Luna Perspectives

19 Days without laundry
3 Showers in 10 days
4 Consecutive days without a 2sie
26 Hours on a bus in 2 days
23 Hours in a JEEP in 3 days
2 Mexican soap operas that we are now addicted to
7 Times Madonna's Holiday was played in the JEEP
18 Days without a shave



The TURBUS looped a winding trail on to the clustered houses and labyrinth of tight alleys towards La Paz. It was just turning six o'clock in the evening as I shook off the last groans from my sleeping knees and turned up at the heavily guarded door of our proposed hostel for the night, The WildRover. Before settling in and unpacking we consulted a handful of tour operators as to the likelihood of joining a tour of the Bolivian Salt Flats, as we had only four days in Bolivia to play with before our return flight to Santiago. It quickly became apparent that in order to take advantage of the 3 day and 2 night excursion we would need to leave immediately on the eight o'clock overnight bus before reaching Uyuni, where the Salt Flat tours originate for before reaching the cold desert.


The Train Cemetery. Thrilling.



With weary abandon we were back at the bus station, a full two hours after arriving and with only enough time to secure a street sellers banquet of jamon y queso stuffed empanadas. Reaching the backseat of the vehicle it was a surprise to see next to us two Irish girls whom I vaguely recognised from Deco Backpackers in Queenstown. After a swift exchange covering the basics of our recollection from the South Island of New Zealand, we all reclined our seats to the full 140 degree extension and watched Old Dogs featuring the deft comic talents of John Travolta and Robin Williams, hastily dubbed in Spanish. At Uyuni after eleven hours of rocky roads, we were introduced to a ghost town of one storey buildings and a woodworm eaten quality of no redeemable value.



We winced through our animated sign language communication to the non English speaking operator who, I assume, knew very little of what we were trying to say through chattering teeth and expressive gestures as we traced the frost leaving our breath. We managed to plot our route into our JEEP and were introduced to our laid back and stonewashed jean sporting driver, Eddie and our cargo of fellow passengers herded at the back. Jaykar and Anita hailed from London, a delightful couple with a compelling surge of inquiry whilst Alexandria and Zachary, two experienced globetrotters from California, shared a balanced and friendly composition. On route to the train cemetery, our first stop which was as rusty and depleted as the name suggests, our 4 x 4 left a trail of dripping petrol from its underbelly, perhaps in homage to the Gulf of Mexico.


Most drivers have depictions of the Virgin Mary or The Passion. Eddie placed his trust in Caprice.

Eddie, for what would be a continuous practice every half an hour on the road, climbed out of his seat, stalled the engine and with a mysterious combination of waxy cloth and spanner type device, fixed the ghoul within the mechanics so as to keep the journey going. None of us quite knew what our driver was doing, but we soon were at ease once the ignition was rescued after another momentary lapse. Eddie smiled and confidently spouted 'No problem' before blaring out an absolutely intolerable mix tape of lost 80's synth songs which eroded the channels within the ear.



The Salt Flats, a breathing desert of blinding white hexagons and rock formations were lucid amid the sparseness. The horizon merged with the pale blue sky leaving the impression of floating in an empty universe. The group of us, after settling for lunch at Incahuasi (Fish Island - a shrine of lumbering cactus plants) decided to walk on to the desert for an hour to explore the enormity of the plains and we quickly got lost before Eddie finally found us marooned in the white canvas before our supplies of water evaporated alongside our confidence of survival.



Day two, starting at San Juan, a lonely town where our hostel was comprised of salt, we drove in the relative cool air of air conditioning to the Red Lagoon as the scenery changed vividly from desert to volcanoes and carved mountains. The active volcanoes waved a slither of smoke from the crater and the terrain evoked a lunar landscape with the canyons and forgotten amber caves as we reached El Desierto de Siloli and its famous Tree Stone.



Our reward for another day within the confines of our faulty vehicle was a horrific night out in a shambolic hostel where once the sun grew tired, the cruel cold of the desert seeped into the walls and under the doors throughout the night. Sleeping in our Peruvian hats, gloves, socks, three layers of jumpers and jeans was not enough to steer away the chill. After one final pizza in Uyuni to say goodbye to the group, we caught our overnight bus return to La Paz and its lofty heights.


Our new Bolivian mate soon after shared the insides of his gut with the table

With one day to finally complete a cycle of washing, shower, re-charge our i-Pods and ourselves after days in the wilderness, Matty and I stepped into a local den recommended by our guide book where we were promised lunch alongside the locals on Bozo Street. We were not misled, our feast of rice, potatoes and chicken was a simple but tasty affair and a gentlemen, in his fifties perhaps, with indigo ink stained fingers and grey ragged leather features joined our table for lack of space. As if to thank us for our welcoming embrace, he spent the duration of the meal carefully studying our faces in turn before violently vomiting into his hands as the waiter served his main course. The glistening palm with algae coloured flecks from the pits of his stomach were enough for us to softly leave and bid farewell to Bolivia as we walked beyond the stalls of the Witches Market with its llama foetuses drooping from the entrances over green bottles of remedies for almost all the ailments of the body.


