TravelStream™ news feed for member hdh on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/hdh en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sat, 05 Apr 2008 19:39:54 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hdh/rtw/1158397500/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hdh/rtw/1158397500/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/hdh/rtw/1158397500/tpod.html Sat, 05 Apr 2008 19:39:54 -0400 Start in Antarctica and head north....

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Cape Town, South Africa

From June the warm waters off the coast of South Africa lure the Southern Right whales from their home in the Southern Ocean to the whale equivalent of a Dateless and Desperate Ball. As late as November whales can be seen gliding and arcing through the waters around the Western Cape in a last ditch effort to get lucky before the long trek home.

We settled in - to come and go as our travels took us - at an atmospheric Art Deco lodge in Cape Town. Zebra striped wallpaper, mirrored mosaics and antelope rugs vied for attention with Bakelite door handles, rickety stairs and a bus load of Danish girls involved in a late night, pushing, shoving, ending up in the pool, altercation with German girlfriends over German boyfriends. Our room was named "Di's Rug" in honour of the neighbour's horrendous toupee and, if you had a firearm, you had to leave it at reception.

Cape Town seems softer and more genteel than arid, abrasive Johannesburg. It's smaller, more accessible and greener but also more obviously contradictory. Our lodge was in the cheaper, less fashionable part of town. Down on the main road the shop fronts are shuttered, barred and chained, some blackened, and mostly ran to video outlets and liquor stores. But running up from the main road the streets were lined with gracefully proportioned, pastel Art Deco and Art Nouveau houses with postage stamp over-grown gardens and wrought iron fences - not much broken glass concreted into fence tops and no barbed wire. Fashionable homes stream up the hill from the smart redeveloped waterfront apartment complexes and diamond showrooms to eddy around the foot of Table Mountain. The mountain itself dominates the town, usually draped in its table cloth of softening cloud, but when the cloud is swept away it thrusts darkly up wrapped in fire scarred brush. Drive out from the city towards the expensive outlying suburbs nestled in among the rocky hills and leafy vineyards and you drive passed power plant cooling towers and green belts where tramps huddle over make shift fires.

We stayed in Cape Town only long enough to sample some of the very fine food on offer, cook some not bad offerings ourselves and lunch with relatives. We briefly wandered the craft stalls and markets of the vibrant waterfront area and strolled up Long Street poking around shops selling everything from upliftment project products made from recycled tea bags to gorgeous bowls with intricate woven patterns fashioned with telephone wire to hand-blown glass. On a day the cloud finally lifted from the mountain, we circled its slopes hoping to catch the cable car for drop dead ocean views - us and everyone else in Cape Town it seemed - we settled for some more craft and coffee. Hoping for some insight into life under apartheid we visited the District Six Museum*. But this museum is less about the anger and discrimination of living under apartheid or the bitterness and dislocation of eviction. It is a recalling of the streets and homes, the families, their triumphs and defeats and characters - a deliberate redrawing of a community in defiance of the attempt to wipe it from memory.

We began our loop out from Cape Town slowly with a day trip to the Cape of Good Hope Nature Reserve. En route we took in Simon's Town, faded and peeling, and comfortably homey with its storm battered facades and bright 1950s bathing sheds on a pebbled beach. Simon's Town was the first place to offer us whales. Lolling within metres of the shore were, perhaps, five or six of these massive, graceful creatures. They seemed oblivious to their proximity to the beach and the crowds of people screeching to a halt along the foreshore for a glimpse of them. They were casually going about the business of advertising themselves to each other by flopping about on their backs, slapping their flippers, spouting and "spy hopping" (floating perpendicularly with their tails straight up out of the water). In Ecuador the humpbacks courting was vigorous ... ecstatic, here the Southern Rights were fluid, languid. We knew they were out there somewhere, that's why we'd come to this coast at this time, but, no matter how expected the encounter, the joy of seeing a whale in the wild is always heart stopping.

The parts of the Cape we travelled are often storm lashed and the coast roads meander along craggy cliffs and surf fringed rocky beaches. The native fynbos grow tightly like nubby gamekeepers' tweed with smudges of lilac blue and the odd satiny pink shock of succulent. The day we visited the Nature Reserve was broodingly overcast with a stinging salt laden wind - the belligerent baboons, about whom there are countless warning signs along the paths, stayed wrapped up warm at home. (No native South African would believe we did not see one single baboon making an attempt on a backpack, lunch or small child). Every other day was the glorious best of spring - crisp, sharp mornings and evenings, clear blue skies and golden sunshine.

Where possible we travelled on the coast roads because, although we also wanted to sample the food and wine delights of Franschhoek and Stellenbosch, we were here for the whales. Little did we realise, early on, that if you just stand anywhere quietly and wait there will be whales effortlessly dancing through the water - at this time of year they seem to be in every bay and off every point. One afternoon off Gansbaai we sat on the boulders watching out for their appearance. A young couple stalked over the rocks and planted themselves directly in everyone's line of sight. After about half a minute of waiting and not getting any whales they spent half an hour posing for wind-swept, pouty photos of each other and then, slightly miffed at the non-arrival of whales on cue, flounced off. During their photo session the rest of us had had a fantastic view of the whales frolicking directly behind them. Another day, in Hermanus, we walked along the scraggy cliff tops in the golden late afternoon sun watching the whales just cruising by in the white-flecked water - hyraxes snuffled around our feet and butterflies flitted in our faces.

