If Texas exceeded stereotypes, then New Mexico lived up to them. To a tee. Barely a century into being, New Mexico is best defined simply by what it is, a desert willing itself into being by sheer persistence.
Best known for some of its most famous features - the junction of Route 66 and the Pan American Highway and that Bugs Bunny kept taking wrong turns at Albuquerque - there is little else going for this land-locked state.
At first glimpse there is little to distinguish it from north-west Texas - the area true, fiercely proud, Texans call the armpit of their state. Oil rigs dominate the desert, and near-abandoned towns selfishly cling to existence from out of the pale yellow sands and scrub. It is here that tumbleweed may just outnumber the cars that dodge the browning plant as it bounds across the roads, playing chicken with the fearless motorists, he'll bent on their destination.
But this is the land of the Pentecostal and the Episcopalian, where creationist roadsigns decrying Darwin almost outnumber fast food advertising. It is also, or perhaps fundamentally, Indian land. It is the land of the great spirit and the great Indian Reservation Casino - where the old, the feeble, the infirm and the poor can lose what little they have. Certainly give us your tired, your poor and your huddled masses and we will keep them entertained with blinking lights and the sound of the jackpot (pre-recorded because a good casino won't make a habit of paying out).
Just across the southern border, amid a return to Spanish signage, lies Carlsbad. Gateway to the Carlsbad Caverns National Park, the town is nothing more that a fuel and food stop.
The caverns, however, are different. The fence line of the park presents a portal to a different world as featureless desert gives over to rolling hills and picturesque valleys filled with pale green shrubbery. The Knights of Nee would be pleased.
Perched on a windswept hillside we huddle, chilled beyond the bone, as the visitor centre opens for warmth and coffee. We hear the tours of the world below are also good, so we pay our hard earned and descend to the cavern floor a way below.
The atrium to the caverns is surreal. It is dark and cool and humid. It may also be the only natural underground environment with a gift-shop, restaurant and clean restrooms. Where there is a buck to be made...
Beyond, however, is evidence of an active earth as evolved as any living species on this planet. Once hardened rock, then an underground lake and finally the expansive caverns that we are in, they are big enough to house Notre Dame cathedral and then some. Eons in the making and beautiful beyond words, it is difficult to believe that such awe could have been beneath the feet of ranchers for a century before discovery - and prompts thoughts about what else lies below us.
Back on the desert floor we make our way west again, to Alamogordo and the White Sands National Park. A tourist town as the gateway to the White Sands, Alamogordo is that in name alone. A strip of asphalt, with some side "roads" and the obligatory chain restaurants, the sole shining like is the bookstore/cafe that makes passable coffee.
Similarly the White Sands National Park is a conundrum. It has ecological value as the remanent of a great, ancient gypsum undersea mountain range. Now, it is sand dunes. In a desert. With nothing else around it... The irony is either deliberate or naive. Nevertheless, an hour of tobogganing on the dunes was fun and enough for us to have experienced the park and check another off our only partially adhered to list.
At night we find a campground at the mouth of Dog Canyon and are so pleasantly surprised at the find. Sitting slightly above the desert floor, the campground gives us the best view of the basin and, the following morning, a much needed walk up the canyon to some incredible landscapes. Unsung gem of New Mexico.
Onto Albuquerque and, ensuring that we turn left and not right, we stop for the night in the car park of an Indian Casino. Using their restrooms, we are depressed by the sheer magnitude of the pokies (slot machines) occupying the gambling floor. It is vibrant, offensive and depressing. But the bathrooms are clean, so we're happy.
At a movie (Date-night, NM) we are surprised by the level of security, but then remember past events...
The following morning we visit the university district and fall in love with this town. Once you look past the desert and into the lives of the people and where and how they live then the stark beauty of some of these "small" south-western towns comes sharply into focus, and perspective, and we find ourselves appreciating and loving their lifestyle. It proves that, if nothing else, that oases do exist.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Not Alone in the Lone Star State
If other countries in our trip so far have been full of contradictions, then the star of the south simply exceeded stereotypes. In a vast area, we were never alone. In a state so famous for its oil production, renewable energies were obviously being taken up. In a desert, we were surprised to find oases.
Oil, fittingly, framed our time in the Lone Star State, but remarkably only in the first day and then the final hours. We crossed into Texas from Louisiana, via Sabine Pass, and it was immediately obvious that the black gold was one of the key drivers of this economy. Sabine Pass, Port Arthur and Orange are oil towns, and they don't let you forget it. Massive refineries sit alongside massive oil tankers, which sit alongside nature reserves. Here the oil well is king, and the locals think nothing of the irony of drilling for oil in a wildlife refuge - and will even defend the method of mining as "low impact." A stink hangs in the air, heavy with petroleum fumes and a haze of distopia. It is easy to see this place as the terminus of humanity, where our civilisation will end once the oil runs out, and as a consequence what it will look like. It is hard to imagine how people live and work in this environment, but they do, and the area surrounding the refineries is staggeringly beautiful. Heart-achingly so. It is easy to weep here, for what once was and what, seemingly inevitably, will be.
Similarly the road out of Texas reminded us of how this state functions. Microscopic "towns" exists solely to extract that compressed remains of the last species to dominate this planet, process it and ship it. It is here that the solar-powered streetlamp stands guard against the oil well and burners - a lone soldier holding back the hordes that have come and, are now, going.
However Texas refuses to be defined by its borders. What lies between is something that confounds anyone who believes that they know this state.
Putting the petrochemical plants behind us, we march onwards into Austin, via Galveston and Houston. Galveston exists as the coastal playground of Houston, and the once vital port for commercial exports from the republic. Nowadays, it is something else. Rundown is not the right word, it is certainly preserved, but it feels like a town of sometime importance that has lost its means for existence. The giant civic building towers over single story homes and businesses that persevere for the sake of perseverance.
Houston exists, seemingly, for the traffic police desperately attempting to maintain order on the fly-overs and for NASA.
But Austin. Austin is an oasis of charm, liberalism and good-naturedness. A Democrat stronghold in deep Republican territory, a "young" city in an ageing state and somewhere to find good food, great bars and cool live music. It is a city like Melbourne, if Melbourne was ever pleasantly warm for longer than five minutes.
On the edge of town the McKinney Falls State Park is our home for the night, and the ranger on duty provides us with the best example of southern hospitality that we have experienced to date. A late entrant into the Civil War, Texas is nonetheless distinctively southern, and proudly so. But the people are also proudly Texan, citing the republic as their home, not the state. If that's confusing to anyone else, don't worry. We spent a full afternoon in the state museum unravelling the rich history of the Mexican province turned republic turned state and are still only slightly clearer on who a Texan wants to be. Begrudgingly part of the civil war, if only to maintain the employment status quo of her slave population, then begrudgingly part of the union, if only for protection against the rampaging Mexicans.
In Austin you can eat genuine Mexican food, not Tex-Mex, and sample Mescal from a genuine Mexican in a cool bar converted from a car yard while holding long conversations with people you met a few minutes ago, and now can't remember.
Austin is a liveable city.
Fort Stockton is not a liveable city. Our van breaks down ten miles from the town that claims to be a desert oasis, but is so only in name. Wholly evacuated at several points in its history, we spend the night there only to repair the van.
South of Fort Stockton, over the fantastically named Six Shooter Draw, lies Big Bend National Park. Hugging the border with Mexico, the Rio Grande, Big Bend becomes our second National Park. Acres of hectares amid the Chihuahuan desert surrounding the Chisos mountain range are far more appealing than they sound. Here it is hot, energy sapping heat beats upon you from all directions and it is all that you can do in the early afternoon to set up the camping chair and pull out a book.
But beyond the pages of The Twelve the park calls and trails that lead off into the desert remind you that this is a living and breathing park.
A walk to the canyons along the Rio Grande remind us that Mexico is a matter of metres away and, in this border paranoid nation, only a swim away. Here there is no turning back the boats, as there are no border patrol officers to do the turning back. It is a matter of trust, and the souvenirs placed along the trail by the Mexicans of Boquillas are evidence of the goodwill between the nations at this section of the border.
Big Bend is a park of relaxing hot springs following desert walks and cooling river swims following canyon trails. It is simply beautiful, remarkable in its existence and a place of simply, understated, wonder that defies that which defines it.
The same can be said for Texas as a whole.
Oil, fittingly, framed our time in the Lone Star State, but remarkably only in the first day and then the final hours. We crossed into Texas from Louisiana, via Sabine Pass, and it was immediately obvious that the black gold was one of the key drivers of this economy. Sabine Pass, Port Arthur and Orange are oil towns, and they don't let you forget it. Massive refineries sit alongside massive oil tankers, which sit alongside nature reserves. Here the oil well is king, and the locals think nothing of the irony of drilling for oil in a wildlife refuge - and will even defend the method of mining as "low impact." A stink hangs in the air, heavy with petroleum fumes and a haze of distopia. It is easy to see this place as the terminus of humanity, where our civilisation will end once the oil runs out, and as a consequence what it will look like. It is hard to imagine how people live and work in this environment, but they do, and the area surrounding the refineries is staggeringly beautiful. Heart-achingly so. It is easy to weep here, for what once was and what, seemingly inevitably, will be.
Similarly the road out of Texas reminded us of how this state functions. Microscopic "towns" exists solely to extract that compressed remains of the last species to dominate this planet, process it and ship it. It is here that the solar-powered streetlamp stands guard against the oil well and burners - a lone soldier holding back the hordes that have come and, are now, going.
However Texas refuses to be defined by its borders. What lies between is something that confounds anyone who believes that they know this state.
Putting the petrochemical plants behind us, we march onwards into Austin, via Galveston and Houston. Galveston exists as the coastal playground of Houston, and the once vital port for commercial exports from the republic. Nowadays, it is something else. Rundown is not the right word, it is certainly preserved, but it feels like a town of sometime importance that has lost its means for existence. The giant civic building towers over single story homes and businesses that persevere for the sake of perseverance.
Houston exists, seemingly, for the traffic police desperately attempting to maintain order on the fly-overs and for NASA.
But Austin. Austin is an oasis of charm, liberalism and good-naturedness. A Democrat stronghold in deep Republican territory, a "young" city in an ageing state and somewhere to find good food, great bars and cool live music. It is a city like Melbourne, if Melbourne was ever pleasantly warm for longer than five minutes.
On the edge of town the McKinney Falls State Park is our home for the night, and the ranger on duty provides us with the best example of southern hospitality that we have experienced to date. A late entrant into the Civil War, Texas is nonetheless distinctively southern, and proudly so. But the people are also proudly Texan, citing the republic as their home, not the state. If that's confusing to anyone else, don't worry. We spent a full afternoon in the state museum unravelling the rich history of the Mexican province turned republic turned state and are still only slightly clearer on who a Texan wants to be. Begrudgingly part of the civil war, if only to maintain the employment status quo of her slave population, then begrudgingly part of the union, if only for protection against the rampaging Mexicans.
In Austin you can eat genuine Mexican food, not Tex-Mex, and sample Mescal from a genuine Mexican in a cool bar converted from a car yard while holding long conversations with people you met a few minutes ago, and now can't remember.
Austin is a liveable city.
Fort Stockton is not a liveable city. Our van breaks down ten miles from the town that claims to be a desert oasis, but is so only in name. Wholly evacuated at several points in its history, we spend the night there only to repair the van.
South of Fort Stockton, over the fantastically named Six Shooter Draw, lies Big Bend National Park. Hugging the border with Mexico, the Rio Grande, Big Bend becomes our second National Park. Acres of hectares amid the Chihuahuan desert surrounding the Chisos mountain range are far more appealing than they sound. Here it is hot, energy sapping heat beats upon you from all directions and it is all that you can do in the early afternoon to set up the camping chair and pull out a book.
But beyond the pages of The Twelve the park calls and trails that lead off into the desert remind you that this is a living and breathing park.
A walk to the canyons along the Rio Grande remind us that Mexico is a matter of metres away and, in this border paranoid nation, only a swim away. Here there is no turning back the boats, as there are no border patrol officers to do the turning back. It is a matter of trust, and the souvenirs placed along the trail by the Mexicans of Boquillas are evidence of the goodwill between the nations at this section of the border.