The Witches Market featuring an equisite collection of Llama foetuses


i-Pod Song of the Day: Queens of the Stoneage - The Lost Art of Keeping A Secret
Strange how this song was released in 2000 and not a couple of years ago as I imagined. I guess I'm getting older. From the hard edged Rated R album. Top rated.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0l0nzPpvbFs

Discovering The Lost City Of The Incas

The Peruvians at the camp (well Freddie and Huevo the skinny mute chef) challenged us to a game of football at sunriseseeing as we were missing out on the World Cupand I still had no idea as to whether England had beaten Germany in the Last 16. The locals, already well adjusted to the altitude of 3,500 metres clinched a fortuitous 3-2 victory in the first game (both of us were guilty of missing open nets). They were confident of a further humiliation and asked us to play again - this time the winner would receive cerveza from the loser. We managed to restore some national pride and won 3-2 to tie the series as the soft adidas ball arrowed from dumpsite hole to thorny bush beyond the flip flops that were playing the part of goal posts. I, rather foolishly, went through a delicious trade mark slide tackle on Freddy that crunched both our shins as we wheeled away in simultaneously agony. It was perhaps not the best idea to take out the hiking guide prior to a mount up the Sacred Valley.

Everyone likes the taste of their own brand

To reward the game, similar to the exploits of Michael Caine and Sylvester Stallone in Escape To Victory in uniting opposition, Huevlo treated us to a marvellous cake for breakfast that he somehow managed to bake using only a clay pot and a few freshly laid eggs. The meals that we had on the trek had been nothing short of spectacular. We were not prepared to have a gourmet chef prepare Peruvian classics such as stuffed capiscum in a light batter; yam croquettes; marrow and goats cheese and Lima styled spinach and potato frittas.

A short public bus trip alongside a handful of schoolgirls with neatly platted hair, we arrived at Ollantayambo, situated in a fertile river valley and sheltered by the dark shoulder of mountains encasing an ancient Inca village and its remains. We coincided the day with a public bank holiday where locals dressed in luminous ponchos and were entertained by a custard yellow shirted midget in the main plaza. We bypassed the circus and lept up the terraced ruins which were interesting enough before making our way on a magnificently slow train with perhaps the most formal and longest tanoy announcement which guided us to the town of Aguas Calientes on the foot of the famous Lost City of the Incas. Our hostel personally greeted us at the station with an amusing sign painted with 'Michelle Hones' which was as close to Matthew Rees-Jones as they could get at that solitary hour before midnight.

My alarm rang at four thirty in the morning. Those who know me well will realise that this is an unfortunate time to converse or interact with me, let alone send me up on a guided tour for sunrise. Freddy arrived at La Rochas red cape hostel to pick us up and led us towards Machu Picchu. A heavy mist blanketed the site, we could barely make out the terraces for the first hour, but this gave a remarkable mystery to the site. Once in a while we'd listen to Freddy's stories on the legends, turn around and the fog would clear slightly revealing a new feature of the remarkable stone constructions perched high up in between islet green mountains, like a matador skillfully draping his cape to reveal a bruised and bloodied bull. Our spritely guide informed us of many curious Inca facts and superstitions including their propensity towards the sciences of astrology, cosmology and their bewildering knowledge of geology - a long vertical lane carving in the ruins represented the fault line underground.




For the rest of the tour we strolled around the site like affiliates of Hiram Bingham, the American explorer who unearthed the Lost City in 1911, it has also been heavily suggested that he lynched the treasures and artifacts of the site before returning, with much pomp and ceremony back to Yale University. It was an experience hard to put into words, and one that the few photographs I have could not do justice to the magnificent sacred city (though I'll upload them anyway). We had to be dragged away before the end of the day in order to catch our train back to Cusco. After the five hour train and bus ride, we barely had time for a knap and unpack before our 7:30am bus awaited us, leaving for the town of Puno by Lake Titicaca. Peru's landscape deteriorated once away from the main tourist areas of Cusco and Lima. Half built brick houses stood motionless and neglected in arid corn fields whilst locals pottered around waiting for something and achieving very little.

Puno itself was a ghastly stopover, not worthy of its situation by the grand Lake Titicaca. Barefoot children ran down dirty alleys whilst dodging the trash on the streets as stray hounds yawned on top of featureless box buildings made of mud and cement. We befriended two UCLA graduates and dissolved the shameless town with the potent mixture of egg whites and Pisco brandy until yet another 6am start awaited our beleaguered bodies.




The bus, rickety, rusty and with broken seats, stopped at Copacabana (she was a show girl), a heavily Catholic coastal resort, with all the gloss that Puno should have contained. The town is famous for its rather bizarre ceremony of blessing motor vehicles on mass and we saw decorated and proud trucks paraded through to the bay. We continued on cleaner and straighter roads with a stark and quiet backdrop on our way into the Bolivian capital of La Paz, for the next leg of our adventure and the paper dream of an end to the continuous travel and early rises.