In addition to the whales it is the Great White Shark season. To David's horror one of my ambitions for South Africa was to go cage diving for Great Whites. A little down the coast from Gansbaai, for only a lot of money, you can hook up with a cage diving expedition. It's not really diving - the bubbles scare off the sharks - so when the spotter yells "NOW" you grab the top bars of the cage, leap up, suck in a huge breath and push yourself down under the water making sure to keep all appendages inside the cage and peer frantically off into the murk. For the totally mental, there is a sort of submersible kayak with a minimal cage arrangement, this putters around on the surface and dives after the sharks when they come close. It was 15ºC water and visibility was about 1m. There's no discount if you don't actually get in the water but there's no advantage in losing your fingers to frostbite instead of shark bite either. After three hours of bobbing around while the crew trailed buckets of oozing shark bait off the back of the boat we had seen the fast moving, indistinct but sinister silhouette of one massive shark striking at the bait. There is one photo in which you can almost make out a fin. The "divers" were comprehensively blue and hadn't seen a thing.

When we weren't hassling the local sea life we spent some idyllic days in a dinky cottage in Franschhoek. Outside trout plopped and sploshed in a waterlily covered pond and ibises cawed overhead. Inside we curled up beside the open fire or under the hand-made antique quilt on the hand-carved Dutch Cape sleigh bed. The cottage was wrapped around by the family orchard of blossoming fruit trees with low trellised vines growing underneath, all framed by the rugged mountains. It was hard to get up the enthusiasm to venture from our little haven into town but the wildebeest with smoked beetroot custard of Le Petite Ferme, warthog with béarnaise, braised leeks and brandy soaked apricots or cured game meat platter of La Haute Cabriére Cellar Restaurant or the grilled squid tube on chorizo, rosemary and tomato risotto at Blowfish were pretty strong drawcards. Not to mention the excellent wines and knowledgeable staff at the local vineyards.

This time through South Africa was to be about a gentle stroll doing some of the things we enjoy most - ad hoc encounters with wildlife, eating great food, drinking fine wine and wandering aimlessly where whim took us. From here we are throwing ourselves headlong into India, which will not be restful.

You'll see from the dates below I am rather a bit behind on these diaries. Both well, D&H



* District Six was a mixed race community, which, inconveniently situated in a desirable area of Cape Town, was cleared, bulldozed and had the remaining streets renamed to sanitise the area.

15-16/9/06 (transit Johannesburg)
16-19/9/06 Cape Town
19-21/9/06 Franschhoek
21-22/9/06 Hermanus
22-23/9/04 Gansbaai
23-27/9/06 Cape Town
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Hong Kong, Hong Kong

Flying into Hong Kong the mist hung around the hills with exactly the delicacy you see it shrouding the mountains in traditional Chinese rice paper watercolours. It was the last tranquil thing we saw for two months.

After our slow-paced wanderings in South Africa Hong Kong was every bit as frenetic as you might expect and a fairly rude shock. First the nerve wracking bus trip from the airport to a random but hopefully close point on Nathan Road, then the brute strength plough through the tide of morning rush pedestrians*, fending off the thrust "copy watch ... handbag?"**. Once inside the iconic Chungking Mansions - a shabby, crumbling, bamboo scaffolding supported edifice with decrepit window air-conditioners dangling and a chaos of hawkers shops in the foyer, slap in the middle of the Golden Mile - it took twenty minutes to locate the correct elevator bank to get us to our hotel. The weather had settled into the muggy, cloying overcast it would be for the duration of our stay and we were pathetically grateful for the icy air-conditioning.

Any assault on the streets around our hotel needed to be preambled by a little lie down, preferably with eyeshades and earplugs. The Golden Mile is the electronics shopping mecca of Hong Kong but that doesn't stop every shop having a small, independent stall to sell rip-off watches or silk pyjamas at the door. Everyone is thrusting out into the heaving street to entreat you to view their embroidered doilies and designer sunglasses or lure you back to their brother's tailor shop or bespoke cobblers. Everything is flashy and flashing and plausibly fake, shrouded in a fug of diesel fumes and the rainbow light spilling from the constantly changing neon overhead. The throng of pushing, shoving pedestrians armed with plastic carry bags babble in every conceivable dialect. The drone and crash of constant construction, embattled traffic, the whir of electric signage and battery powered juggling monkeys batters you, not to mention the maximum volume Cantonese rock blasting from the stereo shops and mega-huge Sony flat screen advertising billboard.

In many places, just a little off the main drag, you could spend time trawling through overladen trestles piled high with dusty treasures - it's doubtful we really needed to spend any time sifting through a saucer of authentic Mao badges or boxes of People's Liberation Army uniform buttons or trays of wire rimmed spectacles. But, then, isn't a real piece of someone's actual history a better souvenir than a whirligig dopper attachment for my electronic doodad that will be obsolete next week?

Down on the waterfront - if you can actually fight your way down there - wide plazas around the Space and Art Museums with minimalist planting allow you to claw back some personal space. From the plaza you can gaze through the rigging and paper lanterns of a moored junk across the harbour littered with tugs, container ships and tankers to the insane highrises of Hong Kong Island. At night the highrises come alive - each is wired to perform in a synchronised musical display - neon rippling and flashing over the staid faces of international bankers and insurance houses, an exuberant reinvention of Asians' love affair with light and colour. One evening we subwayed under Victoria Harbour to Hong Kong Island proper. After a silly half hour chasing around following the helpful direction signs we arrived at the 120 year old funicular which hauled us up the side of The Peak to watch the whole thing in reverse.