Big Bend is a park of relaxing hot springs following desert walks and cooling river swims following canyon trails. It is simply beautiful, remarkable in its existence and a place of simply, understated, wonder that defies that which defines it.
The same can be said for Texas as a whole.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
New Orleans State of Mind
So much exists in the collected awareness of what New Orleans, the Big Easy, is, or is idealised to be, that it is difficult to arrive in town without any preconceived notions of Cajun cool. The French Quarter, cool jazz, Bourbon Street and gumbo, streetcars and levees, Hurricane Katrina and the Saints. It is the epitome of cool and relaxed America, a city so un-American in its Frenchness, that it has become something of national pride.
But there is something else to NOLA, a seething underbelly that is a mix of both unspeakable poverty, absolute desperation and celebrated depravity, that make this city one of the most human in the US.
Arriving in town, with views of the refurbished Superdome looming over us, we take the wrong turnoff and end up on the street where we're staying, just the wrong end. For anyone who is yet to visit the US, streets here are long. It is not uncommon to see a house with the street number 1200 - or higher. One end of a street could be one of the most affluent in the country, while the other end is usually on fire. That was certainly the case for us, as we were heckled and abused driving in simply because we had a car with four wheels - and our van is by no means flash. But that was the other end of the street to where we're staying.
Walking the 15 minutes along St Charles street to the French Quarter, you're immediately immersed in everything New Orleans claims to be. Streetcars with clanging bells clatter past old American mansions, while American Oaks drips with vines and gas lights on porches flutter all day. Then a beggar will harass you because he fought for this country and you haven't given him any money.
As a side note, the right to ask people for money - beg - has just been made legal in New Orleans, and the local beggar population uphold their civic duty to inform you of this legislative change.
The French Quarter, at first glance, is a window to the history of the Deep South. Expecting old terrace houses, balconies sagging under the weight of flower pots and the occasional clump of Mardi Gras beads, we are not disappointed. From Canal Street east exists rows of ordered, and orderly-unordered home almost falling onto the street.
The high levee on the banks of the Mississippi give over to the ordered Jackson Square - celebrating the famed civil war General - and the high tourist area. A bland coffee at the crowded Cafe du Monde has achieve legendary status despite itself and street vendors verge on harassment in an effort to eek out a living in the consumer country.
But down the road a contrast in the French Market as casual, cool cafes oozing the sounds of the house jazz band serve up traditional Cajun cuisine with a smile and a joke and a mix of American attention to service and the routine that defines servers. "Good morning/afternoon, my name is ____ and I'll be your server today", "Our specials today are ____", "Here's the cheque, no hurry, when you're ready", "y'all have a great day now."
Then you get to Bourbon Street. A small confession, I knew very little about Bourbon Street. My favourite coffee blend was called the Bourbon Street and I knew that it was the French Quarter's "Main Street", but not much prepared me for exactly what it is. Around the corner from the oldest convent in the State is a street of such naked depravity that it is difficult to contextualise. Bars, in such abundance, with American barflies - particularly sad people who seem to spend their existence somewhere between sobriety and a routine stomach pump - sit alongside strip clubs in a carnival cruise atmosphere - and as a small note to the owners of the strip clubs, if you want to successfully advertise, it is customary to put your good-looking, semi-naked models on the door, not the decidedly second-hand ones...
But you look deeper beyond Bourbon Street, at the places where the locals go. Beyond the charming, old-world Garden District to the trendy Magazine Street, and you are hooked on everything that this city promises. Cool cat jazz echoes from the charming bar on each corner - the kind where friends come to meet and share a drink, a conversation and a good time. Local food is served from family-owned restaurants and the girl at the gelato store dishes out the best advice on New Orleans as a side to the highly-sugared gelato.
New Orleans, NOLA, is everything it promises, and more that you haven't thought of, let alone asked for. I suspect that, like any city with an international reputation, there is a seething hive of tourist activity and, exacerbated in a city famed for its sinful existence, that hive is a dirty one. But like any city, find out where the locals go and you will find a real gem, and one that is deserving of a reputation.
But there is something else to NOLA, a seething underbelly that is a mix of both unspeakable poverty, absolute desperation and celebrated depravity, that make this city one of the most human in the US.
Arriving in town, with views of the refurbished Superdome looming over us, we take the wrong turnoff and end up on the street where we're staying, just the wrong end. For anyone who is yet to visit the US, streets here are long. It is not uncommon to see a house with the street number 1200 - or higher. One end of a street could be one of the most affluent in the country, while the other end is usually on fire. That was certainly the case for us, as we were heckled and abused driving in simply because we had a car with four wheels - and our van is by no means flash. But that was the other end of the street to where we're staying.
Walking the 15 minutes along St Charles street to the French Quarter, you're immediately immersed in everything New Orleans claims to be. Streetcars with clanging bells clatter past old American mansions, while American Oaks drips with vines and gas lights on porches flutter all day. Then a beggar will harass you because he fought for this country and you haven't given him any money.
As a side note, the right to ask people for money - beg - has just been made legal in New Orleans, and the local beggar population uphold their civic duty to inform you of this legislative change.
The French Quarter, at first glance, is a window to the history of the Deep South. Expecting old terrace houses, balconies sagging under the weight of flower pots and the occasional clump of Mardi Gras beads, we are not disappointed. From Canal Street east exists rows of ordered, and orderly-unordered home almost falling onto the street.
The high levee on the banks of the Mississippi give over to the ordered Jackson Square - celebrating the famed civil war General - and the high tourist area. A bland coffee at the crowded Cafe du Monde has achieve legendary status despite itself and street vendors verge on harassment in an effort to eek out a living in the consumer country.
But down the road a contrast in the French Market as casual, cool cafes oozing the sounds of the house jazz band serve up traditional Cajun cuisine with a smile and a joke and a mix of American attention to service and the routine that defines servers. "Good morning/afternoon, my name is ____ and I'll be your server today", "Our specials today are ____", "Here's the cheque, no hurry, when you're ready", "y'all have a great day now."
Then you get to Bourbon Street. A small confession, I knew very little about Bourbon Street. My favourite coffee blend was called the Bourbon Street and I knew that it was the French Quarter's "Main Street", but not much prepared me for exactly what it is. Around the corner from the oldest convent in the State is a street of such naked depravity that it is difficult to contextualise. Bars, in such abundance, with American barflies - particularly sad people who seem to spend their existence somewhere between sobriety and a routine stomach pump - sit alongside strip clubs in a carnival cruise atmosphere - and as a small note to the owners of the strip clubs, if you want to successfully advertise, it is customary to put your good-looking, semi-naked models on the door, not the decidedly second-hand ones...
But you look deeper beyond Bourbon Street, at the places where the locals go. Beyond the charming, old-world Garden District to the trendy Magazine Street, and you are hooked on everything that this city promises. Cool cat jazz echoes from the charming bar on each corner - the kind where friends come to meet and share a drink, a conversation and a good time. Local food is served from family-owned restaurants and the girl at the gelato store dishes out the best advice on New Orleans as a side to the highly-sugared gelato.
New Orleans, NOLA, is everything it promises, and more that you haven't thought of, let alone asked for. I suspect that, like any city with an international reputation, there is a seething hive of tourist activity and, exacerbated in a city famed for its sinful existence, that hive is a dirty one. But like any city, find out where the locals go and you will find a real gem, and one that is deserving of a reputation.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Surprises in an Unsurprising Place
Chances are, if someone asks you what you think of Florida, you will answer Miami, beaches and, maybe, NASA. Certainly that was our impression before this trip. A pleasant diversion from road-tripping through prairies, mountains and deserts, but not something that we didn't already have at home.
How wrong we were, pleasantly.
Leaving the Everglades behind us we pointed the car north and west and headed towards the strangely Russian sounding St Petersburg. On roughly the same latitude as Melbourne, Florida, St Petersburg is, to this point, the surprise of the trip. Something completely Un-Floridian, and entirely pleasant. Nestled on the western side of the Tampa Bay, and home to the Tampa Bay Rays baseball team, St Petersburg is alluring and a little bit of San Francisco. The people were perhaps the friendliest we've encountered to date and the (gulf) beaches beautifully cool and clean.
Around the bay, in Ybor City, we met with Cuban immigrants in the process of hand-rolling cigars and heard the history of the area, but that was only after TripAdvisor sent us to a very dodgy neighbourhood...
Heading east for the final time in the holiday we arrive many hours later in Titusville, via Orlando and the Mickey Mouse shaped power poles, and the Kennedy Space Centre. A night spent parked semi-legally in the car park of the wildlife refuge and plagued by a million Mosquitos and one overly curious raccoon challenged our patience, but it was worth it the next morning to visit the Kennedy Space Centre.
Nestled on the east coast, at the, allegedly, best place in the world for space launches, the Kennedy Space Centre pays tribute to more than 50 years of space endeavours by the Americans and, grudgingly, the Soviets (now Russian) and other nations - although not, conspicuously, the Chinese.
I had high expectations from boyhood dreaming of space for this visit, and all those expectations were met. From the, obviously, older exhibits to the newer Saturn V/Apollo exhibition (standing under an actual Saturn V rocket) to the brand new Atlantis exhibition (standing next to the actual Atlantis shuttle and the experiencing what it's like to go through a launch, well, sort of but not really), it is well worth the extra three hours you weren't planning on spending there.
To the furthest west in Florida, amid towns with names that are unpronounceable - Apple-cola, Pepsi-cola - lies some of the most beautiful land we have crossed so far. Expecting more swamps,we are instead presented with quintessential American farmland, that might be in Iowa or Missouri. Acres of rolling grassland, dotted with black-and-white cows and ringed with lush-green forests, white beaches with redbrick mansions and the winding country roads through small towns bearing charming taverns and the hope that Americans can actually brew good beer.
Florida was absolutely unsurprising in so man ways, and exactly what we expected, but as we enter Louisiana on the road to New Orleans we're looking back at the final 24 hours in the Sunshine State and thinking that there is so much more to it than the sunshine, skin and beaches of the south coasts...
I'm also aware that we're, dramatically, short-changing Alabama and Mississippi. This is not intentional, merely the unhappy roll of our road-trip schedule dice. In the two hours that we were in both states I was awed by the beauty of the Alabaman highway vista and the Mississippi grandeur, but sadly they will have to wait until a later visit,
How wrong we were, pleasantly.
Leaving the Everglades behind us we pointed the car north and west and headed towards the strangely Russian sounding St Petersburg. On roughly the same latitude as Melbourne, Florida, St Petersburg is, to this point, the surprise of the trip. Something completely Un-Floridian, and entirely pleasant. Nestled on the western side of the Tampa Bay, and home to the Tampa Bay Rays baseball team, St Petersburg is alluring and a little bit of San Francisco. The people were perhaps the friendliest we've encountered to date and the (gulf) beaches beautifully cool and clean.
Around the bay, in Ybor City, we met with Cuban immigrants in the process of hand-rolling cigars and heard the history of the area, but that was only after TripAdvisor sent us to a very dodgy neighbourhood...
Heading east for the final time in the holiday we arrive many hours later in Titusville, via Orlando and the Mickey Mouse shaped power poles, and the Kennedy Space Centre. A night spent parked semi-legally in the car park of the wildlife refuge and plagued by a million Mosquitos and one overly curious raccoon challenged our patience, but it was worth it the next morning to visit the Kennedy Space Centre.
Nestled on the east coast, at the, allegedly, best place in the world for space launches, the Kennedy Space Centre pays tribute to more than 50 years of space endeavours by the Americans and, grudgingly, the Soviets (now Russian) and other nations - although not, conspicuously, the Chinese.
I had high expectations from boyhood dreaming of space for this visit, and all those expectations were met. From the, obviously, older exhibits to the newer Saturn V/Apollo exhibition (standing under an actual Saturn V rocket) to the brand new Atlantis exhibition (standing next to the actual Atlantis shuttle and the experiencing what it's like to go through a launch, well, sort of but not really), it is well worth the extra three hours you weren't planning on spending there.