Aguas Calientes Song of the Day: The Doors - Hello, I Love You
We were drawn to the Putucusi bar in Peru by a dreadlocked Peruvian with a lazy attitude that wascompelling as was his offer for happy hour drinks. Alongside games of Cluedo and Ludo on theglass tables was a tremendous soundtrack featuring The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan andthese LA rockers.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzM71scYw0M

Lares: Headaches, Downpours And No Sign Of Them Incas

The city of Cusco in Peru, sits approximately 3300 metres above sea level. I had been previously warned by my travel doctor in Wellington that appropriate measures would have to be taken in order to counter the curse of altitude sickness. Our tour operator, Carlos, also advised us vehemently that we should stay in Cusco for at least 3-5 days in order to acclimatise to the thin air before embarking on our much anticipated Lares Inca Trek. We thought better of this elaborate patter and gave ourselves a modest afternoon at a higher gradient, we had little choice in the matter after the delay from the last flight from Lima, which was not ideal. We managed to cope ok, only our chests did tighten whenever walking uphill, but this did not cause alarm.

Our hostel, Sumac Wasi, was hidden in a busy cobbled street ('Gringo Alley' as the natives baptised it) and although the second floor was under the light dust of construction, we were treated to an alluring courtyard, upon which a lone shimmering green hummingbird flirted with the blossom of a Chinese Rose tree.

Immediately I was impressed with the historic capital of the Inca Empire (and another UNESCO World Heritage Site) thanks to its sepia setting, cathedral in the main square and colourful markets down the narrow alleyways. Surprisingly the hawkers were not adept at making the blood rush with their empty promises in woven baskets, and instead favoured a more passive sales technique, which suited us just fine. On checking in at Wayki Tours who were operating our four day adventure, we found out that we were the only two to be in the group (we had half expected an excitable group of Scandinavians but were left disappointed) along with our guide, chef, assistant to the chef, horseman and three mules.

I'll stick to the Coca Te, thanks

We got picked up by our guide, Freddy, at dawn after a night of half hearted packing for the camping trip. After a three hour bus ride through a bustling market town we arrived in the town of Lares where the start of the four day trek would begin. Amid a confusing tranquility we soaked by the locals at the medicinal hot pools with their steaming copper coloured waters reminiscent of the splendor of a Roman Bath. The three hour walk that followed was an awakening to the dramas of reaching higher planes. Both Matty's and my lungs appeared to heave unpredictably with each forward step and the temples of our foreheads throbbed uncontrollably with the first gentle ascent. On reaching our first campsite, in the village of Wacawasi the both of us headed straight to our ready made tents for a deserved rest.

I managed to consume some dinner and polite conversation with Freddy on the benefits of Indigenous management of a Peruvian tour operator, before reaching for the confines of my sleeping bag at 8pm. Matty was faring somewhat worse. After taking an emergency visit to enrich some vegetation with his own brand of fertile nutritious exponents whilst the mountain slopes sighed, he collapsed in the tent with not even a mouthful of dinner. At this point I knew something was wrong. We had both been struck by the silent plague of altitude sickness on our first full day of the trip to the Sacred Valley.

Matty feels ill. An ideal time to document his demise

In the morning, we felt a little better after taking some medication (Matty having to down a thick brown syrup that Freddy guaranteed would rid him of the devils within the colon), our tent on close inspection emitted the dour scent of disease from the convulsions from our weakened bodies. Passing angels would have feared to tread within the canvas of our sleep at that moment.

Lares Hot Springs

We gathered our three forlorn mules who had the thankless task of carrying our luggage, tents and equipment and began the next day's walk to our next destination of Espaycocha as the storm clouds began to lurk.

Where's Matty?

Freddy, our mid-twenties Peruvian tour guide, was full of positivity and a rich layer of gentle humour enough for us to trust him to the contours of the second day. He reminded me somewhat of Charlie Brown, with his eyes slightly close together and boyish quips. It appeared that the highlight of his day would be to tease Vicento, our horse man. On hearing the energetic courtship of two donkeys beyond some farmland Freddy nudged Vicento and ordered him to join in on the equine passion.

A nice feature of the hike was that every passing farmer or villager, dressed in rainbow ponchos and fake plastic flowers on their bowler hats, would greet us warmly with a formal 'Buenos Dias Chicos'. It was apparent that there was a community feel to the Peruvians high up in the mountains. This local charm was not enough to see us through our walk up to the summit of a 4600 metre mountain, which is higher than the plane I jumped off for my skydive in Taupo and half the height of Mount Everest. The make up of shingle and stone was deteriorating for the calf and thigh muscles and as the rain began to pour down I felt utterly miserable. Matty had the heavy eyes of a zombie and few words were shared for most of the morning.

Truck load of folk in Ollantaytambo

After lunch, we opted to ramble for a further three hours in order to reach a more dry base and as it was all downhill we agreed that this would be better than to camp by Lake Epsaycocha, 4500 metres up with a high risk of being caught in a storm that night.