When you do get down to the harbour end of the Golden Mile, hopefully with your financial resources intact, this is where you can shop in earnest - genuine designer boutiques vying for the authentic dollar - Burberry, Gucci, Baccarat, Dior, Lacroix, Mont Blanc, Rolex and Versace. You can shop at the China Emporium where delicate jade statues, intricate camphor carving, lacquer ware and lustrous, luxurious silk brocades cry out for fondling [I got some of them]. Down this end of town is the colonial institution, the Peninsula Hotel, where we took High Tea. In lofty, parlour palmed spaces with subdued lighting and linen napery, white jacketed stewards unobtrusively ply you with lady-like cucumber sandwiches, airy cream cakes and endless coffee refills. It's in places like this that relaxing after empire building was de rigueur so a dusty safari suit and squashed Panama is probably unremarkable but we had the distinct impression it was only impeccable training that was keeping the look of horror our clothing inspired from their faces.

The fairy cakes at the Peninsula were the most familiar things we eat in Kowloon although we drew a line at ducks' tongues and pig's bladder - nobody ever seemed to have jellyfish [I been trying to order this since an incongruous restaurant in Jordan]. We were forced to eat breakfast at McD's every morning, which was hardly a cultural experience, but a weathered old lady in black silk Mao pyjamas did read my palm there.

The most striking thing about Hong Kong is the way they are able to balance cheek-by-jowl, high density living and rabid consumerism with the traditional and claw some peace where we would see none. In places that seem simply a patch of weeds poking out of the paving the denizens of Hong Kong will gratefully set up their picnic lunch to enjoy the park-like setting.

In Mongkok is the Yuen Po Street Bird Garden. The bird garden is a lush green space where bird enthusiasts congregate to walk their birds, which they value as both beautiful and lucky. The cool paths of the gardens are alive with the quiet drone of conversation, the click and chirp of the live crickets for sale, the twittering of finches and canaries and the squawking of parakeets. Groups of friends relax and chat while their birds, in ornate wicker cages with hand-painted porcelain feeders, revel in the breezes of the garden. If you peer through the foliage you will see the windows of a highrise apartment only an arm's length away. A fragant stroll from here along Flower Market Street, bursting with orchids and crysanthmums, and you arrive at the Goldfish Market. For their colour and space efficiency goldfish are also prized in land starved Hong Kong. All along Tung Choi Steet you can buy all manner of fish, goggling out at the world from their suspended plastic bags.

We visited the jade tiled pagodas of the Wong Tai Sin Temple complex. Not only does this single storeyed temple squat in immaculate water gardens under the gaze of 40-storey apartment complexes but Buddhism, Taoism and Confucianism comfortable rub shoulders within the temple precinct. The central court was bustling with futures traders, fishmongers and cellphone touts taking time out to bring an offering of food, light joss sticks, burn paper money or consult the soothsayers. More than a few were wandering over the graceful bridges to view the paper lanterns of warrior poets and mystical maidens constructed to celebrate the Moon Festival. Likewise, we spilled off the high-tech subway and wandered along a four-lane highway to find our way to the bottom of the 400 steps that lead up to the Ten Thousand Buddhas Monastary [in Chinese tradition the number 10,000 is used to signify a countless number - there are acturally more than 13,000 in the main prayer hall]. We climbed up through tropical jungle attended by a golden Buddha at every step - each one different from the preceding one - and baboons who bounded ahead and then waited for us to catch up. The only sounds when you reached the top were of those meditating and bird song. Descending the stairs we lunched at an IKEA superstore.

Thank heavens we had taken the time to relax in Kruger before assaulting Hong Kong - the assault was rather on us than by us - my shopping gene nothwithstanding.


Love, D&H

* We're on the home stretch so we weren't just toting backpacks and day bags - we had, among other things, an ostrich egg lampshade and some porcupine quills, a wooden giraffe and a rhino mortar and pestle.

** We bought three rip-off watches the day before we left Hong Kong. One of mine had already stopped telling the time and the face had fallen off by the immigration queue. (The strap broke on the plane). Paying awkwardly at the bookshop I explained I had to hold my arm this way or my face would fall off. The clerk remarked, "But that's Calvin Klein isn't it?" It's not that he hadn't spotted the rip-off which, I'd have thought, all natives of Hong Kong could do from 500m, but that he'd had well less than a second to register the logo as I flashed the watch at him - even I'm not that good!

7-10/10/06
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Cape Town, South Africa

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Gansbaai, South Africa

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Hermanus, South Africa

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Franschhoek, South Africa

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Cusco, Peru

We returned to Cusco via train (you are only allowed to walk the Inca
Trail in one direction - otherwise I'm sure ...). Cusco is built in
a valley and the descent to the town is so steep it is done via
repeated switchbacks. The town twinkled enticingly below us,
promising hot showers, soft beds and traffic, as we approached it
backwards, forwards, backwards.

Cusco was the capital of the Inca empire and it is actively trying to
reclaim (in some cases, reinvent) its Inca past. It is officially
referred to as Qosqo which is the Quechua spelling - Quechua was the
language of the Inca and is still widely spoken in southern Peru
where Spanish is often a second language. The city is believed to
have been founded in 1100. Much of the town (Spanish and more modern
buildings) is built on foundations of Inca buildings. Not just
cellars and basements but often whole walls of perfectly dressed and
fitted stonework, arches and columns. The base of the law courts,
side walls of the cathedral, internal walls of restaurants and half
the walls of the Inca Museum literally build on the Inca legacy. The
monastery of Santo Domingo is entirely built on the foundations of
the Temple of the Sun. The monastery has now been gutted to better
display the architectural skill of the Incas. There is a dearth of
statues of men in puffy pants or 19th century military uniforms with
either swords or horses but there are resplendent Incas.