To the furthest west in Florida, amid towns with names that are unpronounceable - Apple-cola, Pepsi-cola - lies some of the most beautiful land we have crossed so far. Expecting more swamps,we are instead presented with quintessential American farmland, that might be in Iowa or Missouri. Acres of rolling grassland, dotted with black-and-white cows and ringed with lush-green forests, white beaches with redbrick mansions and the winding country roads through small towns bearing charming taverns and the hope that Americans can actually brew good beer.
Florida was absolutely unsurprising in so man ways, and exactly what we expected, but as we enter Louisiana on the road to New Orleans we're looking back at the final 24 hours in the Sunshine State and thinking that there is so much more to it than the sunshine, skin and beaches of the south coasts...
I'm also aware that we're, dramatically, short-changing Alabama and Mississippi. This is not intentional, merely the unhappy roll of our road-trip schedule dice. In the two hours that we were in both states I was awed by the beauty of the Alabaman highway vista and the Mississippi grandeur, but sadly they will have to wait until a later visit,
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Ever Glad for the Everglades
Leaving the neon Miami behind us, now in possession of Ruby, our Chevrolet van home for the next few weeks, we head south-west into the great Floridian grasslands known as the Everglades.
Occupying the southern tip of the southern-most state in the lower 48, the Everglades is as tropical as it comes. Once the widest river on the planet, taking up most of the peninsula, the National Park is the third largest in the US, behind DeathValley and Yellowstone, and the 114th declared national conservation area - including both National and State Parks and National Monuments - declared in 1934. It has been the boon of Florida, providing a vital cog in the ecosystem of the State and ensuring that the rich farmlands to the State's north remain fertile.
It is best known, perhaps, for the airboats that glide, barely touching the surface, over the river of grass, that vast expanse of green/brown grassland that gently sways with the tropical breeze and belie the swamp, gators and snakes that lie just below the surface. Frame by crystal blue skies that stretch for miles, and marked by the overwhelming heat, this is a completely unique environment, not just of the US, but in the world.
At the park's south, around the small park town of Flamingo, we pull up for two nights - one to the north or the visitor's centre and one to the south. Here, the mosquito and the fly are king. But we brave the horde and set up the camping table and stove to prepare a hearty curry - camping gourmet.
The following day we hire a two-man kayak, a first for us, and paddle up the Flamingo Canal to Coot Bay. In the searing humidity, and expecting to see alligators and, if we were lucky, crocodiles, we instead have to make do with semi-submerged logs that look like alligators and the occasional crocodile. Nevertheless, lunch on the water amid the beauty of this park remedies any misgivings.
That night we brave more mosquitoes, a few vultures, one bald eagle and one snake to camp by the water in Flamingo.
The following day, and a drive out of the park that included detour through some poor farmer's fields, we head into the park's northern entrance at Shark Valley. If we were disappointed at not seeing 'gators yesterday, we wouldn't be today. On bikes we only ride a few metres before the first sighting - only five metres away and with no fence between us. The following seven miles into the river of grass provide more gators, bird life and the occasional turtle. But that is nothing to combat the indecent heat. It is little wonder that the tourist high season in Florida is NOT summer.
As we leave Southern Florida for the gulf coast and beyond, I am a little sad to have left the immense grasslands be hind us.
Occupying the southern tip of the southern-most state in the lower 48, the Everglades is as tropical as it comes. Once the widest river on the planet, taking up most of the peninsula, the National Park is the third largest in the US, behind DeathValley and Yellowstone, and the 114th declared national conservation area - including both National and State Parks and National Monuments - declared in 1934. It has been the boon of Florida, providing a vital cog in the ecosystem of the State and ensuring that the rich farmlands to the State's north remain fertile.
It is best known, perhaps, for the airboats that glide, barely touching the surface, over the river of grass, that vast expanse of green/brown grassland that gently sways with the tropical breeze and belie the swamp, gators and snakes that lie just below the surface. Frame by crystal blue skies that stretch for miles, and marked by the overwhelming heat, this is a completely unique environment, not just of the US, but in the world.
At the park's south, around the small park town of Flamingo, we pull up for two nights - one to the north or the visitor's centre and one to the south. Here, the mosquito and the fly are king. But we brave the horde and set up the camping table and stove to prepare a hearty curry - camping gourmet.
The following day we hire a two-man kayak, a first for us, and paddle up the Flamingo Canal to Coot Bay. In the searing humidity, and expecting to see alligators and, if we were lucky, crocodiles, we instead have to make do with semi-submerged logs that look like alligators and the occasional crocodile. Nevertheless, lunch on the water amid the beauty of this park remedies any misgivings.
That night we brave more mosquitoes, a few vultures, one bald eagle and one snake to camp by the water in Flamingo.
The following day, and a drive out of the park that included detour through some poor farmer's fields, we head into the park's northern entrance at Shark Valley. If we were disappointed at not seeing 'gators yesterday, we wouldn't be today. On bikes we only ride a few metres before the first sighting - only five metres away and with no fence between us. The following seven miles into the river of grass provide more gators, bird life and the occasional turtle. But that is nothing to combat the indecent heat. It is little wonder that the tourist high season in Florida is NOT summer.
As we leave Southern Florida for the gulf coast and beyond, I am a little sad to have left the immense grasslands be hind us.
Wednesday, April 30, 2014
Heads in a Vice
"Where am i?"
"Miami"
I'm an unabashed fan of the TV series Burn Notice. Its frank and irreverent take on the spying profession is hilarious, but its setting in Miami is also something that is captivating.
Miami is a shock to the system, it is brashness, with pastel the order of the south. It is Napoleonic palaces in Neapolitan pastiches and skin is in more than ample supply. As a fan of Burn Notice, I had thought that the scene setting jump cuts of bikini clad women and shirtless men were artificial "glamour" for the show. Not so. From South Beach inland to Collins Avenue, or further, and along Lincoln Road, it is perfectly acceptable to be scantily dressed - even the norm.
Stephen Fry, in his series in America noted that Miami is full of the beautiful people, who, as a consequence of being beautiful at the same time look hideously ugly, and I see his point, if only in the abstract. Along Miami Beach, the essential bikini uniform somehow makes the unideal body shape look appealing. But of course this is America, and the extreme is the norm. Unideal is healthy in comparison to the obese, still obvious in this most body conscious of cities.
Almost destroyed by consecutive hurricanes during the 1920s, Miami Beach is a homage to the Art Deco period, almost suffocatingly so. There are strict building codes enforced on any building that maintains an Art Deco facade and, as such, much modern development has been constrained. In the Miami Vice days, this meant that Miami Beach was a ghetto, with few people able to afford the vast amounts needed to make the buildings habitable while maintaining this stringent code. More recently, however, the rich set have moved in, led by the New York snowbirds who flutter down during the winter to avoid the cold.
Consequently, Miami Beach is expensive. From Spring Break onwards, South Beach is the domain of the locals, and the occasional traveller, but there is no mistaking that this is a tourist town. Lincoln Avenue cafes and grills, will shower you with drinks and burgers, at tourist prices, and the three Starbucks for every city block will make sure that you have the caffeine induced energy to paint the town pastel pink.
But there is a lot of charm to Miami Beach, and her people. Polite to a fault and helpful to the last man, woman and child, this is a snapshot of modern America. Consumerism is king here and where there is a buck to be made, someone is making it. But they are nice about it, and will help you in any way they can - provided it can be written off as a business expense.
It is easy to spend a day on the beach, baking in the hot, yet surprisingly gentle, sun. It is even easier to escape the humidity in the cafes or designer stores on Lincoln Road. But it is far more worthwhile to brave both the sun and humidity in search of Miami Beach's deco past and it's all evident rich past.
"Miami"
I'm an unabashed fan of the TV series Burn Notice. Its frank and irreverent take on the spying profession is hilarious, but its setting in Miami is also something that is captivating.
Miami is a shock to the system, it is brashness, with pastel the order of the south. It is Napoleonic palaces in Neapolitan pastiches and skin is in more than ample supply. As a fan of Burn Notice, I had thought that the scene setting jump cuts of bikini clad women and shirtless men were artificial "glamour" for the show. Not so. From South Beach inland to Collins Avenue, or further, and along Lincoln Road, it is perfectly acceptable to be scantily dressed - even the norm.
Stephen Fry, in his series in America noted that Miami is full of the beautiful people, who, as a consequence of being beautiful at the same time look hideously ugly, and I see his point, if only in the abstract. Along Miami Beach, the essential bikini uniform somehow makes the unideal body shape look appealing. But of course this is America, and the extreme is the norm. Unideal is healthy in comparison to the obese, still obvious in this most body conscious of cities.
Almost destroyed by consecutive hurricanes during the 1920s, Miami Beach is a homage to the Art Deco period, almost suffocatingly so. There are strict building codes enforced on any building that maintains an Art Deco facade and, as such, much modern development has been constrained. In the Miami Vice days, this meant that Miami Beach was a ghetto, with few people able to afford the vast amounts needed to make the buildings habitable while maintaining this stringent code. More recently, however, the rich set have moved in, led by the New York snowbirds who flutter down during the winter to avoid the cold.
Consequently, Miami Beach is expensive. From Spring Break onwards, South Beach is the domain of the locals, and the occasional traveller, but there is no mistaking that this is a tourist town. Lincoln Avenue cafes and grills, will shower you with drinks and burgers, at tourist prices, and the three Starbucks for every city block will make sure that you have the caffeine induced energy to paint the town pastel pink.
But there is a lot of charm to Miami Beach, and her people. Polite to a fault and helpful to the last man, woman and child, this is a snapshot of modern America. Consumerism is king here and where there is a buck to be made, someone is making it. But they are nice about it, and will help you in any way they can - provided it can be written off as a business expense.
It is easy to spend a day on the beach, baking in the hot, yet surprisingly gentle, sun. It is even easier to escape the humidity in the cafes or designer stores on Lincoln Road. But it is far more worthwhile to brave both the sun and humidity in search of Miami Beach's deco past and it's all evident rich past.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
In the Company of Giants, Evidence of Geologic Tantruming
It is ancient in so many ways. Both geological and societal, Bolivia is the very essence of the age old.
I have to admit that the entry into Bolivia is the first time I have crossed a land border (officially anyway, the excursion into Algeria in 2008 shouldn't really count), and it lived up to my best Checkpoint Charlie or Doraol su eomneun dari expectations.
Getting off the bus in Peru and crossing the bridge at Desaguardero, I expected soft mists to roll of Lake Titicaca and a Bolivian Police Officer to meet us at the halfway point. Of course, the borders to both countries extend to the middle of the river draining from the lake, but nonetheless when you walk under the "Thank-you for Visiting Peru" sign, and see the "Bienvenido a Bolivia" sign hovering 50 metres away you can easily believe that you too are hovering between those bizarre shapes on a map we call nations.
Bolivian immigration is the first age-old experience in this land. A single building, staffed by a single immigration official doing her best to process the passports of hundreds of people. Standing in line for the two hours, we were told, is nothing unusual. Similarly, the "inducements" that were offered by local tour guides so that their tour groups could jump the queue is also nothing unusual.
Rejoining our bus, the landscape between the border and La Paz is simply stunning. Only the other side of, an admittedly big, lake, and yet we are far more than a world away from Puno and the farmland of Peru. This is all rolling hills, dark, hanging skies and low scrub. There is no denying that the muted colours of the Altiplano are just a sheet of glass away.
And yet, the scattered rubbish on the side of the road tells of something more, a development still in the development stage.
The air is thin in the world's highest (de facto) capital city. The yet-to-be-finished teleferique that hangs over the city speaks of a city in development, desperately trying to entice the tourist dollar, next to the new basketball stadium, desperately trying to entice the international investment dollar.
La Paz itself is little to talk about. Sitting in a valley and surrounded by the mountains and Volcanoes of the highest of Los Andes, such a magnificent natural backdrop is sadly dwarfed by the ordinariness of the urban environment below it. Suffering through decades of official corruption and incompetence has taken its toll on a once charming city, and the plain development shows, alongside the still obvious bullet-holes in official buildings, including the Presidential Palace.
