Cavalier psychadelia

SAN PEDRO DE ATACAMA, REGION II, CHILE - 28th March 2010

The LPG's tiny section on SPA does the place scant justice, but that didn't stop it being (as always) the starting point following our arrival from the visual spectacular that is the Jujuy-SPA bus route. We decided to stay at Residencial Vilacoyo, which was (like basically every building in the village) adobe constructed and thus amazingly cool (in the thermal sense, for once) inside despite the pelting desert heat outdoors (see right).  With a courtyard strewn with hammocks - the best things ever, as far as I'm concerned - it was a pretty good haunt.

As with pretty much every step of our travels, we don't really have any idea how long we were going to stay, but took on day one in typically cavalier attitude with plans to check out the "psychedelic" landscape around the village and generally scout some sights.  Being the adventurous young firebrands that we apparently are, we're reluctant to just hop on a tour in order to see things... but with so much to see this provides an alternative counter-problem: deciding on what to do - especially given the time constraints - proves rather challenging.

Recommended by the LPG, and by the parts of our bodies craving exercise, we decided to rent a couple of mountain bikes for the afternoon, setting ourselves the aim of checking out the Pukará de Quitor en route to Quebrada del Diablo, before bossing about 15km back down the same gravel road in the opposite direction, past (which is basically the same as through when you're talking about SPA) the town, and down the highway to catch sunset in Valle de la Luna (Lunar Valley; named for good reason).

The pukará itself (right) was similar in many ways to the one Tom and I tore up back in Chilcara, although getting to the top involved a much bigger climb and lacked the hundreds of here's-where-someone-had-a-dump-400-years-ago memorial cacti.  However, what made this place poles apart was the view. The mesmerising mixture of colours, their shades and their depth, added what can only be described as a surreal hue to a scene that would blow off your socks in black and white alone. As illustrated:

 

Armed with a map that we later discovered had north pointing south-west (and thus explained why the old sense of direction was going haywire everywhere we went), we headed onward down the dirt track a further 3km from the pukará, through a colourful floodplain flanked by rugged red hills (right) en route to Quebrada del Diablo (the "Devil's Gorge").  Obstacles along the way, aside from the dodgy map, included the bludgeoning early afternoon heat, and a fairly significant river that we had to cross to continue down the path.  I'm all for maintaining the cavalier attitude when it comes to these sort of things, but as it rather wetly transpired, you couldn't simply "power through".

Into the quebrada itself, however, and you soon forget where you've just been.  As if carved by a rather skilled labyrinth-architect, the gorge traverses a seemingly never-ended serpentine path through the middle of the towering rock that borders the valley - each corner you round producing ever more spectacular sights.  The geographers in our Juddian crew back home would (presumably) have gone to town over the geological formations on display, but the real story was how bloody awesome a bike track this place was - a true challenge at high speed, weaving left-right-left-right through blind corners on a surface that varied from dirt to thick sand.  And wasn't half bad to look at either:

We eventually decided we had no idea how long and deep into the rocks the path would go - it didn't seem to ever end - and wanted to crack on into order to get to the Lunar Valley, on the other side of SPA, in time for sunset.  I think it basically came down to needed to cover 20km in an hour; a feat much easier said than done on mountain bikes and dirt tracks in desert heat; but off we went anyway, past the pukará, in and out of the edge of SPA, and off on a big, bad, tarmac highway towards a direction that our map would suggest was south-east, but conventional bearings would better describe as due west.

It doesn't take a genius to explain the name - the barren expanse of land in the Valle de la Luna resembles that of the Moon.  Sadly, the best example of this is a further 7km from the entrance to the national park grounds - a distance we were never going to cover in the 15-20mins till sunset, and barely had the energy to do anyway.  So we did the clever thing and cut our losses, chillaxed with some soft drinks, and used our shit hot cameras to gets some cool photography.  And then cycled all the way back to SPA in the cold and dark with hunger welling up in inside of me like magma inside Vesuvius circa AD79.   Your standard day of travels, basically.

Interislanding

THE COOK STRAIT, NEW ZEALAND - 30th January 2010

With my blog uncharacteristically up to date as I write this, and with the barrage of activities that filled pretty much all my time in New Zealand up to a few days ago subsiding away (to be replaced by days of endless driving with little more excitment than the occasional stretch of dual carriageway), I felt it would be a good time to pen some thoughts to wrap up the loose ends of this stage of my journey.

I say "pen" in its most literal sense - with my mobile out of action I've been forced to shelve my previous strategy of typing blodys as emails to myself whenever I found myself sitting around doing nothing. Instead, I´ve found myself taking a trip up memory lane with a good old fashioned Bic biro pen and a diary journal book that I´d picked up in Mangalore but never really got the best out of. Sitting atop of the interislander ferry´s observation deck, basking in the warm summer sunshine, I have to say it´s a refreshing change from dimly lit air conditioned corner rooms - not to mention the intrinsic satisfaction and emotional appear derived from the handwritten word (hence why I continue to send, and enjoy receiving postcards, despite overhearing wisearses in shops joking "Postcards?! Seriously, who still sends these?).