But the Spanish have been here too. The streets are narrow, steep
and cobbled. The fretwork enclosed balconies sometimes almost touch
across the streets. The town is littered with wrought iron fenced
gardens and plazas often no bigger than traffic islands in the middle
of the wider roads. And you cannot move for ornate churches,
monasteries, abbeys and other legacies of European architects.

There is a one-way system - the arcane secrets of which are known
only to taxi drivers. There are decorative traffic police on every
corner who blithely watch while pedestrians shamble across roads
creating havoc among the taxi drivers. People have no personal space
at all and jostle on the streets rather than take the extra half step
around. The town is a chaos of touts for restaurants, for travel
agents, for jewellers and tailors, with shoe shine boys, watercolour
sellers, finger puppet peddlers, gourd purveyors, cocoa leaf pushers
(1% cocaine and totally legal) and postcard vendors.

When you're dealing with the people of Peru chaos is of a theme -
they seem to function larger than life. Everything is a chaos of
people and sound and colour, especially colour. And all of that was
true before June 21st. Inti Raymi is the Inca celebration of the
Winter Solstice. 21 June (which is actually the Winter Solstice) is
when Qusqo begins the cycle of parades leading up to the Inti Raymi
pageant at Sacsayhuaman on 24 June.

So, Tuesday (our first day back in town) the parade was provided by
the faculties of the universities and technical institutes. They
started about 10:00am, paraded around the Plaza de Armas, often
paused in front of the dignitaries stand for a special offering; they
finished about 7:00pm. Some schools provided Inca or other
traditionally themed parades, dances or floats, some dressed up
smartly (or had tee-shirts made - entomology was pretty cool) and
marched behind a banner identifying themselves and some did a
combination thing.

* Architecture had a religious theme with an angel who had enormous
bamboo strutted wings - it's a bit of a pity that architecture
students weren't able to build a self-supporting structure and the
angel's wings had to be assisted around the square.

* Environmental Sciences was making a point about CFCs with several
perambulating buildings and a pol
lution blotched sky. One of the
buildings seemed a little confused and was still shuffling around the
square on three sets of trainer clad feet long after the sky and the
rest of the industrial complex had left.

* Travel and Tourism almost got the New Zealand flag right.

* Law and Accounting, like the boring farts they are, wore navy suits.

* Civil Enginering brought along an Inca king, lots of stones and constructed a
ziggurat in front of the dignitaries. They conducted a quick
sacrifice and then broke down their temple and carried on. And,
because, some things are the same the world over, finished with a
ziggy in international solidarity;

* Electrical Engineering had some fine young men in their best interview suits,
and a biomass power station ... and some representatives of good and
evil who battled it out in front of the stand. They also had a
completely unexplained "electrical" unit out of which popped a couple
of chicas waving satellite dishes;

* Mining really let the side down with hard hats, some silly
streamers in the rainbow continuity colours and a really silly
cardboard digger ... they did have explosives though;

* Mechanical Engineering brought along some giant rodents (probably guinea pigs)
(wearing hats of various professions!) and a biomass converter. At the
dignataries stand the rodents dropped some "biomass" which was
shovelled into the biomass converter which then caught fire;

* Geology invited a caveman, some Incas and a protester tied to a
cardboard oil rig;

* Chemical Engineering carried in some inscrutable blue boxes, a globe and a
condor. When they reached the stand they assembled a tableau of
inscruitable boxes, a world and a condor;

* Metallurgy cut straight to the chase by carrying on a stretcher of
gold bricks and an evil machine (purpose and evilness unexplained);

* Med picked some comely chicas, dressed them up in bark and bead
short skirts and bra tops and had them sort-of-dance, sort-of-sway up
the street waving baskets of coca leaves and other bounty from the
gods - of course, by 7:00pm it was pretty chilly so they were also
decked out in matching denim jackets. The faculty followed in suits.

Wednesday's parade was the secondary schools dance competition. This
started about 10:00am and finished about 2:30pm. It was a riot of
colour and sound, rainbow Andean flags (representing the continuity
of family), waving hankies and body paint, sequins, feathers,
petticoats, llama wool boas and tire tread sandals. This is a nation
of excellent hats. There were sunflower-like halos of dried grass,
simple flax and shell headbands, upturned plates covered with
decorated tablecloths, parakeet coloured mortarboards in round,
rectangular, octagonal - geometry gone wild. All the dance entries
were fairly similar, a sort of shuffling sway with some square
dancing thrown in, accompanied by music of pan pipes, drums and
skyrockets. We don't really know who won but whoever it was Pooh was
so excited his head fell off.

On Thursday the civil service and other civic institutions (like
banks) paraded. They didn't really go for the performance thing just
serious men and women in serious suits with a banner, perhaps
colourful, identifying them. Some of the more loose institutions
wore ponchos over their shoulders. They started at 10:00am and
finished at 2:00am!

Al the civil service groups were very serious except the police.
They turned out in masks of hellish grotesques, doublets and pantaloons in rainbow
stripes with fluttering ribbon accoutrements, white tights and
blindingly polished black number one shoes. They did the Peruvian
equivalent of morris dancing around the square and all the way back
to the police barracks. And my brother complains he doesn't get a
woolly hat for outdoor surveillance work issued because Tauranga's
not a cold weather station.

We have spent the last seven months travelling around South America
exactly one week (sometimes only one day) behind the major
festivals. We were bloody well determined that we would hold out in
Qosqo until the celebration of Inti Raymi. On the 24th we climbed
(in a taxi) to Sacsayhuaman for the pageant to celebrate the sun
rising for the Winter Solstice - this was somewhat surreal as we were
three days late and it was 3:00pm in the afternoon. It was quite the
spectacle (which it should have been at USD80.00 a head).
Sacsayhuaman is a major Inca temple ruin above Qosqo. All the
stonework is in the Imperial style. Frankly, it's so perfect it
looks like Disney does the Flintstones. The entire town had turned
out forthe event and there was quite a party atmosphere - although
obviously there weren't very many locals in the official enclosure
for the price. But they had turned out in force to party, drink corn
beer, eat weird stuff and yell at the gringos to sit down so they
could see.