Yet there are still signs of life. A new President appears to be making swift changes to the city, and country, and life is returning. But the old life, the colonial quarter and the witches market, is breathing once more and the people are showing new signs of pride.
However, Bolivia's jewel is not La Paz. Bolivia's jewel is an 11 hour bus ride away - at least five hours of which are on unpaved roads. Uyuni lies on the other side of the famous Salar and is the essence of a modern western frontier town. Walking the streets we expect tumbleweed to roll past us before a gunfight breaks out.
Alighting our Toyota Landcruisers at the train cemetery, we are reminded of the futility of what we - man - make, in the face of nature. Lines of rusting railway hulks are a little boys playground, and pointing off into the nothing distance indicate the vastness of the landscape us here and the next three days.
Onto the Salar itself, the Landcruisers blast their way eastward towards the islands of the Salar and the horizon so close, yet always completely unobtainable. Cactuu is king here, as the precious timber is used for everything the Andean Indians needed - shelter, crockery and water containers.
The next morning we head further south, onto the higher points of the Altiplano. Here we were continually driving at heights of 3,500 metres or more - up to 5,000 metres at one point - and we are no closer to the peaks that surround us.
Millions of years ago, microseconds in geological terms, the Nazca Plate began its eternal subduction against the South American Plate and the Andes were born. It is here, amidst the Andes, that the greatest of the Andean volcanoes rise, many still spewing smoke, steam or sulfuric gas. Negotiating our way up chasmic rolling valleys we are dwarfed by the peaks around us and the ancients that cast such shadows take what little breath is left in our lungs.
But towards the head of the valleys we are stunned again, as evidence of the immaturity of this land presents itself in volcanic rock - nothing bigger than a Mini - is scattered across the landscape. Evidence, simply, of the devastation caused in the last eruptions.
This land is stunning. There are no high peaks surrounded by deep valleys, nor vast freshwater lakes. This is simple country of peaks rolling into shallow valleys, scrub not forest and peculiar rabbit/possums not capybara. This is not Peru, nor is it La Paz. It is simply the spectacular, understated beauty of the high plain, and it is enchanting.
A quick note on taking the bus in South America.
1. Allow up to three hours for roadside breakdowns,
2. Go to the toilet before you leave,
3. When in doubt, take advantage of unplanned stops, for instance next to the airport...
I have to admit that the entry into Bolivia is the first time I have crossed a land border (officially anyway, the excursion into Algeria in 2008 shouldn't really count), and it lived up to my best Checkpoint Charlie or Doraol su eomneun dari expectations.
Getting off the bus in Peru and crossing the bridge at Desaguardero, I expected soft mists to roll of Lake Titicaca and a Bolivian Police Officer to meet us at the halfway point. Of course, the borders to both countries extend to the middle of the river draining from the lake, but nonetheless when you walk under the "Thank-you for Visiting Peru" sign, and see the "Bienvenido a Bolivia" sign hovering 50 metres away you can easily believe that you too are hovering between those bizarre shapes on a map we call nations.
Bolivian immigration is the first age-old experience in this land. A single building, staffed by a single immigration official doing her best to process the passports of hundreds of people. Standing in line for the two hours, we were told, is nothing unusual. Similarly, the "inducements" that were offered by local tour guides so that their tour groups could jump the queue is also nothing unusual.
Rejoining our bus, the landscape between the border and La Paz is simply stunning. Only the other side of, an admittedly big, lake, and yet we are far more than a world away from Puno and the farmland of Peru. This is all rolling hills, dark, hanging skies and low scrub. There is no denying that the muted colours of the Altiplano are just a sheet of glass away.
And yet, the scattered rubbish on the side of the road tells of something more, a development still in the development stage.
The air is thin in the world's highest (de facto) capital city. The yet-to-be-finished teleferique that hangs over the city speaks of a city in development, desperately trying to entice the tourist dollar, next to the new basketball stadium, desperately trying to entice the international investment dollar.
La Paz itself is little to talk about. Sitting in a valley and surrounded by the mountains and Volcanoes of the highest of Los Andes, such a magnificent natural backdrop is sadly dwarfed by the ordinariness of the urban environment below it. Suffering through decades of official corruption and incompetence has taken its toll on a once charming city, and the plain development shows, alongside the still obvious bullet-holes in official buildings, including the Presidential Palace.
Yet there are still signs of life. A new President appears to be making swift changes to the city, and country, and life is returning. But the old life, the colonial quarter and the witches market, is breathing once more and the people are showing new signs of pride.
However, Bolivia's jewel is not La Paz. Bolivia's jewel is an 11 hour bus ride away - at least five hours of which are on unpaved roads. Uyuni lies on the other side of the famous Salar and is the essence of a modern western frontier town. Walking the streets we expect tumbleweed to roll past us before a gunfight breaks out.
Alighting our Toyota Landcruisers at the train cemetery, we are reminded of the futility of what we - man - make, in the face of nature. Lines of rusting railway hulks are a little boys playground, and pointing off into the nothing distance indicate the vastness of the landscape us here and the next three days.
Onto the Salar itself, the Landcruisers blast their way eastward towards the islands of the Salar and the horizon so close, yet always completely unobtainable. Cactuu is king here, as the precious timber is used for everything the Andean Indians needed - shelter, crockery and water containers.
The next morning we head further south, onto the higher points of the Altiplano. Here we were continually driving at heights of 3,500 metres or more - up to 5,000 metres at one point - and we are no closer to the peaks that surround us.
Millions of years ago, microseconds in geological terms, the Nazca Plate began its eternal subduction against the South American Plate and the Andes were born. It is here, amidst the Andes, that the greatest of the Andean volcanoes rise, many still spewing smoke, steam or sulfuric gas. Negotiating our way up chasmic rolling valleys we are dwarfed by the peaks around us and the ancients that cast such shadows take what little breath is left in our lungs.
But towards the head of the valleys we are stunned again, as evidence of the immaturity of this land presents itself in volcanic rock - nothing bigger than a Mini - is scattered across the landscape. Evidence, simply, of the devastation caused in the last eruptions.
This land is stunning. There are no high peaks surrounded by deep valleys, nor vast freshwater lakes. This is simple country of peaks rolling into shallow valleys, scrub not forest and peculiar rabbit/possums not capybara. This is not Peru, nor is it La Paz. It is simply the spectacular, understated beauty of the high plain, and it is enchanting.
A quick note on taking the bus in South America.
1. Allow up to three hours for roadside breakdowns,
2. Go to the toilet before you leave,
3. When in doubt, take advantage of unplanned stops, for instance next to the airport...
Saturday, April 19, 2014
The Missing Adventures Part 3: An Altiplano Adventure
High on the Altiplano the air is thin, thinner almost than anything else. Life exists here, if not in abundance then in vibrance. Muted landscapes now give way to colourful locals and the coin has been flipped from the Amazon in completeness.
There is nothing remarkable about Puno, or any other Spanish settlement along the immense Lake Titicaca. But that is not why we are here.
Across the venerable lake lie communities that exude modern Peruvian-ness. The Uros who inhabit the fascinating floating islands, and the people of Llonchon with whom we will stay the night.
The Uros people are unique amongst the Peruvians, both modern and ancient. A part of the Incan empire, and Aymaran to the person, they long ago shook off the constrictive binds of a land-based settlement to build their own islands and float free on the lake, settling on human-made reed islands. Theirs is a fascinating life. On one hand they float free from the world around them, waking up quite literally in a different location every day. On the other hand, they are now sop bound to the tourist dollar that they cannot float far from Puno for fear that they will be out of reach from the impatient tourist. Here is a false lifestyle, that is straining to retain its authenticity.
Across the lake lies the community of Llonchon. Here, authenticity abounds, if only because the tourists have no time for their placid lifestyle. There is little to see in subsistence farming, the daily volleyball to build the skills of one enthusiastic teenager or the daily sheep-drive ritual. Where there are only two cars - and no tourist mini-buss - how can you properly appreciate the culture?
The answer is simple. Spend time with the locals. Try to bridge the gaping language barrier with your broken Spanish/Cechua. Help out with food, gathered from the family's farming plot that afternoon, and then play volleyball. Get up close with you new Mama, Maria, and laugh at just how different we can be. Not only will you find that sport is a universal language, but that laughter can heal the divide that difference creates. Provided that we are not too proud, and that we retain some semblance of humility, it is amazing what two human beings can accomplish.
There is nothing remarkable about Puno, or any other Spanish settlement along the immense Lake Titicaca. But that is not why we are here.
Across the venerable lake lie communities that exude modern Peruvian-ness. The Uros who inhabit the fascinating floating islands, and the people of Llonchon with whom we will stay the night.
The Uros people are unique amongst the Peruvians, both modern and ancient. A part of the Incan empire, and Aymaran to the person, they long ago shook off the constrictive binds of a land-based settlement to build their own islands and float free on the lake, settling on human-made reed islands. Theirs is a fascinating life. On one hand they float free from the world around them, waking up quite literally in a different location every day. On the other hand, they are now sop bound to the tourist dollar that they cannot float far from Puno for fear that they will be out of reach from the impatient tourist. Here is a false lifestyle, that is straining to retain its authenticity.
Across the lake lies the community of Llonchon. Here, authenticity abounds, if only because the tourists have no time for their placid lifestyle. There is little to see in subsistence farming, the daily volleyball to build the skills of one enthusiastic teenager or the daily sheep-drive ritual. Where there are only two cars - and no tourist mini-buss - how can you properly appreciate the culture?
The answer is simple. Spend time with the locals. Try to bridge the gaping language barrier with your broken Spanish/Cechua. Help out with food, gathered from the family's farming plot that afternoon, and then play volleyball. Get up close with you new Mama, Maria, and laugh at just how different we can be. Not only will you find that sport is a universal language, but that laughter can heal the divide that difference creates. Provided that we are not too proud, and that we retain some semblance of humility, it is amazing what two human beings can accomplish.
The Missing Adventures Part 2: An Andean Adventure
This is the reason for this section of the holiday.
This is where we rise, both literally and metaphorically, to the challenge before us.
This is the Inca Trail.
Camino Inka. 45 kilometres of sheer cliffs, impossible rises and their associated geographic falls. Four days, rising to 4200 metres above sea level - nearly twice the height of Mount Kosciusko - and culminating in a dawn overlooking Machu Picchu.
This is the walk that can be adequately summarised in two words or less.
Hard.
Very hard.
And yet those two words - or less, depending on how dramatic you want me to be - completely fail to convey just the atmosphere of the walk, the history, the culture and the geography of the Andes.
In existence from the time of the height of the Incan Empire, until approximately 200 years before Spanish conquest when Machu Picchu was abandoned, the Inca Trail was the the main route into the fabled mountain-top town - rumoured to be either a religious site, royal holiday resort or military stronghold.
Cusco, our starting point, is in itself a beautiful city. It is a miracle of history - Incan capital destroyed by the Spanish yet holding such a personal history as the pride of the Incas remains to this day.
As a sidebar, I feel that I need to express something. In no way will I ever claim that British, French or Italian colonies were perfect, humane or even decent - both the Australian and Canadian examples shine out here for all the wrong reasons - yet there is something overzealous about the Spanish occupation in South America. Conquest by military, by commerce and by religion in such totalitarians ways. It is little wonder that the Simon Bolivars of the world exist.
The trek itself starts from the 82 kilometres mark - from Cusco - and immediately the thin air is noticeable. No amount of acclimatisation can prepare you for the body's relentless need for oxygen in an environment where a simple set of hotel steps can leave you gasping post-marathon. Surely 45 kilometres of some of this planet's steepest walkable hills is madness.
Day one is, noticeably, the easiest. There are hills to conquer, certainly, but they are nothing that would not be experienced in Berowra, or Jindabyne. The day ends at a camp, complete with silver service and food that would rival many of the restaurants in Lima. This part is certainly not hard.
Day two is, noticeably, the hardest. An immediate climb from 2,950m to 4,215m, over a distance of under nine kilometres left more than half our group struggling. Two members felt the altitude the hardest, nauseous and nearly passing out on multiple occasions. There is good reason for the oxygen bottles carried by the guides and the mandatory medical training.