Our silence broke with that of the emergence of the sun late in the afternoon, revealing lush valleys, lagoons and streams with cold foamy waters. On reaching our base for the night, after a full nine hours hiking, we collapsed on the hard ground with a well deserved beverage in our hand. I may only have fond memories of this episode as the drink we had was Coca Te, where the leaves contain cocaine and is illegal in the US and UK. I think a Class A warm cup of tea is the only way I can start my day from now on and was enough to lead us through the next few days towards the Lost City of the Incas.

Coca Te. Coca Loca Te.

Valparaiso, How Absurd You Are...

After a little headache was brought on by one too many happy hour Pisco Sours, Amaretto Sours and Mojitos at our brand new local favourite haunt, Cafe Utopia in Bellas Artes, we decided to take a little trip to the seaside to brighten our spirits and also to make the most of our last few days in Chile. After a simple enough transfer from the efficient Metro to the bus station at Universidad de Santiago, we sat on the comfortable back seats of the TURBUS for a swift hour and a half route to the seaport of Valparaiso. We passed a fairly uninspiring window view, passing smooth hills and some soil rich farmland on a rather dull day. We could have been driving through any countryside outside an urban complex.

This was to change though once we parked at our destination, clouds gathered ominously and the soft scatter of rain began to descend. Although without the aid of a spray of natural light, the city exuded an impression of containing much character by the way the box houses tilted on the hill overlooking the harbour. I couldn't quite make out the colour of the paint work and this added to the sensation of holding a photograph negative close to the eyes.

The UEA 7 a side FA Cup winners reunite for another scalp. Yes, my jeans are far too big, they were the only ones I could find in the market in Santiago.

We were recommended a little restaurant off a sinister side alley, one that I would not have felt safe walking down at all any time after sunset, called Casino J Cruz Social

http://www.capitalcultural.cl/p4_cc/site/artic/20040513/pags/20040513154823.html

which ranks amongst the most memorable dining experiences to date. The decoration was a debris of cheap collectibles from the world over within glass cabinets scrawled and signed on the panes with tip-ex by past customers. The dated floral table cloths were also blitzed with biro ink, messages from all the guests who'd eaten under the same roof in the past forty years. It was hard not to feel nostalgic about the place, and even more so when the elderly and eccentric waiter arrived and delivered us the only dish that was available by the chef, the highly regarded Chorrillana - heaps of hand cut chips (like the ones Dolly makes for me when I'm well behaved), scrambled eggs with onions and garlic and finally a liberal sprinkling of chopped pepper steak (which Matty devoured without delay).

Street art in Valparaiso

We trawled the streets for shelter, and were reduced to mild irritation on being ignored by one B&B and our other top pick being shut down for the month for renovations. This led us to a promisingly signposted hostel Pata Pata halfway up the rainbow coloured steps of Templeman. We were alarmed to find that the door was opened by a sweet smiling two year old Chilean boy who promptly ran away back into his cot. The manager greeted us seconds later and with his small lopsided beard, round trustworthy face and generous overspilling stomach, depicted the archetypal Latin man of leisure. The hostel was 'homely' in a way that felt like arriving unannouned at a friend's relatives house and asking to stay the night by mark of association. The baby boy, who loved to try and play the didgeridoo to entertain us, provided company in the television room as we attempted to avoid his angular toys scattered on the floor. He didn't appear to attach any desire to sit still and listen to my reading of the Spanish version of 'Three Little Pigs' (Los Tres Cerditos) though, which was his loss, the ungrateful swine.

In the morning, after having our prayers answered from a higher being for the wish of a clear day after the uncomfortable artillery of an overnight storm, we approached the city with a dose of positivity and anticipation in equal parts. Valparaiso is known as the 'Cultural Capital of Chile', a newly appointed UNESCO World Heritage Site and was home to the notorious Chilean poet (and considered to be one of the most influential poets of the 20th Century), Pablo Neruda. Although in the past 'Valpo' was known more for its swarm of drunken sailors, doe-eyed and ugly mouthed prostitutes and blue collar sleaze, it is now considered a jewel of the nation and commonly referred to as 'Little San Francisco'.

Chile has impressed with its reputation for a solid economy of a steady export trade (mainly copper, accounting for a third of the world's total, and wine) which is reflected by the high value, in South American terms, of its currency as well as the impressive infrastructure and general lack of visible poverty that I had assumed.

It was easy to see why this place has such luminary plaudits. The rich bohemian vibrancy is apparent from every cafe, restaurant and window sill within the Old Quarter. Houses are painted striking shades of the palette, often to compliment the pigment of the neighbouring buildings so that the streets reach a technicolour synchronicity as if a consequence of the collective brushwork sneeze of the Impressionists. Artwork of the spray canned variety is also thrashed adoringly on walls, abodes and on the ground, as wild canines stroll easily by and ignore the public clamour within the docks.