As Michael Palin observes, although the Inca culture has been dead
for some 400 years, it's really very good that someone remembers
their dances and songs. And dance they did and sing (although the
loudest singer was just slightly off key). There were army platoons
representing the four quarters of the empire (they didn't dance but
kept pretty good time with their feet), dance troupes from the four
corners of the empire, the Inca was carried in on a golden throne
borne by beefy young representatives of the empire, as was his wife
(smaller throne and lads), there were a variety of advisers in cool
costumes who reported on the state of things generally and waved
smoke. The sacred fires were relit - piles of straw on tinder dry
grass (only we and some Australians seemed to think this might be a
tad foolhardy and, perhaps, the young man in the tire tread sandals
who had to stamp out the grass fires). There was a pregnant pause
while we all gave appropriate thanks to the sun for its bounty and
waited breathlessly to see whether it would make a liar of the Inca
this year and fail to rise - although, of course, it had been up for
nine hours already so he was pretty secure. They sacrificed a
llama. Well, actually, they carried a sedated llama up onto the
altar and mucked around with it. Then, while the llama was carried
away for a nice lie down, various advisers started waving a cows
heart around and reading auguries. It was jolly fun, and very
colourful.


PS I had a more successful cuy (guinea pig) experience on our last
night in Cusco ´- well the cuy was cooked properly and, therefore,
edible, but they'd cut off the head and little tortured feet which I
thought was a bit unsporting. It still tasted like a cross between
chicken and rabbit and there's still not much eating on one.
Apparently, though, you are supposed to eat the bones. This bulks up
the actually meal and reduces the hassle aspect. If I can't bring
myself to eat quail bones though....
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Arequipa, Peru

We took a taxi through the Chilean-Peruvian border. The Peruvians are so unconcerned about who enters their country that you give your passport to the taxi driver and he sorts out immigration. He then drives to you Tacna, sorts out your money exchange and arranges your
onward bus trip to Arequipa. All this for the same taxi fare we paid to drive up the hill to visit light-up Jesus.

Arequipa is a very beautiful city. Most of the public buildings are built from the local luminous volcanic white stone, sillar - and they have some serious architecture. The town was "founded" in 1540 but had previously been occupied by the Aymara indians and Incas. The
town nestles at 2,380m in a valley guarded by the snow capped mountains, Misti (the volcano), Chachani and Pichu-Pichu, and is a UNESCO world cultural heritage site. It is also the gateway for most gringos to Colca Canyon which is twice as deep as the Grand Canyon (though, in fairness, nowhere near as cool).

The town is livid with roller skate sized yellow micro taxis and there are no road rules except that you have right of way if you really want it! Like most of the colonially founded cities it is
organised on a grid pattern around the central square. After that, you need to know the secret handshake to find anything - instead of a diversity of shops on any given street or malls, the shops are organised by street. There is the street of fire extinguisher sellers, the street of solar heating experts, the corner of passport photo sellers, the street of cheap women's undies which is also the riot police hide-out, and endless streets of tourist tat sellers.

The traditional dress of the ladies of the region (seen as everyday dress everywhere) runs to layers and layers of intensively embroidered bits and pieces. The embroidery is specific to the region and features the birds and fish that thrive in and near the rivers that are the symbol of life for Quechua people. You start with a high necked blouse (satins are favoured), over which is addedan embroidered buttoned up vest and then an embroidered jacket
(velvet is preferred). Long skirts are the vogue - two - both bordered with the same embroidery, the underskirt worn full length and the overskirt hitched up in the front like something Victorian. The entire ensemble is finished with an embroidered ladies bowling
hat, turned up at the back to accommodate a luxurious plait of hair.

We established ourselves in the gorgeous Tumi de Oro hostel (NZD20.00 per night, massive bedroom filled with antiques opening onto rooftop terrace, dressing room and bathroom) and hit town for some culture. Aside from prowling the churches and generally standing gaping at
architecture, the most interesting site in the town is Santa Catalina. Established soon after the founding of the city it is the convent of a contemplative order of nuns - usually drawing its ranks from the daughters of the wealthy. The convent covers two hectares in the centre of the city and is a complete walled city on its own. It is a labyrinth of cobbled streets, buttressed houses, plazas, communal spaces and enormous kitchens, as well as the individual
cells of the nuns. The complex was opened to the public in 1970 but there is still a small order of nuns who live in seclusion in a separate part of the convent. It is a bright, sun-filled, place that somehow gave the impression of bustle even though the nuns are still secluded. It lacked the tranquil air of San Ignacio and Santo Domingo but it was filled with the most fascinating things in the museums. If your daughter was about to enter the total seclusion of
a contemplative order of nuns (you know, obedience, chastity, poverty) would you think the most sensible thing to set her up with would be a hand-painted porcelain tea service?

One of the mother superiors, educated by the nuns and choosing the order over the wishes of her parents, was declared a saint by Pope John Paul II on his visit to Arequipa in the 1990s. Her apartments have become a chapel and opening off from them you can view the room (and bed) where Arequipa's very own saint finished her journey.

The following morning, rising at the unearthly hour of 5:30am we began our journey to Colca Canyon. We're back into the land of combat bus boarding. We travelled the first three hours of the five hour bus journey standing because the bus company had on-sold our reservations - our guide nearly died of embarrassment.