From the top of the first pass, descend 700m in less than a kilometre and if you have a bad knee, expect pain on a level unexperienced before. Uneven, large drop stone steps all the way, slippery from the overnight rain, and slowed mental processes from the lack of oxygen combine for a hellish walk.
From the valley floor, rise again 450m in under three kilometres for simply the greatest views you will be afforded on the continent. Sweeping hills, majestic waterfalls and the knowledge that you are looking upon an ancient, powerful and magnificent landscape, untamed by mankind despite our arrogance. Even the hardiest here are reduced to the microscopic.
This is where we rise, both literally and metaphorically, to the challenge before us.
This is the Inca Trail.
Camino Inka. 45 kilometres of sheer cliffs, impossible rises and their associated geographic falls. Four days, rising to 4200 metres above sea level - nearly twice the height of Mount Kosciusko - and culminating in a dawn overlooking Machu Picchu.
This is the walk that can be adequately summarised in two words or less.
Hard.
Very hard.
And yet those two words - or less, depending on how dramatic you want me to be - completely fail to convey just the atmosphere of the walk, the history, the culture and the geography of the Andes.
In existence from the time of the height of the Incan Empire, until approximately 200 years before Spanish conquest when Machu Picchu was abandoned, the Inca Trail was the the main route into the fabled mountain-top town - rumoured to be either a religious site, royal holiday resort or military stronghold.
Cusco, our starting point, is in itself a beautiful city. It is a miracle of history - Incan capital destroyed by the Spanish yet holding such a personal history as the pride of the Incas remains to this day.
As a sidebar, I feel that I need to express something. In no way will I ever claim that British, French or Italian colonies were perfect, humane or even decent - both the Australian and Canadian examples shine out here for all the wrong reasons - yet there is something overzealous about the Spanish occupation in South America. Conquest by military, by commerce and by religion in such totalitarians ways. It is little wonder that the Simon Bolivars of the world exist.
The trek itself starts from the 82 kilometres mark - from Cusco - and immediately the thin air is noticeable. No amount of acclimatisation can prepare you for the body's relentless need for oxygen in an environment where a simple set of hotel steps can leave you gasping post-marathon. Surely 45 kilometres of some of this planet's steepest walkable hills is madness.
Day one is, noticeably, the easiest. There are hills to conquer, certainly, but they are nothing that would not be experienced in Berowra, or Jindabyne. The day ends at a camp, complete with silver service and food that would rival many of the restaurants in Lima. This part is certainly not hard.
Day two is, noticeably, the hardest. An immediate climb from 2,950m to 4,215m, over a distance of under nine kilometres left more than half our group struggling. Two members felt the altitude the hardest, nauseous and nearly passing out on multiple occasions. There is good reason for the oxygen bottles carried by the guides and the mandatory medical training.
From the top of the first pass, descend 700m in less than a kilometre and if you have a bad knee, expect pain on a level unexperienced before. Uneven, large drop stone steps all the way, slippery from the overnight rain, and slowed mental processes from the lack of oxygen combine for a hellish walk.
From the valley floor, rise again 450m in under three kilometres for simply the greatest views you will be afforded on the continent. Sweeping hills, majestic waterfalls and the knowledge that you are looking upon an ancient, powerful and magnificent landscape, untamed by mankind despite our arrogance. Even the hardiest here are reduced to the microscopic.
The Missing Adventures Part 1: An Amazonian Adventure
The Amazon Basin is one of the richest, and most diverse, sources of biodiversity on the planet. it's lush green tributaries and head waters feed the one river system over the breadth of the continent and support life relatively untouched since the dawn of time.
Here is the domain of the anaconda, the jaguar and the cayman. More concerning, here is the domain of the mosquito, the centipede and the countless other insects that threaten at any moment to crawl inside your eardrum and drive you insane with the eternal buzzing, Khan style.
The air is perpetually humid and hangs, heavy amid the chirping, forever around you. There is little escape. With no electricity in the camp, save the 90 minutes of generator time a night to recharge essential batteries (cameras, iPads and phones), with which to power a fan.
But despite this, the camp is a luxury amid the mud and fetid air. Built on short stilts to protect the virgin ground, the main pagoda sets the scene - lofty ceilings and hand-woven thatched roofs, green insect screens and stained dark timber. The eternal law is "keep the door closed" and woe-betide the unfortunate who forgets this and lets in the dollar-coin sized mosquitoes. Boardwalks connect the pagoda to the individual villas - built of the same style - and the bar runs clear with the local cerveza.
The Amazon basin itself - we are not on the Amazon, but one of its multitude of tributaries - is biodiversity incarnate, with the caveat that the vast majority of this biodiversity is invisible to the human eye as it wanders through the dank rainforest. The cayman, the capybara and the parrots are all clear for our inferior eyes, but the real diversity, the multitudal insect and microscopic life, are best left to the modern day Livingstones, pouring over microscopes in climate controlled laboratories.
Twice we ventured into the depths of the jungle, prevailing over mud, insect and, once, boar, to find, well not much really.
Don't misunderstand me, the forest is immense and impressive. The ancient fig trees and their strangler-vine counterparts cannot but impress. In hindsight, I suppose the failings of the Amazon basin are owed to the hype that has been built upon them and the reality that, for us at least, fell short of the lofty expectations.
Thursday, April 10, 2014
How Hot the Jungle
On a (too) brief stopover in Cusco in between time in the Amazon and the Inca Trail, and with no time to compose a post that would do justice to the last couple of days, instead I offer a humble haiku.
Air is heavy out
Heavier inside the hut
How hot the jungle
Cam
Air is heavy out
Heavier inside the hut
How hot the jungle
Cam
Saturday, April 5, 2014
The Enchanted Isles
The sea is turquoise here, save for the speckling of white sea-born chess pieces that litter the bay. Peering past the catamarans, yachts and fishing vessels, you can see the floor of the bay and, occasionally, the bait-fish that Boobies and Pelicans wait for anxiously for, floating high on the breeze off the ocean. To the south-west the walls of the bay are sheer cliffs, only ten metres in height, but impassable enough. To the north-east, mangrove swamps. Sandwiched between the two is the tiny port of Santa Cruz, the largest settlement on the Galápagos Islands.
It is on Santa Cruz that we will finish our whistle-stop tour. It has been eight days, but feels like 80, such is the enchantment of these isles that all sense of time, and place, is lost to the soothing temperatures and "flapping in the breeze" lifestyle.
Which is not to say that these eight days have been spent poorly, or if not richly then in more languid pursuits. Of course I think we have all found time to read more than a few chapters of our books, and there have been a few too many cervezas consumed once the sun begins its twilight trek, but these eight days have also been filled with the small discoveries that these islands allow.
Isla San Cristobal is, like any tourist mecca, built for the itinerant. A well manicured, if relaxed, waterfront esplanade, complete with souvenir shops, caters to the elderly, infirm or simply nautically-minded tourist who spends most of their time on one of the many small cruise ships to navigate the archipelago. At night you can see the endless shuffle of, mostly American, snow birds emigrating to the warmer climates as they wait out the last of the northern hemisphere winter. They are boated in, they eat and, sometimes, drink before buying a nick-nack and then are shuttled back to the floating nursing home that they are berthed in, ready to move onto the next island.
For us, however, staying on the island meant walking the maze of backstreets to find the local BBQ restaurant, waving to the local we meet the day before and, yes, finding the bar that doesn't cater to the tourists.
San Cristobal is the island of diving - at Leon Dominico or any of the protected bays on the long coastline. It is the island where, most likely, you will first swim with sea-lions, sea-turtles, manta and sting rays and occasionally a shark. It is the island where Charles Darwin first stepped ashore to epiphanise about the origin of the species and the island where you could lose yourself, caught between the last century and the current. Touched by tourism, it is nonetheless beautiful.
A short boat-ride away, Isla Floreana is everything that is not San Cristobal. Few tourists step off a boat here - why would you when there are no paved roads, only two restaurants and no souvenir shops? It is the closest to how I imagined the smaller of the Galapagos islands would be. It is the wild west and the undiscovered country. It is the island of playing in the water with penguins - solely on their terms - and of the marine iguana, Godzilla-like in every aspect but size.
Isla Isabela is caught somewhere in between San Cristobal and Floreana and is, in my opinion, the pick of the litter. The paved roads extend for little more than the first few metres off the dock and power is generated by diesel turbines - provoking much discussion about wind and solar power. Isabela is home to the Sierra Negra volcano - second largest crater in the world, immense lava fields and poorly exercised tsunami evacuation plan - although I suspect that is every island in the Galapagos chain. It is heaven. If you could imagine your tropical paradise, then the chances are that Isabela is close. Azure waters lap on sun-bleached coral beaches, followed closely by lime-green mangroves. Beach restaurants and bars cater to those who want nothing more than to relax as a hard days drifts away from them. There is simply no more relaxed place that I've found in this world.
Certainly not Isla Santa Cruz. Catering entirely to the tourist market, you will find more Americans in Santa Cruz than in Miami and, while the Galapagos have been home to visitors throughout their history, you have to wonder what the sea-lion thinks of the bright yellow trainers over knee-length socks, slightly-too-short shorts and bum-bags. It is the place that, by far, most tourists would spend time and, for that reason, the place I want to spend the least time. Give me two night on Floreana over this utopian dystopia. As with many places in the world, you have to wonder if our ambition has run rough-shod over the natural beauty of the world around us.
Tomorrow, we leave these islands, sorry to see them set behind us as we make our way back to the mainland. If only there was room on these islands for just two more people.
Cam
It is on Santa Cruz that we will finish our whistle-stop tour. It has been eight days, but feels like 80, such is the enchantment of these isles that all sense of time, and place, is lost to the soothing temperatures and "flapping in the breeze" lifestyle.
Which is not to say that these eight days have been spent poorly, or if not richly then in more languid pursuits. Of course I think we have all found time to read more than a few chapters of our books, and there have been a few too many cervezas consumed once the sun begins its twilight trek, but these eight days have also been filled with the small discoveries that these islands allow.
Isla San Cristobal is, like any tourist mecca, built for the itinerant. A well manicured, if relaxed, waterfront esplanade, complete with souvenir shops, caters to the elderly, infirm or simply nautically-minded tourist who spends most of their time on one of the many small cruise ships to navigate the archipelago. At night you can see the endless shuffle of, mostly American, snow birds emigrating to the warmer climates as they wait out the last of the northern hemisphere winter. They are boated in, they eat and, sometimes, drink before buying a nick-nack and then are shuttled back to the floating nursing home that they are berthed in, ready to move onto the next island.
For us, however, staying on the island meant walking the maze of backstreets to find the local BBQ restaurant, waving to the local we meet the day before and, yes, finding the bar that doesn't cater to the tourists.
San Cristobal is the island of diving - at Leon Dominico or any of the protected bays on the long coastline. It is the island where, most likely, you will first swim with sea-lions, sea-turtles, manta and sting rays and occasionally a shark. It is the island where Charles Darwin first stepped ashore to epiphanise about the origin of the species and the island where you could lose yourself, caught between the last century and the current. Touched by tourism, it is nonetheless beautiful.
A short boat-ride away, Isla Floreana is everything that is not San Cristobal. Few tourists step off a boat here - why would you when there are no paved roads, only two restaurants and no souvenir shops? It is the closest to how I imagined the smaller of the Galapagos islands would be. It is the wild west and the undiscovered country. It is the island of playing in the water with penguins - solely on their terms - and of the marine iguana, Godzilla-like in every aspect but size.
Isla Isabela is caught somewhere in between San Cristobal and Floreana and is, in my opinion, the pick of the litter. The paved roads extend for little more than the first few metres off the dock and power is generated by diesel turbines - provoking much discussion about wind and solar power. Isabela is home to the Sierra Negra volcano - second largest crater in the world, immense lava fields and poorly exercised tsunami evacuation plan - although I suspect that is every island in the Galapagos chain. It is heaven. If you could imagine your tropical paradise, then the chances are that Isabela is close. Azure waters lap on sun-bleached coral beaches, followed closely by lime-green mangroves. Beach restaurants and bars cater to those who want nothing more than to relax as a hard days drifts away from them. There is simply no more relaxed place that I've found in this world.