World Cup fever reaches the walls of the Allegretto Pizzerteria in Valparaiso

After Valapraiso and one final day in Santiago to sample some more ham and cheese empanadas, we set off for Peru to prepare for the Inca Trek in the coming few days. Our connection flight from Lima to Cusco was delayed, leaving us stranded in the Peruvian capital for one night before we were allowed on the next domestic flight. This, we thought, was going to be an issue as after what felt like months queuing at the LAN desk for news of a refund and overnight stay at nearby accommodation we were handed a voucher written elegantly by Maria the LAN air stewardess for the Hotel Rwanda. Thankfully we mis-read the coupon and were not actually treated to a night of genocide and Don Cheadle. Instead, the majestic Hotel Ramada, with its Spa, massage tables, delicious three course meal and spacious twin room was in order - and all free of charge.

Backpacking has never felt so relaxing and has created, I fear, a false impression for Matty. One that I'm not willing to correct just yet.

Flying past the Andes and beyond Chile

Lima Song of the Day: The Beatles - And Your Bird Can Sing
A classic from Revolver. The fab three's (Ringo doesn't count) sunny chorus managed to scale the heights of my in flight playlist (along with Avril Lavigne and Bob Dylan) to ensure that we touched down in Peru with swaying arms and tuneless humming that even the blood red stamps of immigration couldn't tarnish.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ApI7YXQTVZQ

i-Pod Song of the Day: Bruce Springsteen - I'm On Fire
The Boss is at his best on this moody yet moving two minute lilt from his huge 'Born in the USA'
album. The structure of the melody urges you to follow the tracks that the freight train running through his head have passed.

http://www.brucespringsteen.net/songs/ImOnFire.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xzQvGz6_fvA

¡ Vamos Chile !

Del aire al aire,
como una red vacia
iba yo entre las calles y la atmosfera,
llegando y despodiendo

From air to air, like an empty net,
I would go through the streets and the atmosphere,
Arriving and saying goodbye



Pablo Neruda

Matty found me in Auckland airport as I was hypnotised by a gloriously ill advised meal at an American fast food franchise. He marked our reunion by throwing a tennis ball at my face, which I did not have the reactions to propel to another, less hazardous direction. The LAN flight was scheduled without quarrel or delay and I even managed to pass some time attempting to serenade the Chilean air stewardess with my broken Spanish. This tactic was not successful, which was a surprise to all within ear shot, and I only managed to aggravate her with my perseverance.

On touch down we grabbed an 'official' taxi from Santiago Airport and cruised past a landscape that I had never witnessed before. The Andes, with its snow tipped peaks was the most impressive feature, piercing through a thin skin of smoky urban smog and disappearing in the thick cement of dusty urban decay and then re-appearing again once it had left my thoughts momentarily. The wide roads leading to the Bellas Artes, where we were staying, were lined with rusty tin roofed shanty towns, tired looking mules with matted manes and abandoned football pitches made up of earth and heaps of trash.

We ventured out (me with an irritable spirit due to the jet lag and dehydration from the ceverza and plane journey) and immediately navigated the salmon scales and blood soaked cleavers within the Central Mercado - fish market. After a tiring lap we settled on a restaurant exuding character from its cracked peel paint, the vociferous locals, vino tinto tainted table cloths and a small television pinned loosely on the wall emitting the Brazil versus Ivory Coast World Cup Group game. I ate my freshly caught pescado and potato salad stained with beetroot as I intermittently craned my neck to witness some dubious handballs. All the while our waiter tried tirelessly to converse with both of us in Spanish as we nodded sincerely in a very English manner.

With the Hostel Andes Owner and fan of La Roja in womb

The following day, waking at 5am and eventually bypassing the persistent questioning from our Belgian dorm mate (whose discoloured teeth and monk-like features made me wary of him from the onset), we ventured towards Plaza Aramas, in order to view the much anticipated Chile - Switzerland game. We wandered past Parisian styled streetlights and small parks similar to that of central Madrid, and stopped by for a brief watery coffee at Cafe Haiti, known locally as 'Coffee on Legs' where short skirted and thick thighed waitresses shuttle business men their thin early morning antidote (a Latin American version of Hooters, I suppose).

Since arriving in Chile it has been apparent that chauvanism still pollutes the routine of society - from men striding in front of women who are left lumbered with chores surrounding the offspring as well as the unquestionable lack of chivalry on display. The ladies here seemed to be overwhelmingly pleased when we opened doors for them and helped them to carry their luggage up the stairs of the metro station.

Chilean fans: In need of Head & Shoulders

Back to the promise of herds of supporters in the midst of the carnival spirit of soccer we entered the main square where there was a big screen showing of the Chile game. We were immediately concerned by the vast number of armoured riot police, dressed in mouldy green khakis and armed with shields, guns, tear gas and teenage mutant ninja turtle-esque body armour. The kick off was at 10am on a Monday morning so we were both mildly mystified as to the extremity of the measures taken place in order to keep the peace.

The 1-0 win sparked wild celebrations with the partisan crowd, of around ten thousand, mostly students, in the square as confetti poured on the cobbled streets and streams of paper were dispensed from high by rebellious office workers watching unsubtly from their commanding buildings overlooking the screen. Matty was almost pick pocketed for his camera but managed to heroically cling on to his photographic device, in what was otherwise a joyous atmosphere.