We were travelling with two Quebecois. By the time we arrived at Cabanaconde France was suffering from altitude sickness and looked ready to die. After lunch Guido, our guia, insisted she be checked at the local clinic before we could proceed. The doctor refused to
let her descend the canyon with us and so arrangements had to be made to get her to tomorrow's accommodation. We waited outside the clinic while this was being organised while old Peruvian codgers wandered passed and asked if we were going to San Juan tonight. An affirmative was greeted with sucking breath around teeth anddisbelieving head shaking - it was just before 3:00pm.

France sorted out with a guide and a mule and Melanie deciding to continue with us we headed into the canyon. It's really, really deep at 1,200m and this is far from the deepest part. The path winds 9km down the steep, barren (except for cactuses) side of the canyon to
the river crossing below. On the opposite you can see villages working the terraced sides of the canyon, growing exclusively the maize traditionally served barbequed with ceviche - some of the terraces date from Inca times. There are almost no services in these villages - everything is accessed, including schooling, by walking up to Cabanaconde. Guido was constantly stopping us to point out different types of plants, to explain the history of particular partsof the trail, to get us out of the way firewood laden donkeys or locals (not even breaking a sweat) on their way up to the village. The native tree, mole, which grows here is the source of pink peppercorns and this is the primary area where cochineal bugs (the
source of red food colouring and clothes dyes) are harvested - Guido found us a female bug and then murdered it to illustrate it's redness.

By 6:00pm the sun had set and our lives had turned into a purgatory delineated by the silver gray circle illuminated by the head light. Endlessly zigging and zagging and zigging over treacherous shale, waiting to stumble into the next cactus or slide down the next section of track and hope to stop before you pitched over the unseen cliff, heading for the roar of the river that never seemed any closer and the rickety suspension bridge that probably didn't exist anyway.

By the time we hit (for me literally) the bridge I was staggering around like a Bug in a brand new Edgar suit (yes, we caught MIB on a bus to somewhere). That was when we discovered we now had to climb a rock face which was the sheer drop to the river and then walk along a track that was exactly two adult feet (placed side by side) wide and
on the cliff edge. About then David's nerves began to shred (mine were well gone) as he coped with his own issues with walking on the edge of vertical drops to rocks and a rushing river and watched me lurching, staggering and falling along the same insane track. There
were some very interesting irrigation channels.

We arrived at San Juan an hour and a half after we were due. I cried. I had totally lost control of my legs (and was just clinging to mental threads). I had to be rescued on the way back from the baño as I staggered around the lawn like some giant demented firefly. I didn't even have the energy to jeer at the cage of guinea pigs.

Our meal, of vegetable soup and vegetarian omelette with fries and rice, was cooked by the ladies of the house. They have an outdoor kitchen and no electricity. They work with headlights. Cooking is either in the conical clay oven or over the fire spilling out the back. The logs are too big for the oven and stretch across the kitchen floor gradually being shoved further in as they burn down.

The next day we walked from San Juan to the aptly named Oasis, wandering through a co-operative agricultural system that is 500 years old. The original Inca Trail runs up the canyon side above San Juan and some of the farming methods date from Inca times. All thisside of the canyon is terraced and feed by irrigation races that draw water from natural springs and snow melts. The terraces are fertilised by sheep, pig and donkey, the ploughing is done with
wooden shears and donkey power. The land is individually owned but everything is done co-operatively - from the construction of the irrigation channels, repair of the terracing, harvesting, building

the new donkey trail up the other side of the canyon to the village. The houses are built of reeds or adobe, there is no electricity, only cold running water and no heating beyond the kitchen fire. The people are friendly, welcoming and generous with their time and information about their environment and their lives.

For 20 minutes we had a taste of what tomorrow's climb back out of the canyon would be like. It was no bloody fun and I don't do it every Sunday to get to school for the week or when I've run out of milk. At the top, staggering and gasping (me), Guido took us to
paradise. We were invited into a villager's garden where, under the shade of a massive avocado, we gulped and slurped organically grown apples, pears, chemoya and oranges. There was a stillness and peace in his little Eden dwarfed by massive, forbidding canyon walls ... then he took a frame from his beehive and we feasted on golden,apple, citrus honey, liquid and warm from the sun while bees buzzed contentedly about our heads. And, again, I thought there might be something to this trekking thing after all.

Onwards, but fortunately downwards (although my knees and quads didn't agree), we headed for lunch. We crossed the river again on a much less unstable suspension bridge and arrived at Oasis. After two days of unforgiving sun, cactus spines and dust and dust, the pool
feed from an underground spring looked like a mirage. We had an hour before Guido would have lunch ready. We frolicked and gamboled like sirens while weary, less lucky backpackers trudged onwards in the other direction.

The afternoon was free to wander, snooze or explore. I snoozed (I had no illusions about the 2:30am start tomorrow), David explored (an recorded cochineal bug harvesting) and France (who had rejoined us) and Melanie wandered (and fell in the river). Later that evening
David directed them to the shop - they became entangled in a bush and then (France wearing my sports sandals for dry footwear) fell in the stream. On the way to the trail the next morning France fell in another stream but managed to miss the pool.