Certainly not Isla Santa Cruz. Catering entirely to the tourist market, you will find more Americans in Santa Cruz than in Miami and, while the Galapagos have been home to visitors throughout their history, you have to wonder what the sea-lion thinks of the bright yellow trainers over knee-length socks, slightly-too-short shorts and bum-bags. It is the place that, by far, most tourists would spend time and, for that reason, the place I want to spend the least time. Give me two night on Floreana over this utopian dystopia. As with many places in the world, you have to wonder if our ambition has run rough-shod over the natural beauty of the world around us.
Tomorrow, we leave these islands, sorry to see them set behind us as we make our way back to the mainland. If only there was room on these islands for just two more people.
Cam
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
Tsunami Warnings and Public Chaos
First of all, natural disasters are terrible things, and for all the people in S. America who are suffering at the moment, our hearts go out to them. While the death toll is mercifully low, there will be many Chileans, Peruvians and Ecuadorians who are doing their best to return their lives to normal today, and every single one of them deserves our thoughts.
I had drafted a full post to bring everyone up to speed on the last few days, days that I'll now cover in a layer post.
For the moment I thought I would bring you all a first hand account from inside a Tsunami evacuation. Even as an Emergency Manager it was something very surreal and worth knowing about...
Tuesday 1 April, 2014. Isla Isabella, Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.
We'd arrived on Isla Isabella at 5pm and, after checking into our hotel, take a walk the block-and-a-half walk to the beach. It's simply something you need to experience to believe. Pristine white coral sand, beachside bars and restaurants, azure waters and bronzed volleyballers. Think everything you've experienced in Thailand, Australia and the south of France and you're close, but not quite there. It's beautiful.
At about 1830hrs1 we left the beach to shower and get ready for dinner. It was. Laurel's birthday, and we'd planned a dinner at a recommended local restaurant and had even planned a chocolate cake, Laurel's favourite, to celebrate.
After we'd showered, I put the (Spanish) news on while Laurel finished up with the outfit. The yes/no on various items of jewellery or make-up were the most pressing things on our minds. Glancing at the TV in between fashion decisions, I noticed that the news seemed to be on repeat - cars driving in the dark and obviously leaving somewhere. There was a split screen between the studio and Concepcion. The ticker at the bottom of the screen was scrolling through a message, and in the middle of the Spanish I could just make out "8.0", "Chile" and "tsunami."
I'd like to think that the thought process that I moved into then was a result of my training, but in honesty I think that anyone in that position would recognise that this combination of words is bad. Very bad.
Now this is the first part of when my job and training kicked in. I turned off my phone's airplane mode so that I could receive text messages and jumped onto the open source disaster alerts server. Yes, there had been a magnitude 8.2 earthquake off Chile, yes there was a tsunami alert in place and, yes, the Galapagos Islands fell into the alert area.
But we had heard nothing from the locals, there was no panic on the streets and indeed everything seemed normal. Quickly taking note of the wave times, after converting from Zulu/UTC, we joined the group in the hotel courtyard for dinner. The miracle of modern communication had kicked into gear, and everyone already knew. But they all also knew what I do for a living, and there were more than a few questions.
"What do we do now?", "Are we evacuating?", "When will the waves arrive?", "Where do we go?"
I'm not a local. I can tell, like any other Emergency Manager, what the hazards in the area are, and make a preliminary assessment as to the risks, but the risk treatments, or emergency incident management plans are just as unfamiliar to me as any other tourist. I reassured the group that there was still a matter of hours before a wave, if there was to be a wave, would arrive and that the local Police would be letting people know if there was an evacuation. I also reasoned that our guide would be joining us shortly, and may have more information.
I'm not 100 percent sure that I was keeping the uncertainty (fear?) out of my voice. I'm not going to lie, it was a frightening experience. I've seen the Indian Ocean tsunami coverage and have worked the Japanese tsunami from a coordination centre. I know how volatile the Nazca Plate is to earthquake activity, tsunami generation and that this particular fault had been playing up for a few weeks.
I'm not going to lie, I was scared.
Our guide arrived and told us to pack essential documents and water into our daypacks. I added that everyone should grab a jumper. We reconvened five minutes later and set off, still with dinner plans as there was just an alert, not a warning. "Just."
Not fifty metres from the hotel we heard the bells on the beach ringing and the guide confirmed that this was the evacuation signal.
It still amazes me how quickly human beings can change. The streets changed in a second. At once there were trucks moving away from the beach and people running.
Looking around the group, there was panic in some eyes and confusion in others. I'm confident that Australians are used to bush-fires and floods, but just as I was confronted by my first earthquake in Christchurch, so were we all experiencing our first tsunami.
We continued onto the main road out of town towards the hills, and there was now evidence of a wider panic. Locals were running with children and pets in their arms. A front end loader moved towards the beach without regard for anyone running the opposite direction and at one point a Police quad-bike drove past, the driver, in plain clothes, yelling at people to flee.
Our guide, to his eternal credit, remained calm. He had a family in the town, and I can only imagine the mental battle pulling him between them and us.
He stopped us by a corner store and convinced the owner to let us buy water. I added that people should get some food - if we were to evacuate, and there was a wave, we may be gone for days, and alone before help arrived.
Inside the corner store, the front shutters were closed, the danger of panic buying or all-out looking quite real. Having bought our supplies, we were ushered out the back and returned to the main street.
At this point, it was obvious that our guide had gone looking for transport, leaving us by ourselves, save for the Spanish speaking company accountant travelling with the group.
We made our way to the main intersection of the town, and were nearly herded onto the backs of tip-trucks, split up and in a strange town, not speaking the local language. It was at this point I'm reasonably sure my training kicked in. I knew that I just wanted to keep the group together, and safe.
I want to stress that I'm not writing this to glorify myself, I certainly had my faults in the next few minutes and I think any after-action review would identify actions that I could do differently next time. This account may also look/sound different to the others who were there, but from the feedback I've received both last night and today from the group, I believe this is accurate.
I'm writing this so that there's an account from my perspective of what happened.
At the intersection, members of the group were being herded towards a tip-truck crammed with people by a man in a tabard. The group was being split up and some were beginning to really panic.
I made my way through the group while someone was, almost crying, telling the man in the tabard that we can't be split up. In reality, I told him "no, gracias" but the effect was the same.
I moved the group out of the way, to the side of the intersection. Reassuring everyone that our guide was (probably) finding us transport - he had commented earlier that he'd organised a van - and that we just needed to wait. The wave was still 3 hours away. It was now 1930hrs.
The company accountant made her way through the group and gave me her mobile. On the line was the guide. Through the noise he explained that he'd arranged transport, to pick us up at the hotel, and we needed to make our way back there.
At this point, I think I need to reinforce the scene. Dark, few street lights, people everywhere, cars everywhere, Police nowhere, noise, panic.
I called the group together and explained that the guide was on the phone and we need to make our way back to the hotel. Everyone needed to find their room buddy, stick with them and calmly walk back to the hotel. The accountant would lead the way, we still had time, there was no rush.
We set off, clearly walking against the tide of people leaving the coast.
The buddy system fell apart within seconds, but we stayed together. I made sure we had a head count and one of the other members of the group offered to do anything I needed to delegate.
This is the point others have commented on today. I was thanked - unnecessarily - for remaining calm, providing direction and keeping the group together. I'm not convinced that I did any of those particularly well, but the in the middle of chaos perhaps people cling to any sense of order that exists.
At the hotel, another group was being shepherded onto a bus. We moved our group inside the courtyard and Laurel and I went to grab our shoes - we had forgotten those earlier and were just in thongs.
Now with shoes, the group had split into two different busses, but the tour company staff were in each. I think my biggest failing of the night was letting the group be split, but under the circumstances I think there was little I could do.
It was also at this point that I stopped being a professional, and became another evacuee.
The 45 minute bus ride to the tour company's pre-arranged evacuation point was a mix of surrealism, contemplative quiet and calm reassurance for everyone else on board. I think making light of the situation - the lack of beer brought with us and the missed opportunity for looting - kept others calm and played down the seriousness of the situation. If a professional can joke, then surely there's nothing to worry about, right? Inside, I was fighting a battle between my own fears and the desire to reassure others, knowing that I was being watched. I had no idea where we were going, whether there was still a threat - images of the Indian Ocean tsunami kept flooding back to me - or where the other bus was. I felt as though, with his phone call, the guide had entrusted me with his group while he looked after his family.
On the way, the company man in the bus received a phone call advising him that the warning had been downgraded, but that we would still go to the evacuation centre.
We arrived at the home of the hotel owners, who had set up a covered outdoor area for us all. Our bus set up a table with the snacks and water and, to my relief, we were shortly joined by the other bus. It was now 2130.
With tents set up, we passed the next few hours playing cards or chatting. Laurel was taking pictures of the people in the "centre" and, every few minutes, someone asked me when we would be returning - the only answer I could give was that the wave was due at 2230 and there would still be some time after that before the local authorities knew we were safe.
By 2200 we were joined by the tour guide and his family, a really nice old couple, and settled in for the long haul. Some of the group took advantage of the tents and got some sleep. Others kept talking or playing cards.
At 2300 the guide's father pickled up a (Spanish) news update - roughly translated by an expat as "warning downgraded."
At 0100 the owner of the house received a phone call, the all-clear had been given and we could return. We were all but kicked out, but the busses returned us to the hotel for some much needed sleep. Adrenaline is great, but once it wears off...
I think there were many things that could have been done better last night, for me and the local authorities. I can't properly describe what it was like, and even if I could it's only one piece of the puzzle.
Cam
1 All times are in local time (Galapagos Islands), six hours behind UTC and 17 hours behind Australian EST.
I had drafted a full post to bring everyone up to speed on the last few days, days that I'll now cover in a layer post.
For the moment I thought I would bring you all a first hand account from inside a Tsunami evacuation. Even as an Emergency Manager it was something very surreal and worth knowing about...
Tuesday 1 April, 2014. Isla Isabella, Galapagos Islands, Ecuador.
We'd arrived on Isla Isabella at 5pm and, after checking into our hotel, take a walk the block-and-a-half walk to the beach. It's simply something you need to experience to believe. Pristine white coral sand, beachside bars and restaurants, azure waters and bronzed volleyballers. Think everything you've experienced in Thailand, Australia and the south of France and you're close, but not quite there. It's beautiful.
At about 1830hrs1 we left the beach to shower and get ready for dinner. It was. Laurel's birthday, and we'd planned a dinner at a recommended local restaurant and had even planned a chocolate cake, Laurel's favourite, to celebrate.
After we'd showered, I put the (Spanish) news on while Laurel finished up with the outfit. The yes/no on various items of jewellery or make-up were the most pressing things on our minds. Glancing at the TV in between fashion decisions, I noticed that the news seemed to be on repeat - cars driving in the dark and obviously leaving somewhere. There was a split screen between the studio and Concepcion. The ticker at the bottom of the screen was scrolling through a message, and in the middle of the Spanish I could just make out "8.0", "Chile" and "tsunami."
I'd like to think that the thought process that I moved into then was a result of my training, but in honesty I think that anyone in that position would recognise that this combination of words is bad. Very bad.
Now this is the first part of when my job and training kicked in. I turned off my phone's airplane mode so that I could receive text messages and jumped onto the open source disaster alerts server. Yes, there had been a magnitude 8.2 earthquake off Chile, yes there was a tsunami alert in place and, yes, the Galapagos Islands fell into the alert area.
But we had heard nothing from the locals, there was no panic on the streets and indeed everything seemed normal. Quickly taking note of the wave times, after converting from Zulu/UTC, we joined the group in the hotel courtyard for dinner. The miracle of modern communication had kicked into gear, and everyone already knew. But they all also knew what I do for a living, and there were more than a few questions.
"What do we do now?", "Are we evacuating?", "When will the waves arrive?", "Where do we go?"