A few hours later we spotted a number of riot vans and louring tanks equipped with water hoses and armed guards on erect proud horses watching menacingly over a mass crowd of post-game revellers. The scene soon turned ugly as some of the fans began to hurl bricks and stones towards the vans and policemen. Matty and I hurried towards a gelata shop, Emporio La Rosa, for shelter (mostly for the heady selection of homemade ice-creams, though) and peered through the window panes onto the on going chaos that was ensuing. Once we'd devoured our helados, we tip toed back to the hostel only to be caught in the middle of a battle between civilian thugs and soldiers. Heavy rocks were thrown like grenades over our heads towards the garrison and we actually had to set camp behind an iron gate of a mechanic who rushed us into a place capable of fending off the projectiles. We watched on as a number of the hellions were arrested and one rogue was eventually handcuffed on to a police motorbike on one hand and subsequently dragged and paraded on his knees in front of a curious public. Perhaps the military / civilian tension was a glimpse into the lasting legacy left by the Pinochet led junta.

Me: How do I look?
Matty: Dirty and sleazy

Once our pulses had ebbed somewhat, we celebrated our victory from turmoil with a terramota (a dangerous concoction of wine, beer and fruit salad flavoured ice-cream) in a cavernous pub called La Piojera, where spirit soaked oak barrels played the part of tables and the distant sound of an accordion played in the background. We were even audience to a fleet footed elderly man attempted to seduce flirtatious women with a bizarre handkerchief dance. Matty was too busy attempting to befriend a seemingly dangerous indigenous magician to take notice.
The piercing blows of plastic whistles and matador flag waving football fans in clear intoxication continued to stifle the stillness of a wintry air.

After an arduous trek up to Cerro San Cristobal to view the statue of the Virgin Mary overlooking the city of Santiago (perhaps an attempt to match the infamous O Cristo Redentor, in Rio), Matty and I decided to reward our strained knee joints with a quick pastry snack at a local bakery. As I sunk my teeth into a flaky miniature croissant I noticed three teenage girls beyond us, snickering and pointing at us rather inconspicuously. After a short pause they all ventured towards us in a coy manner. It transpired that they believed that we were in a 'Rock Band' (they had numerous badges and stickers on their knapsacks of the 80's inspired band whom we were meant to be but looked nothing like) and wished to find out where we were playing that night and how long we'd be in the country for. We couldn't quite manage to correct them of their error as they dived in to embrace us, leaving us both perplexed as to what just occurred. We certainly grew to the idea of being part of the Beverly Hills elite, though, as we later toasted our newly found status with a potent flute of Pisco Sour at a local den.

Santiago Song of the Day: Chi-Chi-Chi Le-Le-Le, Viva Chile!!
The hundreds of hyper teenagers who pressed up close behind us threw confetti liberally towards the back of our heads whilst we tried to watch the Chile World Cup game at Plaza Aramas. To blend in somewhat we attempted to sing along with local football chants which we mastered after listening a few verses on repeat. I'm not sure the locals bought into this harmonious facade though.


i-Pod Song of the Day: Ryan Adams - Nuclear
It's been hard to resist mentioning Greenwich Village's leading troubled troubadour in every post, as I generally listen to his songs every day on the pod. Nuclear, from his B-sides / rarities album Demolition, has been on repeat since I landed in Bangkok. It's one of his more uplifting tunes from his earlier years and reminds me of my many visits to New York City. Did I mention that I used to live there? I'll have to tell you all about it sometime...

For some reason the only video I can find features a Smallville montage which I can only apologise for. Well, enjoy, and sorry for the video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gbjZYOd48gM

When I saw her the Yankees lost to the Braves
Sentimental geek
Shut up and go to sleep

An End To Middle Earth

Not surprisingly, it wasn't overly difficult to bid farewell to the seizure of downpours and woes of the elements that rattled the bones for the past few weeks in the capital city. I did grow fond of the litter of sculptures on the streets and quay; the graffiti art on the shady corners and the grungy cafes on Cuba Street empowering me with daily doses of caffeine and much appreciated shelter. My lasting memory of Wellington, apart from the jesters parading down the halls of The Cambridge, is the sheen on the pavement immediately after the patient rains and the way in which the neon lights from forgettable bars reflected within. I will miss a city with a rich urbane and cultured verve, which is reason enough for the locals to brave such cruel conditions.

Now on to my final leg towards Auckland via a couple of nights in Taupo, five hours drive from the Southern Tip of the North Island. As I followed the vacant winding roads, uninterrupted even by the woolen waves of disorientated sheep, I gazed at a landscape much altered now from the one I saw earlier in the year. The snow and ice had placed a healthy veil over the mountains and the peak of Mount Ruapehu which erupted last, rather worryingly, in September 2007. This was a scene of disaster on Christmas Eve 1953, when a volcanic mudslide digested a railway bridge and derailed an oncoming train, killing 153 passengers on board. We didn't encounter any such obstacles.