This trekking kick is really David's. Next morning (at 2:30am) it was unsurprisingly dark and cold, the climb was 1200m and would take three and a half hours, and my quads had a view on standing up. I took a donkey up the hill (I'd wanted to do the whole thing on donkey
anyway!). David says the walk, entirely in the dark, was less difficult than he expected but not exactly fun and represents an overcome obstacle (the bus was at the top). My donkey had no saddle just an arrangement of blankets, no stirrups and no reins. He obviously knew the trail by heart. He zig-zagged his way up the trail and had a tendency to go right out to the edge of the track and then stop to rest - this left me staring into the abyss, clinging, white knuckled to my blankie and hoping he didn't lurch or get hungry for something just out of reach. By the time we reached the top I had other muscles that were masking the pain in my quads and I didn't think I would ever be able to uncurl my hands again. (As I lowered
myself gingerly into the taxi back in Arequipa the taxi drivergrinned and said, "Mucho caminando en Colca"!).

Safely reunited about an hour later our group joined the combat bus boarding queue for Cruz del Condor. To get everyone on the bus there were people standing in the isles, sitting on laps and standing on the seat arms but only 20 minutes (of jamming and cramming) late we
were on our way.

Every morning as the sun warms the canyon walls the condors come out to play and begin their day on the thermals. The miradors are built right out on the edge of the canyon wall they nest on. We thought we'd be lucky to see a couple of condors for a few minutes. Two
hours later we had watched a dozen plunging and soaring in a non- stop, breath-stopping show. As we have said before, up close there is no escaping the fact that condors, for all their romantic PR, are basically vultures. We've seen the source of the PR now - we have
seen them where they belong. On the thermals they are magnificent, huge, graceful, playful, huge, maneuverable, masterly and huge. They fly like I breathe. They have a sense of humour - condors don't hunt, they are out searching for carrion, and every couple of minutes
they'd fly over the miradors to see if one of us had died. They flew in squadrons diving and squabbling. They came so close overhead we could see their faces and hear the wind in their feathers - a sound like hands caressing velvet.

Arequipa seemed small and brittle after our three days away. They were throwing workers' protests to force an increase in the minimum wage. There were marchers in the streets and chanting and placards and an air of weariness among Arequipans who've seen it all before
and it doesn't change anything. Grasping for some tranquility we wandered into the cathedral and had one of those moments that are about timing and someone smiling on you. While the riot police formed up outside we stood transfixed to the sounds of 17th century pipe organ that filled the entire end of the cathedral and a local soprano who filled the entire cathedral with a haunting Ave Maria.

Foodie experiences: dried alpaca meat and dried potato stew; black corn beer; tunas (the fruit of a cactus); honey fresh from the hive; guinea pig; alpaca roasted over (and served on) hot stones; chilli peppers stuffed with river shrimps, papaya, passionfruit juice and potatoes; being caught drooling my drink by a restaurant owner and being dragged, with everyone else in the restaurant, into a ritual offering thanks to Pachamama (drooling is apparently good luck); Foodie experiences we decided to pass on: deep fried cow's udder.

Peru is shaping up to be even more colourful, exotic and exciting than Bolivia (and they don't even throw dynamite here).
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Auckland, New Zealand

We've had to return temporarily to NZ for medical reasons. Its actually been a nice break - travelling is hard work.

Anyway, last week we borrowed my parents' fizzboat and went out for a picnic on - Motuihe, one of the Hauraki Gulf islands. It was a perfect summer day, and as I was lying around on a deserted white-sand beach, sipping bubbles and gazing idly across the gulf at Waiheke, I was wondering why we bother travelling, when we already live in paradise.

I guess as much as anything, reinforcing that knowledge has been a worthwhile outcome of the trip so far. We started off thinking maybe we'd find somewhere we'd fall in love with and never leave, but so far, while there's been cool places and cool people, NZ remains the place I want to live.

Still, there's plenty more to see and do before the time and money runs out, and maybe we'll still stall somewhere. Next week we're back on the road again, heading for the Lebanon, and in some perverse way I'm kinda looking forward to dingy hotel rooms, inadequate plumbing, and the ever-changing, ever-the-same view out bus windows.
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Cadiz, Spain

We used Cádiz as the Phoenicians, Romans (Caesar got his first job
here) and Moors had used it: a gateway to Spain. [We'd already
ferried from Tangiers to Algeciras, bussed to La Linea and walked to
Gibraltar, but that's another story and it has a Part II].

It was raining, gray and bitterly cold when we arrived; the Footprint
map was a block out on itself and it took David an hour to find the
hotel; they threw us out the following day for their Christmas
holiday (might have mentioned that last night since they knew we
wanted to stay two nights!).

It was siesta when we arrived. Everything locked up tight and
unwelcoming, deserted rain slicked streets, chilly stone, complicated
iron grills and vacant eyed gargoyles. A lone busker's classical
guitar drifted up from the plaza keeping us company and the Catedral
bells rang out the quarter hours. By 6:00pm the building hubbub told
us we could go out and be among people again.

It was three days before Christmas and, although January 6th is the
big gift giving event in Spain, the populace were out shopping until
they dropped. They were a swirling mass of colour coalescing and
then breaking apart like chaotic eddies in the cosmos, constrained
only by the thread-wide streets and the skill with which fur-coated
little old ladies can obstruct pedestrian flow. Pushing and shoving
is expected and good natured; everyone seems to be arguing but
Spaniards just like things lively; flamenco groups performed loud and
rainbow-flounced where they could bully space. The streets twinkled
with overhead Christmas lights bouncing back off the shiny cobbles
and carved stone building fripperies. The streets were lined with
boutique windows glittering with purchasing trophies.

Every narrow street leads to a plaza. Every plaza sports at least
one church. The plazas are filled with glossy, fruit laden orange
trees and outdoor tables for tapas bars and restaurants. The
Andalucian tradition of tapa is one of the reasons I wanted to come
to southern Spain. Spaniards, I had been told, never drink without
eating and they're serious about food so an entire cuisine of little
bites has grown up that puts "two pints of lager and a packet of
crisps" to shame. [Actually it's perfectly acceptable to breeze into
a bar, stand and down a beer in two minutes flat before wandering off
without so much as nuzzling an olive.]