I'm not a local. I can tell, like any other Emergency Manager, what the hazards in the area are, and make a preliminary assessment as to the risks, but the risk treatments, or emergency incident management plans are just as unfamiliar to me as any other tourist. I reassured the group that there was still a matter of hours before a wave, if there was to be a wave, would arrive and that the local Police would be letting people know if there was an evacuation. I also reasoned that our guide would be joining us shortly, and may have more information.
I'm not 100 percent sure that I was keeping the uncertainty (fear?) out of my voice. I'm not going to lie, it was a frightening experience. I've seen the Indian Ocean tsunami coverage and have worked the Japanese tsunami from a coordination centre. I know how volatile the Nazca Plate is to earthquake activity, tsunami generation and that this particular fault had been playing up for a few weeks.
I'm not going to lie, I was scared.
Our guide arrived and told us to pack essential documents and water into our daypacks. I added that everyone should grab a jumper. We reconvened five minutes later and set off, still with dinner plans as there was just an alert, not a warning. "Just."
Not fifty metres from the hotel we heard the bells on the beach ringing and the guide confirmed that this was the evacuation signal.
It still amazes me how quickly human beings can change. The streets changed in a second. At once there were trucks moving away from the beach and people running.
Looking around the group, there was panic in some eyes and confusion in others. I'm confident that Australians are used to bush-fires and floods, but just as I was confronted by my first earthquake in Christchurch, so were we all experiencing our first tsunami.
We continued onto the main road out of town towards the hills, and there was now evidence of a wider panic. Locals were running with children and pets in their arms. A front end loader moved towards the beach without regard for anyone running the opposite direction and at one point a Police quad-bike drove past, the driver, in plain clothes, yelling at people to flee.
Our guide, to his eternal credit, remained calm. He had a family in the town, and I can only imagine the mental battle pulling him between them and us.
He stopped us by a corner store and convinced the owner to let us buy water. I added that people should get some food - if we were to evacuate, and there was a wave, we may be gone for days, and alone before help arrived.
Inside the corner store, the front shutters were closed, the danger of panic buying or all-out looking quite real. Having bought our supplies, we were ushered out the back and returned to the main street.
At this point, it was obvious that our guide had gone looking for transport, leaving us by ourselves, save for the Spanish speaking company accountant travelling with the group.
We made our way to the main intersection of the town, and were nearly herded onto the backs of tip-trucks, split up and in a strange town, not speaking the local language. It was at this point I'm reasonably sure my training kicked in. I knew that I just wanted to keep the group together, and safe.
I want to stress that I'm not writing this to glorify myself, I certainly had my faults in the next few minutes and I think any after-action review would identify actions that I could do differently next time. This account may also look/sound different to the others who were there, but from the feedback I've received both last night and today from the group, I believe this is accurate.
I'm writing this so that there's an account from my perspective of what happened.
At the intersection, members of the group were being herded towards a tip-truck crammed with people by a man in a tabard. The group was being split up and some were beginning to really panic.
I made my way through the group while someone was, almost crying, telling the man in the tabard that we can't be split up. In reality, I told him "no, gracias" but the effect was the same.
I moved the group out of the way, to the side of the intersection. Reassuring everyone that our guide was (probably) finding us transport - he had commented earlier that he'd organised a van - and that we just needed to wait. The wave was still 3 hours away. It was now 1930hrs.
The company accountant made her way through the group and gave me her mobile. On the line was the guide. Through the noise he explained that he'd arranged transport, to pick us up at the hotel, and we needed to make our way back there.
At this point, I think I need to reinforce the scene. Dark, few street lights, people everywhere, cars everywhere, Police nowhere, noise, panic.
I called the group together and explained that the guide was on the phone and we need to make our way back to the hotel. Everyone needed to find their room buddy, stick with them and calmly walk back to the hotel. The accountant would lead the way, we still had time, there was no rush.
We set off, clearly walking against the tide of people leaving the coast.
The buddy system fell apart within seconds, but we stayed together. I made sure we had a head count and one of the other members of the group offered to do anything I needed to delegate.
This is the point others have commented on today. I was thanked - unnecessarily - for remaining calm, providing direction and keeping the group together. I'm not convinced that I did any of those particularly well, but the in the middle of chaos perhaps people cling to any sense of order that exists.
At the hotel, another group was being shepherded onto a bus. We moved our group inside the courtyard and Laurel and I went to grab our shoes - we had forgotten those earlier and were just in thongs.
Now with shoes, the group had split into two different busses, but the tour company staff were in each. I think my biggest failing of the night was letting the group be split, but under the circumstances I think there was little I could do.
It was also at this point that I stopped being a professional, and became another evacuee.
The 45 minute bus ride to the tour company's pre-arranged evacuation point was a mix of surrealism, contemplative quiet and calm reassurance for everyone else on board. I think making light of the situation - the lack of beer brought with us and the missed opportunity for looting - kept others calm and played down the seriousness of the situation. If a professional can joke, then surely there's nothing to worry about, right? Inside, I was fighting a battle between my own fears and the desire to reassure others, knowing that I was being watched. I had no idea where we were going, whether there was still a threat - images of the Indian Ocean tsunami kept flooding back to me - or where the other bus was. I felt as though, with his phone call, the guide had entrusted me with his group while he looked after his family.
On the way, the company man in the bus received a phone call advising him that the warning had been downgraded, but that we would still go to the evacuation centre.
We arrived at the home of the hotel owners, who had set up a covered outdoor area for us all. Our bus set up a table with the snacks and water and, to my relief, we were shortly joined by the other bus. It was now 2130.
With tents set up, we passed the next few hours playing cards or chatting. Laurel was taking pictures of the people in the "centre" and, every few minutes, someone asked me when we would be returning - the only answer I could give was that the wave was due at 2230 and there would still be some time after that before the local authorities knew we were safe.
By 2200 we were joined by the tour guide and his family, a really nice old couple, and settled in for the long haul. Some of the group took advantage of the tents and got some sleep. Others kept talking or playing cards.
At 2300 the guide's father pickled up a (Spanish) news update - roughly translated by an expat as "warning downgraded."
At 0100 the owner of the house received a phone call, the all-clear had been given and we could return. We were all but kicked out, but the busses returned us to the hotel for some much needed sleep. Adrenaline is great, but once it wears off...
I think there were many things that could have been done better last night, for me and the local authorities. I can't properly describe what it was like, and even if I could it's only one piece of the puzzle.
Cam
1 All times are in local time (Galapagos Islands), six hours behind UTC and 17 hours behind Australian EST.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Just a Touch of Paradise
I think that we can all agree that John Farnham is the greatest living Australian. By a long way. He has single handedly taken the pressure down, identified us as a (collective?) voice and has broken the record for Last Time, Final Tour concerts, a record previously held by Lazarus.
But, undoubtably, his greatest work is the 1986 hit "A Touch of Paradise"1, a song no doubt inspired by his little known visit to the Galápagos Islands.
Almost on the equator, the Galapagos are known for, primarily, their association with Charles Darwin. Darwin's observations of the Galapagos Iguanas, which in contrast to their continental counterparts had evolved to swim, set in motion his Evolution of the Species and changes the lives of creationists everywhere.
But for most of us, the Galapagos Islands are best known as a magical tropical paradise off the coast of Ecuador.
There's simply no good words that will adequately describe just how beautiful the "Enchanted Islands" are. Semi-arid and unbearably hot for most of the day, this archipelago is nonetheless something stuck in a time warp - indeed the whole experience feels a little like living in a 1960s era Bond movie. People walk for the most part, not that there's much end for a car as the capital, San Cristobal's, total road length is measured in the tens, not even hundreds.
Here, the boat is king. Food is by and large caught in the sea, and grilled on a coal BBQ. Beans and rice are also staples, like the soup that seems distributed before every meal. Yes, even breakfast.
And it's easy to see why. A boat ride away are some of the most fertile free-diving areas imaginable. At shallow depths, the most beautiful fish can be spotted - tiger, sea-lion, turtle and shark all glide past you or stop for a play.
And the action is not limited to the sea, above cormorant's dive for their meals while pelican's gracefully swop on unsuspecting fish. Even the famous marine iguanas bask in the sunshine.
Two days in and we're already contemplating opening a cafe and staying. Good coffee and John Farnham isn't a bad way to spend your life.
Cam
1. Not actually a hit.
But, undoubtably, his greatest work is the 1986 hit "A Touch of Paradise"1, a song no doubt inspired by his little known visit to the Galápagos Islands.
Almost on the equator, the Galapagos are known for, primarily, their association with Charles Darwin. Darwin's observations of the Galapagos Iguanas, which in contrast to their continental counterparts had evolved to swim, set in motion his Evolution of the Species and changes the lives of creationists everywhere.
But for most of us, the Galapagos Islands are best known as a magical tropical paradise off the coast of Ecuador.
There's simply no good words that will adequately describe just how beautiful the "Enchanted Islands" are. Semi-arid and unbearably hot for most of the day, this archipelago is nonetheless something stuck in a time warp - indeed the whole experience feels a little like living in a 1960s era Bond movie. People walk for the most part, not that there's much end for a car as the capital, San Cristobal's, total road length is measured in the tens, not even hundreds.
Here, the boat is king. Food is by and large caught in the sea, and grilled on a coal BBQ. Beans and rice are also staples, like the soup that seems distributed before every meal. Yes, even breakfast.
And it's easy to see why. A boat ride away are some of the most fertile free-diving areas imaginable. At shallow depths, the most beautiful fish can be spotted - tiger, sea-lion, turtle and shark all glide past you or stop for a play.
And the action is not limited to the sea, above cormorant's dive for their meals while pelican's gracefully swop on unsuspecting fish. Even the famous marine iguanas bask in the sunshine.
Two days in and we're already contemplating opening a cafe and staying. Good coffee and John Farnham isn't a bad way to spend your life.
Cam
1. Not actually a hit.
Thursday, March 27, 2014
City of Contrasts
I'm going to start this post by stressing that Quito is a truly beautiful city and that the people are, so far, incredibly friendly and helpful.
Now, with the disclaimer out of the way, Quito is also a city of massive contrasts.
The airport is by far one of the most beautiful - given that any airport is going to be a frustrating and essentially boring place. It's only about four years old and everything is still incredibly new, clean and easy. The immigration folk by far the nicest I've experienced and even the military style uniformed customs people were friendly.
The drive out from the airport was also along the newest freeway we've been on for a while - so smooth and lined with Palm trees. But then the first of the contrasts, the road ran out after 6 kilometres and it was then the last 20 kilometres on pot-holed, cracked and broken roads, old bridges over cavernous gorges and winding hillclimbs.
This morning brought a walk down into the valley (everything is down into the valley) and lunch (it was a late start, sue us we're on holiday) at a really cool cafe. The best coffee I've had in a while and an amazing double-decker sandwich - which was apparently an Ecuadorean sandwich.
Down town (in the New Town) there is a beautiful park full of artists, volleyball players and musicians, and is like a small paradise. But we were determined to walk into Old Town, just over the hill.
Next contrast, once out of the park it was a different world. Not just the chaos of the city, but the hawkers, beggars and crumbling buildings of any other major city in a developing nation and so far removed from the paradise park (not its actual name).
Old Town itself is beautiful - a UNESCO world heritage site and a trapped-in-time replica of a colonial Spanish city. The pink and yellow buildings with balconies (topped with flowers) make the entire district picture perfect. Beautiful churches and cathedrals abound in a state/nation that is still poverty stricken - which highlights the already much discussed priorities of the Catholic Church during the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. It is still amazing to see such history, and the obvious faith of the people, as shown in the religious iconography both small and impressively large throuout the city. We visited no less than four before deciding that we'd had our church quota.
However, we wanted to walk to he nearby El Panecillo, a statue of an angel overlooking the city. From the bustling Plaza Grande we walked towards a picturesque set of steps leading to the hill's summit, only to be stopped before long by a local woman who pointed out the "tourists beware, this area is dangerous" sign... It was eerily quiet - too quiet? - so we turned around and, while heading to a more populated area, were verbaled by a group of men. I've been in some dodgy parts of dodgy cities before, but this was the first time I'd been unnerved by a part of a city. Another contrast.