Mount Tongariro was similarly coated in velvet snow, and as I looked up at its towering vent I recalled the climb up Mordor which was both tiring and rewarding during the Alpine Crossing in March. I realised at the time how the light air would cause Frodo to lose faith in Sam and his focus on his task up Mount Doom. I can also appreciate, at long last, the reliability of the cover photograph of my trustworthy Lonely Planet guide with its helicopter view profile of the volcanoes in a winter majesty. It was a slight shame that I had missed out on the more picturesque South Island though in a similar sharp spectacle.


The snow covered Mount Doom

On arrival at Taupo I strolled under a stark cloudless sky and generous June sun to the lake with its open view out across the Central Plateau. I had never observed it at eye level as my bird of prey descent from a parachute was my only impression of the area on the previous visit. From ground level the vista has a pensive tranquility as the eyes search beyond the elevation of the mountains and leaves one with much to ponder. I carried this visual weight with me at the Easy Bakery whereupon I carefully dissected a flaky egg & bacon pie which came in a respectable 5th place at the 2009 Supreme Pie Awards.



The Lake itself, the largest to be found in New Zealand at 616 sq km, is not a conventional form by any means. It is actually a water filled crater of a volcano (a caldera) which erupted some 16,500 years ago. Apparently, the subsequent destruction of land mass was felt throughout Oceania and the Pacific and the Chinese and the Romans all have written accounts of the ash filled skies and the subdued sunsets following the apocalyptic blast.



The concluding circuit of the country, Aotearoa as it is know in Maori (land of the long white cloud), from Taupo to Auckland was on board an empty Stray bus, bar the driver, Baggins (not sure how he picked up this nickname, but there was something authentically hobbitty about his thatch of hair) and a Dutch passenger. I was happy enough to sit all the way at the back and plug in my headphones for the half day trip but both Bilbo and the girl from Holland harried me to join them at the front of the vehicle. Their company was relaxed enough, and being so close to the steering wheel enabled me to acquire my own personal tour guide for the North Island as I constantly bombarded the driver with questions about any curiosity that scratched above the surface of my regard.

Lake Taupo at dusk

Baggins had a wonderful gift of effortlessly moving from amusing anecdotes - such as mentioning that a friend of his moved into a former brothel in Cambridge and continues to have her door knocked by farmers wishing to pursue midnight debauchery - to touching respect for his country's history, as a mile later we held a minute silence as we passed the foot of the cemetery hill where Maori royalty are ceremoniously buried.

Baggins gives the thumbs up in an empty bus back to Auckland

Now checked in at Nomads hostel in Auckland (I'd rather gorge my own toe nails out and feast upon them than return to the Base hostel with its goon swilling mob of riffraff) with a couple of days to contemplate the experience of breathing in the underbelly of the oceans. The bacchanal activity of the city was disorientating at first but after a few moments I retraced the same steps that I had made earlier in the year and found comfort in the familiarity.

Now for a day or two of concentrated revision of my Spanish phrase book. The only question that I have managed to memorise thus far is usted tiene helado? - which is probably all I'll need.

Taupo - Auckland Song of the Day: Run DMC - It's Tricky
We surged past the grazing cattle and the bright road signs directing us towards the Farmers Expo 2010 as Jam Master Jay and his buddies hippity hopped on the radio. This came on soon after the more sombre scene of the Maori cemetery hill and provided us with an instant distraction from inward reflection on the lives that had been lost.
I did try half-heartedly to rap along but failed miserably. No one seemed to notice though.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1cYQV62WhkM

Goodnight Wellywood Boulevard

I was catapulted out of The Cambridge at the weekend, due to an overbooking and the fact that it was the Queen's Birthday bank holiday weekend. Damn Commonwealth. Still, this meant that I returned back to my old stomping ground of Nomads for a few days. There was to be no sign of the versatile thespian Dean Knowlesy, whom I had been informed by reception as working hard on post-production nuances to the Yogi Bear Movie and completing the voice over finishing touches to his much anticipated breakthrough character 'Agent Florimo'.

For the duration of my stay I have volunteered my able and supple hands to the Nomads Pub - Blend - in exchange for the roof above my head. I believe the kids out here call it WWOOFing (even though that's an acronym for 'Willing Workers on Organic Farms', which doesn't directly relate to the bar environment at all). This piece of fortune arrived on a dreary Saturday night as I sat in the moderate t.v. lounge, tilting my head back to view the World War II movie 'Defiance' on the flickering flat screen. Three German goons sat in close proximity and successfully eroded my concentration and apathy for the Jews in Eastern Europe as depicted in the film, with their continuous banal conversation, which echoed around the room like the droning of a freezer. Thanks to my tenacious grasp of the German language, I made out the words 'Red' and 'Big' in their diction, and so was confident that they were not offending me personally. On verge of imploding to their boorish behaviour, an impish chef emerged through the revolving doors of the leisure room and announced, under deep sighing breaths, whether anyone was willing to help him for the night as his colleague had called in with a bout of tonsillitis. I glanced up at Daniel Craig beating up a Nazi with a louring cleaver on the DVD and saw this as an immediate omen to roll up my sleeves to purify my own petty vengeance against a courgette.