The interislander I am sitting on has got to making one of the world's truly great ferry journies. The Picton approach section (coming towards the South Island) in particular is a perfect introduction to the majestic scenery South Island has in store for its visitors - winding your way through the seemingly endless bays and inlets of the Marlborough Sounds, the observation decks house as many happy snappers with SLR cameras as your average Japanese tour bus rocking up outside Christ Church (of the Oxford, rather than Kiwi, variety). Of course, my disdain for the latter as a Pembrokian in no way stopped me spearheading the former - photos will appear in due course.

What is telling, of course, is that here on the return journey snaps are minimal. Once you've gone all the way around South Island, you get progressively more desensitised to scenic beauty; Milford Sound won´t be topped by anything, so once you´ve seen it it´s pretty hard to be impressed again!

The other factor to account for though - this particular ferry has very few tourists among its sellout passenger group. Instead, it´s loaded with black t-shirt wearing long haired rock fans gathering en masse to see rock legends AC-DC tear up Wellington for the second night tonight. It is literally all anyone can talk about; it´s hard to imagine what a big deal it is over here when a big band comes over to do a stadium gig, with a population of barely 4.5 million of which a third is in the Auckland/wider north-east region, this sort of thing happens rarely. So every radio station has been talking about it non-stop for the last week (trust me, I´ve been listening to a LOT of radio), and the AC-DC fans on board are looked at with some sort of reverence. When you´re used to Wembley Stadium hosting a succession of sellout gigs all summer, leave alone the O2, Twickenham, and indeed any number of venues across England, it´s pretty easy to be unimpressed. But I guess it just hammers home how, with the UK´s population density, just how much culture we´ve managed to squeeze into a country as physically small as ours.

Once back in Wellington, it'll be into another rented car and straight up north to as far as I can manage tonight. The Daihatsu from the South Island won't be missed, but all said and done it did somewhat grow on me after the rollocking review it got on day one. It's lack of power was crap in infinitum, but the handling was actually not too bad once you got a feel for its transmission. In effect, it had a range of about 750 revs where it performed well - anything higher or lower and it was a hunk of junk - but as a driver it was quite rewarding to have to drive a car, rather than letting it drive you (like the cruise controlled automatic I had back on the Great Ocean Road). But, I´d still take my Polo any day of the week. Or indeed my North Island Hyundai...

And, finally, while I´m on the topic of driving, a quick note about Kiwi drivers. Joe and Simon had warned me back in Whakatane that "they're the nicest people in the world, but Kiwis can´t drive to save their lives". I can happily corroborate this story, with particular reference to one area. Corners. Going down straights roads for mile after mile, they´re fine. But the moment a corner appears, its slam on the brakes, lose all your momentum, and spend the next 5 minutes accelerating again. On South Island, with its twisting hill roads, and in a car whose strong point is anything but power, momentum is crucial - not least for getting decent fuel consumption. But it is inevitable that the car in front of you that's happily bombing it down the straight road well over the speed limit will end up crawling round a slight right hand bend at 40km/h, and it one foul swoop ruin 2 kilometres of gently built up, fuel-burn minimising momentum - and it is pretty damn annoying.

But, aside from that, the Kiwis are great guys - with my mate in Kaikora taking the biscuit.

Milford Sound - so beautiful it's stupid

MILFORD, FIORDLAND, NEW ZEALAND - 26th January 2010

I've already stated how New Zealand's South Island is far too scenic for its own good. That statement came from Greymouth, one hell of a long way up the north end of South Island, and all I can say is that every step you take further south gets progressively more and more scenic; more and more stunning; more and more time consuming as you stop your car, get out, and take yet another ridiculously picturesque photo of some mountain-backed verdant vista.

Then, once you've trekked far enough down the coast and navigated inland through Queenstown and its adrenaline-fuelled activity scene, you end up making the inevitable return trip to New Zealand's most famous attraction; #1 on the 101 Must-Do Things for Kiwis; supposedly the "8th Wonder of the World" - the world famous fjord of Milford Sound.


I realise that over the last 10 days or so this blog has been guilty of the most liberal usage of superlatives - largely in describing landscapes one more stunning than the next. If it were possible at this somewhat late stage, I'd take them all back in order to combine them into one unholy super-superlative and unleash it in description of this, the most spectacularly beautiful, tranquil, simultaneously relaxing and enthralling natural environment on Planet Earth. It never ceases to surprise me how many amazing things there are so see as you go travelling, but I have no hesitation in asserting that Milford Sound will not be topped in terms of outright natural beauty.

