Lunch was again in a local restaurant – this time an excellent kofta tagine and then a return to the hotel to freshen up for our evening. We ate dinner as a group for the first time. The local restaurant had prepared a set course of goat tagine (absolutely perfectly cooked and tasty). We watched the sun set over the medina before wandering back through Jemaa El Fna. Habib had told us this was a much more exciting place after dark than it ever was during the day. The darkness leant the place magic, the snake charmers and monkey men were gone, and the crowd was happy. Apart from the mercantile activity – meat, vegetables and so on- there were lovely glass lamps for sale, fireworks going off, and there were little clusters of people dancing or listening to the storytellers.
A real highlight of the whole tour was the carriage trip we took from the square back to the hotel. It was a fair distance, and I tried to imagine Bandit enthusiastically trotting along for an hour – then consoled myself with the thought he does much more on a CTR.
The night, and the street lights, lent the city a fine Aladdin quality. It was a magical evening.
Day 19
Our final long road trip. 240 kms from Marrakech to Casablanca. As we left Marrakech, we looked back on the high Atlas mountains, now covered with snow. I may not have mentioned it, but the last two days have seen a drop in temperature down to about 20 degrees, and last night we had a small shower of rain during our carriage ride to the hotel. Fortunately, being sturdy New Zealanders, Cavan and I had provided ourselves with coats and an umbrella. Some of our companions, being more used to Australian weather, were dressed lightly in summer clothes, and I gather they had got cold and wet. Sometimes it's hard not to feel a touch of national superiority.
The rain and the chill conditions were sufficient to put snow on the mountains. It was a lovely early morning sight seeing the mountains proud against the clear blue sky and palm trees in the foreground as I took some photos.
Our guide told us, somewhat dismissively, that there's nothing to see in Casablanca – and sadly, this is true. Much if the place looked worn and tired, as if it had seen better days. Apart, that is, from the marvellous Hassan II Mosque. We drove past Ricks Bar (from Casablanca), but it's a fake. Neither cast nor crew came any nearer to Casablanca than Hollywood. Still, it's a nice conceit.
At least the internet is much better in this hotel room.
The Mosque is extraordinary. We had a guided tour around the interior. It's the third largest mosque in the world, and if you include the square that surrounds it, some 15000 people can worship there at any one time. Beautifully constructed from fine Moroccan materials, the mosque is a testament to how ancient crafts can be recharged and vitalized when applied to such a purpose. I'm not Muslim, but I could see how such a place could bring you closer to the god you worship.
Back at the hotel our group swiftly separated to our individual hotel rooms. There were some goodbyes, and a few of us shared dinner at a local café – but there's an 'end of the party' feel to every interaction we have now. Some of us are returning home, others continuing their travels. A large number are flying out tomorrow afternoon to Dubai, but after that the group really breaks up – some to Doha; to Bangkok, Sydney and Melbourne.
It's been a wonderful time and the memories will remain.
Day 20
It's 2.44am in Dubai, and we're sitting at a cafe at the International Airport waiting for our flight to Auckland which departs at 10 am. I don't know whether to stay awake or try to sleep.
So as an alternative, I'm sending off the last blog in this series. We'll be home in about 20 hours, and I can't wait. We've had a wonderful trip, met lots of lovely people and it's been great to return to our old travelling habits.
The flight from Casablanca has already taken us 8 hours. I watched the old musical 'Oliver'. Then succumbed to another spot of nostalgia and watched most of the first Lord of the Rings movie. I reckon I can knock the whole lot off on the next flight.