Cádiz is over-run with tapas bars. Any bar is a tapas bar. They run
from rustic, scarred, wooden bars held up by sherry barrels and
propped up by octogenarians in shabby jumpers and berets to slick,
brushed aluminum and oak places we're not "beautiful" enough to
darken the door of. But there was a problem: we were afraid of
them. Our fear was born from two factors: (1) Spaniards do not speak
like South Americans. For them "b", "p" "t" and "v" are all the same
letter (a sort of undefined explosive breath) and "c", "s" and "z"
are all "th", hence Cádiththth. They pronounce every vowel
excruciatingly clearly and are fairly loose about whether they bother
with consonants. Imagine Colin Meads lisping every third word. We
can't understand a word they say. (2) I have a reasonable idea of
the sorts of things that come in tapa but many tapas bars don't have
menus, I don't necessarily know the Spanish name for the dishes I
think they will offer, neither of us has enough Spanish to indulge in
an in-depth conversation with lisping waiting staff on whether
escargot (as translated) actually means snails or (as it means in
Granada) cockles and do they have cuttlefish tonight. We can't
survive on bowls of olives for four weeks.

The first night we chickened out and dined at the 100 Sandwich Bar
where you just tick the list and they produce mini baguettes, toasted
with your choice of filling, no need to talk to anyone!. Everything
is €1.00 and ranges from Iberian ham (another reason to come to
Andalucia) through house smoked fresh tuna or chicken with roasted
red pepper to a slab of chocolate in a warm bun!

Our first morning in Spain dawned frost snap crisp and we headed out
for a cultural experience - chocolate and churros*. Hot chocolate in
Spain means a cup of melted chocolate thinned with cream to the
consistency of custard - we tried "chocolate a l'español" last year
in Mexico, and thought they were joking: they're not (except the
Spaniards don't normally have it by the soup bowl). Churros are
somewhere between donut batter and choux pastry extruded and deep
fried. You dip the churros (about 8" long, 5 or 6 each) into the
chocolate - a breakfast of champions!

Suitably fortified (and horrified) we found a new (nicer, anyway)
hotel and headed for our first cathedral in ages. Cádiz was an
important seaport during the colonisation of the Americas. It was
consequently a target for English, French and Dutch "sack and
pillage". It also has earthquakes. The original cathedral was
destroyed by fire in 1596 and they didn't start the Catedral Nueva,
in the Gothic style, until 1723. The carved cedar choir stalls are
supposed to be the highlight of an otherwise austere limestone
interior. Personally, I was more moved by the organist's rolling out
uplifted chords in Christmas practice. And amused by the chicken
wire mesh strung from the columns. (The limestone is not partial to
salt air and has been known to drop chunks of itself on the
congregation). David climbed the bell tower.

Our evening stroll among the people involved the usual body slamming
and moshing and me dodging zig zag from shoe shop to designer
boutique to sparkly thing purveyor - if David moved faster, with more
verve, he'd be warmer. We stopped for a drink. They had no carte
but the waitress suggested jamón (ham, which we recognised) to go
with the manzanilla sherry and we were away down the tapas trail. A
half portion comprised a serving platter covered in thinly (hand)
sliced proscuitto-like ham (but sweeter) served with crusty bread and
drizzled with extra virgin olive oil. Another waiter suggested caña
de lomo - why not? Lomo is fillet and around here that probably
means pork. Actually paprika cured loin ... and another sherry or
three anyone?

We were booked to spend David's birthday at Hacienda Benazuza outside
Seville. It gave us an opportunity to get into the rugged foothills
of the Sierra Morena where tiny villages, all white-washed walls,
terracotta tiled roofs and juddering stone streets, either nestle
glowing in patches of sunlight on valley floors by rushing streams or
trickle over hill tops like cup cake icing.

The fields are dew bright praying mantis green or covered in tiny
flowers making them the colour of ecstatic pollen doused
bumblebees. The fields are littered with weathered stones, thrust
from the earth at random angles. Around the stones, as if working
with the contours, the land is planted with arthritic olives and cork
trees with scorch blackened bark. Around the olives and corks bulls,
goats and sheep graze and charcoal pigs snuffle for acorns. The
roads are lined with jumbled, stacked stone walls with free form
gates and birches like silver and copper filigree. They're so proud
of Jamón Iberico we followed the Ruta de Jamón - really.

We stayed in Aracena which has a Museum of Ham. We browsed around
the hills and valleys and traveled around and about to various
churches, castles and ruins. The whole area has history lurking
waiting to leap out at you - the surges of Moorish vs Christian
influence have flowed over the area so often that every second
hilltop boasts a ruined castle or fort. Above Aracena is the Iglesia
de Nuestra Señora de los Dolores, built by the Knights Templar you
know. Above it rises the remains of a 13th century castle, built by
the Portuguese. It's a complete ruin with crumbling walls and
collapsed towers. We visited, as you should, on a day the hill top
was shrouded in cloud, rain sleeted across the open spaces, the wind
moaned through ruined crenellations and mist plumes eddied and
swirled through crevices.


p.s. According to Tony a typical Spanish daily menu would be toast with
olive oil and milky coffee at 7:00am, chocolate and churros at
11:00am, main meal (a typical menu del dia is paella, pork with salad
and chips, bread, flan) at 2:00pm, pastry and coffee at 6:00pm, tapas
and drink from 9:00pm, salad and fish or steak at 10:00 or 11:00pm -
I don't know why they're not all dead!
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