Those of you crazy enough to consult a map will find that getting to Milford Sound from Queenstown involves, as the crow flies, a relatively short journey to the north-west. Unfortunately, the hulking great mass of the southern Alps stands in the way of that particular direct journey, and the only alternative is to head 100km south of Queenstown, take a right and head 100km west to Te Anau, and then take another 200km dead-ended road whose culmination is Milford. Given that we're in New Zealand here and the roads concerned are, despite their highway designation, no more than glorified country tracks, doing the entire Queenstown-Milford return car journey in a day was not something I was particularly keen on. Tiredness constraints were one factor, but the bigger factor was the importance of avoiding the glut of tourists who take the day trip from Queenstown, arriving in one of a literal procession of coaches that all arrive in the 12.30-2pm slot after the 5 hour journey from Queenstown. Snobbish and hypocritical as it almost certainly is, one thing travelling soon imparts on you is a passionate dislike of bog-standard tourists...

Avoiding this midday scrum required a touch of advance planning, and my scheme involved an early morning crack-of-dawn drive to Milford from Te Anau - the last town of any significance (and last place to get petrol) before the long ride to Milford and back. An early morning start from Te Anau obviously requires the morning to begin in Te Anau, so following my bungy-jumping exploits in Queenstown yesterday I had time to grab some lunch and hit the road off to the lakeside town that, if it were in any other country, would probably be famous and vastly overpopulated for its location and environment.


Lake Te Anau, on which the town of Te Anau sits, is the second biggest lake in New Zealand and the largest in the South Island - only Lake Taupo up in the North is larger. Through a combination of clear blue skies and water of the highest cleanliness, and as you can see in the photo above, the water here on Te Anau shares the same perfect shade of deep, pure blue that is found in its sister lakes across the country, while rising up over the opposing side of the lake to the township stand the rocky peaks of a few more Southern Alpine mountains - a constant feature in this region, and indeed island. The guy in the statue is of an explorer whose name I forget, but was the first European to reach Milford Sound by land.

The town itself is pretty tiny - it would barely qualify as a village by English standards - but has a gorgeous waterfront walkway that leads around off the road towards a low key but nevertheless well maintained wildlife centre devoted to endangered native birds, including the kea - the world's only alpine parrot, and the takahe - a rare flightless bird that was thought to be extinct before a trekker strayed across a few hidden away in the Murchison Mountains of the Fiordland region. The decent walk to the reserve and back left me looking for some good grub, and happily I stumbled across Olive's Cafe at 9.40pm, giving me 20 minutes to see away the most delicious roast lamb and gravy I've ever been served outside of my own house. It was one of those meals that will be remembered long into the future, it was that good.


Sharing a dorm room with 3 Japanese/Chinese who apparently weren't keen on uttering a word of English, there was little to keep me from the much needed early night, and I was up by 6.30am and out by 7 in order to beat the crowds down the Milford Road. With time on my side I was able to take the advice of everyone I'd spoken to (not to mention the trusty LPG) and stop off at the various points of interest en route (generally a case of taking a few photos like the one above and moving on), the highlight of which was the "Mirror Lakes" whose still, clear waters provided a perfect mirror of the mountains and trees in the background. The clever reflected sign (right) is also, as I'm sure you'll agree, pretty damn cool.

You can't come to Milford without doing a boat cruise around the Sound (i.e. the water), and I'd booked myself onto the 11.30am "Discover More" departure that included a BBQ lunch. Arriving in Milford at 9.45, I had a good couple of hours to chill out and begin what would be a devastating volley of photographs, so proceeded to snap away and, of course, Back the Bid.




Lunch was served as soon as we were on the boat - an orderly queue formed curving around a good salad cart and an even better selection of burgers, sausages, chicken legs - the works. Naturally I piled my plate up, but got a welcome shock a little later when I realised it was a buffet, and there was waaaaay more food than anyone could want. It goes without say I went to town.

Meanwhile, we were cruising in and around a glacial geologer's dreamworld. Milford Sound is actually misnamed - it is not a "Sound", which is created by rivers, but a fjord - created by ice. This is the reason the landscape features massive U-shaped valleys, with other U-shaped valleys culminating at the border of the Sound. Every corner you move around provides yet another amazing view - we were lucky to have a sunny day in a place that has 260 days of rain per year, and made the most of it up on the open top deck of the boat.


The only downside of the sunshine was that the thousands (literally) of waterfalls that cascade down the steep sided rock faces on a rainy day all run dry when there are more than a couple of days without rain - with the surrounding sheer-faced rocky mountains, there is next-to-no topsoil to absorb rain water, meaning that 90% flows straight down into the Sound. However, there still remain a few permanent falls that splash down regardless of the weather, and we cruised right into the spray of Stirling Falls, below, a huge 150m drop whose mass of spray in the bright sunlight resulting in an awesome rainbow around the boat (right).