Still, the City Museum was a good insight into Ecuador's history - okay be honest, who knew that it was once a state of Colombia - and it was great to look around a former convent and hospital.
Quito is a beautiful, beautiful city, filled with great and friendly people, but you can't go far before you notice the anacronisms that befuddle you, but also add to the city's charm, and despite the contrasts, we're really looking forward to seeing more of this great country.
Cam
Now, with the disclaimer out of the way, Quito is also a city of massive contrasts.
The airport is by far one of the most beautiful - given that any airport is going to be a frustrating and essentially boring place. It's only about four years old and everything is still incredibly new, clean and easy. The immigration folk by far the nicest I've experienced and even the military style uniformed customs people were friendly.
The drive out from the airport was also along the newest freeway we've been on for a while - so smooth and lined with Palm trees. But then the first of the contrasts, the road ran out after 6 kilometres and it was then the last 20 kilometres on pot-holed, cracked and broken roads, old bridges over cavernous gorges and winding hillclimbs.
This morning brought a walk down into the valley (everything is down into the valley) and lunch (it was a late start, sue us we're on holiday) at a really cool cafe. The best coffee I've had in a while and an amazing double-decker sandwich - which was apparently an Ecuadorean sandwich.
Down town (in the New Town) there is a beautiful park full of artists, volleyball players and musicians, and is like a small paradise. But we were determined to walk into Old Town, just over the hill.
Next contrast, once out of the park it was a different world. Not just the chaos of the city, but the hawkers, beggars and crumbling buildings of any other major city in a developing nation and so far removed from the paradise park (not its actual name).
Old Town itself is beautiful - a UNESCO world heritage site and a trapped-in-time replica of a colonial Spanish city. The pink and yellow buildings with balconies (topped with flowers) make the entire district picture perfect. Beautiful churches and cathedrals abound in a state/nation that is still poverty stricken - which highlights the already much discussed priorities of the Catholic Church during the 17th, 18th and 19th centuries. It is still amazing to see such history, and the obvious faith of the people, as shown in the religious iconography both small and impressively large throuout the city. We visited no less than four before deciding that we'd had our church quota.
However, we wanted to walk to he nearby El Panecillo, a statue of an angel overlooking the city. From the bustling Plaza Grande we walked towards a picturesque set of steps leading to the hill's summit, only to be stopped before long by a local woman who pointed out the "tourists beware, this area is dangerous" sign... It was eerily quiet - too quiet? - so we turned around and, while heading to a more populated area, were verbaled by a group of men. I've been in some dodgy parts of dodgy cities before, but this was the first time I'd been unnerved by a part of a city. Another contrast.
Still, the City Museum was a good insight into Ecuador's history - okay be honest, who knew that it was once a state of Colombia - and it was great to look around a former convent and hospital.
Quito is a beautiful, beautiful city, filled with great and friendly people, but you can't go far before you notice the anacronisms that befuddle you, but also add to the city's charm, and despite the contrasts, we're really looking forward to seeing more of this great country.
Cam
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
The Further We Go, The Closer We Are
No, sorry. The post title is not an existential comment on our relationship, although I am travelling with an awesome travel buddy.
No, the title was an epiphany I had this afternoon at the Pre-Colombian Museum of Art, but more on that later.
Santiago is a city of high contrast. The gap between the wealthy and poverty-stricken is one of the largest in the world - so it is not uncommon on a 20 minute walk to be stepping over rubbish and avoiding Bangkok-style fumes one minute, and then passing schmick residential apartment blocks and up-scale cafes or department stores the next. It's also warm. Very warm.
The language is a challenge, but one that Laurel at least is embracing with gusto. Mia gusto. She's picking up phrases and understanding at least the gist of the locals much faster than I am. While I seem to be the translator of last resort, Laurel is often the first in with a "si" or "gracias", or even short exchanges with ice-cream vendors over specific flavours, while I'm left with the more studied "cafe y te con leche, por favor." Needless to say the both of our Spanish has improved markedly in the 24 hours we've been here.
Today was walking in Santiago day. We discovered yesterday that many public places are closed on Mondays, and so made the most of the only full day we have in Santiago. Our suspicions seem to be confirmed - that Santiago itself is like any major city, with a number of tourist attractions, but that the best sights our outside of the city itself. Southern Chile especially seems to get a good rap, but that may have to wait until another trip.
The highlights of our days walk were both cultural and natural. One the cultural side the first stop was the National Museum, set in an old colonial building and covering the nation's history from a brief description of pre-European civilisations to the more recent Spanish - and Catholic - conquest, the independence movement and finally democracy, notwithstanding the 1973 military coup. The undoubtable, if dubious, highlight of the National Museum was the artwork accompanying many of the exhibitions, best described as "postmodern." Our particular favourite, to paraphrase what must only have been the Spanish titles, were the famous postmodern works "Video of Iguana on Scale Model Couch" and "Commemorate Our Nation with Boobs."
Far more interesting, and relevant, was the Museum of Pre-Colombian Art. A fantastic journey through Chile's 60,000+ year history, the museum showed the artwork, and therefore culture and society, of the many indigenous peoples of the Americas, in the context of modern Chile. Peoples from as far north as Mexico and east as Brazil were described pre-Incan Empire.
It was in this museum that I had my epiphany. Looking through the pre-Incan art, and reading of Chile's history, it struck me how similar the cultural, religious and societal symbols were to those that we are more familiar, i.e. Anglo-European. For instance, a person's position in most pre-Incan societies was determined by their headdress, with many wearing animal skins or furs on their heads to denote a high social standing, like western Justices. Similarly the use of four points on a compass and even the hindu "swastika" are replicated in the artwork of cultures so geographically removed from our own ancestors. These, and other similarities, I couldn't help but feel connected to the people of the Americas, in a disconnected way. Surely, despite an 11 hour flight, there are too many similarities to feel as though we are completely removed. How would the original conquistadors have felt when experiencing these cultures for the first time. Probably not much, they were too busy killing and spreading Christianity.
The natural attractions were no less stunning. The top of the Castillo Hidalgo, a small but dramatic rise more or less in the dead centre of town gave us beautiful views towards the Andes and past the Parque Metropolitano, another rise, this time more dramatic and marking the northern border of the city centre. The latter we scaled courtesy of the funicular, or as Laurel described it, the fun-kiler. The top gave us more remarkable views over the whole of Santiago and to the Andes, which tower over the city so close you can almost see them through the smog.
The food and drink was the final experience of the day. The coffee is strong and black and served to you while standing at a bench, three machines working on raised platforms. Sandwiches are more complicated than our Spanglish allows and dinner was served with a litre of beer. In other words, fantastic.
But it's now 10.30pm, or 12.30pm in Australia, and and we're buggered, so it's definitely jet-lag time.
Until we can get internet access next, adios muchacho.
Cam
No, the title was an epiphany I had this afternoon at the Pre-Colombian Museum of Art, but more on that later.
Santiago is a city of high contrast. The gap between the wealthy and poverty-stricken is one of the largest in the world - so it is not uncommon on a 20 minute walk to be stepping over rubbish and avoiding Bangkok-style fumes one minute, and then passing schmick residential apartment blocks and up-scale cafes or department stores the next. It's also warm. Very warm.
The language is a challenge, but one that Laurel at least is embracing with gusto. Mia gusto. She's picking up phrases and understanding at least the gist of the locals much faster than I am. While I seem to be the translator of last resort, Laurel is often the first in with a "si" or "gracias", or even short exchanges with ice-cream vendors over specific flavours, while I'm left with the more studied "cafe y te con leche, por favor." Needless to say the both of our Spanish has improved markedly in the 24 hours we've been here.
Today was walking in Santiago day. We discovered yesterday that many public places are closed on Mondays, and so made the most of the only full day we have in Santiago. Our suspicions seem to be confirmed - that Santiago itself is like any major city, with a number of tourist attractions, but that the best sights our outside of the city itself. Southern Chile especially seems to get a good rap, but that may have to wait until another trip.
The highlights of our days walk were both cultural and natural. One the cultural side the first stop was the National Museum, set in an old colonial building and covering the nation's history from a brief description of pre-European civilisations to the more recent Spanish - and Catholic - conquest, the independence movement and finally democracy, notwithstanding the 1973 military coup. The undoubtable, if dubious, highlight of the National Museum was the artwork accompanying many of the exhibitions, best described as "postmodern." Our particular favourite, to paraphrase what must only have been the Spanish titles, were the famous postmodern works "Video of Iguana on Scale Model Couch" and "Commemorate Our Nation with Boobs."
Far more interesting, and relevant, was the Museum of Pre-Colombian Art. A fantastic journey through Chile's 60,000+ year history, the museum showed the artwork, and therefore culture and society, of the many indigenous peoples of the Americas, in the context of modern Chile. Peoples from as far north as Mexico and east as Brazil were described pre-Incan Empire.
It was in this museum that I had my epiphany. Looking through the pre-Incan art, and reading of Chile's history, it struck me how similar the cultural, religious and societal symbols were to those that we are more familiar, i.e. Anglo-European. For instance, a person's position in most pre-Incan societies was determined by their headdress, with many wearing animal skins or furs on their heads to denote a high social standing, like western Justices. Similarly the use of four points on a compass and even the hindu "swastika" are replicated in the artwork of cultures so geographically removed from our own ancestors. These, and other similarities, I couldn't help but feel connected to the people of the Americas, in a disconnected way. Surely, despite an 11 hour flight, there are too many similarities to feel as though we are completely removed. How would the original conquistadors have felt when experiencing these cultures for the first time. Probably not much, they were too busy killing and spreading Christianity.
The natural attractions were no less stunning. The top of the Castillo Hidalgo, a small but dramatic rise more or less in the dead centre of town gave us beautiful views towards the Andes and past the Parque Metropolitano, another rise, this time more dramatic and marking the northern border of the city centre. The latter we scaled courtesy of the funicular, or as Laurel described it, the fun-kiler. The top gave us more remarkable views over the whole of Santiago and to the Andes, which tower over the city so close you can almost see them through the smog.
The food and drink was the final experience of the day. The coffee is strong and black and served to you while standing at a bench, three machines working on raised platforms. Sandwiches are more complicated than our Spanglish allows and dinner was served with a litre of beer. In other words, fantastic.
But it's now 10.30pm, or 12.30pm in Australia, and and we're buggered, so it's definitely jet-lag time.
Until we can get internet access next, adios muchacho.
Cam
Thursday, March 20, 2014
The Final Day of Work for Two Months
82 days seems like a long time. That's only 22 percent of the year, but it's also 1968 hours, 118080 minutes or 7084800 seconds. So take it from me, staring down the void of all those seconds, it seems like a long time.
Laurel and I are standing on the ledge together, holding hands and about to bungee jump into the abyss of a semi-sabbatical two months off work to travel through South America and the USA. The Americas 2014 is only a couple of days away!
There's no socialism discovering long-distance motorbike trips, no wide open roads in a convertible Corvette but this trip, two years in the planning, is definitely one of those life defining moments that we can't wait for.
So, for the next 82 days we'll be doing our best to keep this blog updated - but not too up-to-date - with the experiences that we experience and the adventures we... adventure?
Of course, there's every likelihood that we'll blog once more, at Sydney airport, and then again, two months later at Sydney airport, but we promise to try.
See you at the slide night at our place in June!
Cam and Laurel (the Cavenfords)!
Laurel and I are standing on the ledge together, holding hands and about to bungee jump into the abyss of a semi-sabbatical two months off work to travel through South America and the USA. The Americas 2014 is only a couple of days away!
There's no socialism discovering long-distance motorbike trips, no wide open roads in a convertible Corvette but this trip, two years in the planning, is definitely one of those life defining moments that we can't wait for.
So, for the next 82 days we'll be doing our best to keep this blog updated - but not too up-to-date - with the experiences that we experience and the adventures we... adventure?
Of course, there's every likelihood that we'll blog once more, at Sydney airport, and then again, two months later at Sydney airport, but we promise to try.
See you at the slide night at our place in June!
Cam and Laurel (the Cavenfords)!
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