The only sign of Dean, actor extraordinaire, at Nomads Capital Hostel

"You have worked in a kitchen before, right?" were the inquisitive first utterances by the chef on throwing me a glorious stained black uniform and flat chess board cap. I hesitated for a moment before lying nonchalantly and confirmed that I was indeed experienced in that chaotic environment. 'I'll leave you to it then" were his final words before pointing to the avalanche of dishes, pots, pans, cutlery that lay in ruins by the sink alongside the vibrant Mediterranean vegetables I had to prepare.

How hard is washing up anyway? Pretty darn hard as you have to spend most of the time wrestling a violently recalcitrant hot water hose towards the lasagne caked porcelain whilst attempting not to douse the stoves and the cook with fiery water (which I failed miserably at. You can't tame the elements, it would appear). However, by midnight the place was just about hygienic. I even mischievously finished the leftover cold chips left soggy and betrayed in an aluminium serving bowl, dunked generously in a half used pot of barbecue sauce. I needed to use a handful of potato wedges to actually pierce the thin layer of skin on the discarded dip. It tasted like socks.

After my second day, I was inaugurated by Sandy, the fresh faced chef, to the rest of the team who comprised of a trying-too-hard-to-be-young bar manager, three dead eyed waitresses, a kitchen hand and the bouncer. I was introduced confidently as 'Cash'. Sandy's loose tongue and distant ear struggled to get to grips with the pronunciation of my actual name. I opted out of correcting him on amusement with my new Nom-de-Guerre. I'm not sure any employer will ever get my name right. This suits me fine though, as it allows me to detach the loose cape of vocation with consummate ease.

The team bought me a few drinks for my heroic work, which was not to be tango to compliment my newly acquired moniker. Sandy, on my last day, stated that I had what it took to make the transition from dishwasher / kitchen hand to stepping up to not only preparing salads and vegetables, but also desserts. High praise indeed.

This is the only poster I've seen (squint hard) in the whole of Wellington City acknowledging that there's a World Cup going on

I'm at a loss, marooned at the bottom of the earth as the greatest tournament on the globe kicks off. My memories of the last World Cup were that of a confusingly searing London summer, watching England's gallant one dimensional football unfold within the theatre complex of the Clapham Grand. I also remember, with modest bitterness, allowing my friend to acquire close relations with a South African native so as to obtain a better understanding of the complexities behind the socio-economic implications of this 2010 tournament.

This time around, there is no abundance of St George's flags parading the streets. Children aren't dancing around with white and red face paint on and there is no sound of the Barmy Army orchestra (which is a relief). The only coverage on television is that of the All Blacks' winter tests against Wales, Ireland and England. The Wellington Post at least has a daily Sports Section where Ryan Nelson gives his daily verdict on the All Whites' likely progress in the cup (2nd Round is a distinct possibility, apparently). The kiwis also are fond of ridiculing, in their good natured spirit, the over confidence of the English support and how the nation is looking forward to observing what goes horribly wrong this time round.

The neo-classical Government House building. The second largest wooden building in the world (behind Todai-ji in Nara, Japan)

After three weeks of solid rain I was at last afforded a clear and sunny day. I could hardly believe it and ensured I took advantage of an opportunity to dilute some of the S.A.D. that had tormented my nervous system of late. I wasted a few hours viewing different shapes of anchors at the The Museum of Wellington City & Sea, and then quickly pirouetted around the wooden floors of the National Portrait Gallery which was situated in a hanger within close proximity.

The timer is a beautiful thing. A pretty hiker caught me taking this and mocked me mercilessly

In an attempt to get prepared for high altitude trekking in a month, I shoved on my delectable orange and brown hiking shoes and attempted to conquer Mount Victoria, a mere half hour walk from the ominous statue of Queen Victoria herself on Cambridge Terrace. I was not prepared for such turmoil to the cardio-vascular system and with sweat pouring feverishly down my spine I finally crawled pathetically to the summit as carefree joggers passed by with barely a charitable look in their eyes.

View of Wellington from Mount Victoria

i-Pod Song of the Day: Charles And Eddie - Would I Lie To You?
OK, so not my i-Pod, but that of the waitresses at the Blend bar who took control of the sound system and turned up the volume of this 90's soul duo's worldwide hit. I heard this as I was mopping the floor of the kitchen on my 'work week' and sang down the end of my mop-cum-microphone whilst sliding down the waxy floors with pompous skill.
Only after a little research did I realise that the duo are no more. Charles Pettigrew passed away nine years ago. Thank you for this memory Charles.

Re-live an infinitely 90's video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vytZ8_03tqw

Wellington Song of the Day: Phoenix Foundation - Flock of Hearts
I'd be inconsiderate if I weren't to mention a 'local' band on my journey. The Phoenix Foundation, a Wellington institution of a band have just released the album 'Buffalo' which I enjoyed through heavy grey headphones at a high street music store. I think they made meagre in roads in the U.K. and their songs are nectarous enough to put on repeat.

thephoenixfoundation.bandcamp.com/track/flock-of-hearts