The "Discover More" cruise also included a stop at the Milford Underwater Aquarium - down an 8 metre shaft you are able to observe the coral and marine life the lives in the glacial waters deep under the Sound's surface. Most abundant were the critters to the right - there were millions of them buzzing around, but more impressive were the starfish (by the hundred) and an appearance from a big black octopus.

Eventually we were back at Milford's dock - which represents the entirety of the village of "Milford" (other than a small information centre, there is literally nothing else here), and soon after I finish writing this I'll be back on the road all the way back to Queenstown. But for now, it's about making as many mental photographs as humanly possible - Milford Sound is a truly special place.

The scenic South

GREYMOUTH, SOUTH ISLAND - 22nd January 2010

I've come to the conclusion that the South Island is far, far too scenic for its own good. The interislander ferry approaches Picton, its South Island terminus, by cruising up through sections of the Marlborough Sounds, including the wonderful Queen Charlotte Sound that surrounds the port. Everyone with a camera is clicking away as if there's no tomorrow - it is stunning - but what you soon realise once you're in your car and driving is that stunning scenery is just a given here.

Having dropped off my Hyundai Accent in Wellington I picked up a new car in Picton - a much newer, but in every other way much worse, Daihatsu Sirion. Without wanting to launch into a Jeremy Clarkson-esque car review, driving the Daihatsu made you realise why no one in their right mind buys the cars. It purportedly has a 1.3L engine, but instead of producing torque it produces a shrilling loud whirr and about 2 and a half horse power. My 998cc VW Polo sitting in our drive back home would blow this thing out the water in a drag race, and that's not even mentioning the handling. I can guarantee there won't be any repeats of North Island's speeding tickets down here, cos I have absolutely no faith in this car to make it round any corner at a speed faster than 80km/h. The understeer borders on criminal, but correcting it requires you to slow down to such an extent that the stupid thing doesn't have enough power to accelerate again on the other side of the bend. In really is a hunk of junk.

Funnily enough, the handling actually improved after I picked up a group of 3 hitch-hiking backpackers along the Queen Charlotte Scenic Drive between Picton and Nelson - my destination for the night. Presumably the extra weight helped distribute its hopeless balance differential, but the flipside was that the already pathetic acceleration became just that bit worse. Nevertheless, it was good to have some company again - this motley crew consisted of two British lads and a Danish girl, who provided some entertaining if inane chat along the way - certainly far more than any of the hitch-hikers I'd offered rides to up in North Island.

The rain that had punctuated our drive cleared as we approached Nelson, and after dropping off the passengers I enjoyed a nice evening checking out the seaside towns parks and Art Deco cathedral (they changed their mind about the design half way through building a classical structure), including a climb to what claims to be the "Geographical Centre of New Zealand". How they've calculated it is anyone's guess, but it seemed slightly more than co-incidental that the point would happen to be exactly at the top of the highest hill in the town. Still, it was a good walk that worked up an excellent appetite for another of the "101 Must-Dos for Kiwis" - sampling the cuisine of Seafood City. Never one to miss out on a good meal, particularly of the seafood variety, I scouted out the "Best in Town" seafood chowder from the Victorian Rose, which went down beautifully with a pint of the local ale and a live duet cracking out some chillout tunes of the Damien Rice/Jason Mraz/Coldplay variety.

A good night's sleep was, frankly, well deserved, and it was up and out sharp this morning for the long drive westward to the coastal city of Greymouth. As luck would have it, the touring bus had failed to pick up a girl who'd been staying in my hostel (Accents on the Park), and she was supposed to be heading down to Greymouth, so in a flash I had a travel companion and halved petrol costs. Turns out Rina was - like me - a second generation Indian, but born and brought up in Reading and now working as a pharmacist, having graduated from Bath Uni. Our journey included a stop at the Pancake Rocks at Punakaiki. In a world where scientists have an explanation for basically everything, it is refreshing to see a geological formation whose creation, to this day, has no good explanation. But sure enough, they do look like stacks of pancakes (see right)!

By about 2pm we'd reached Greymouth, and I was able to spend a few hours kotching at the excellent Neptune's Backpackers, chatting to Chris the Croydon lad running the show for the evening. A trip to the tourist info centre saw me book a big exciting adventure for tomorrow (involving glaciers, helicopters and crampons), and Rina had covered petrol costs by booking the both of us on the evening's tour of Monteith's Brewery - the pride of Greymouth and (according to Chris) "the only thing to do in the town". The tour included tastings (with free top ups) of all 6 of the beers produced as well as their new crushed apple cider, and even threw in an excellent dinner at one of the local pubs.

All that's left is an evening film back at Neptune's...