Category Archives: hikes

January 6, 2013 · 7:36 AM

Budgeting Tahiti

Be prepared: paradise costs a small fortune. Luckily, I was somewhat prepared for the pain. Over ten years ago some friends of mine were on a round the world ticket when they flew into Tahiti to surf, realised the cost of accommodation and living, and nearly hotfooted it straight out of the place. Beach sleeps led to police warnings but kind local bailouts meant that they ended up staying a while: surfing, fishing, catching wild pigs; all the idylls of island life.

But for most of us, accessing this reality of island life is a little more tough, and a more modern climate means accepting that everything here is a little on the pricy side.

Frustratingly, many of the trails and activities around the island have also been made into paid experiences that require a guide or a group excursion, and even a couple of the free ones require permits (see the tourist information centre for lots of information on island hikes and other activities).

In short, people have moved into Tahiti and the surrounding Society Islands and atolls and have commercialised the experience of paradise (in some places to a point that it pretty much stops being paradise, to me in any case). You can’t blame them for capitalising in on an exotic experience; it is after all, what our current world tells us to do.

Walk down the main streets of Papeete and you’ll pass by many designer shops and jewellers. Who comes here to go shopping? All the people moored up in fancy yachts, maybe, or the people who’ve jetted in on business class, or honeymooners on a romantic escape. Or regular, middle class folk who have scrimped and saved for a once in a lifetime taste of paradise. (Whether it’s actually paradise or not is a different matter). Or me and my crew. Hmmm… less likely.

I was lucky to be able to stay on board the boat for a few days because when I checked with the tourism agency about budget accommodation options, they came back to me with a guest house costing 7,200 CFP. That’s £49.07, or US$78.87. Not really budget, in my opinion, but maybe budget for the people who are more likely to frequent the Society Islands. I did some online searches, having paid a minimum of 3euros per hour for internet (no free WiFi available at all, and charged in Euros because of links with France), and I did eventually find a few backpacker friendly paces.

One little food fact that helped to keep costs down (alongside The Trucks experience) was the discovery that there is a policy on keeping the price of baguettes below 85 CFP (£0.58 / US$0.93)  so that every member of the society there has the opportunity to buy bread. Stock up on the carbs, then, and free, fallen coconuts. Maybe not the healthiest, but it’s a diet that will keep you alive. For a little while, in any case. Or go catch a fish (just be careful with those coral fish).

Here’s an idea of some costs:

Cour   de Franc Pacifique British Pound US Dollar
Cheapest hostel bed 2,000 CFP pppn £13.63 $21.90
Budget hotel bed 8,000p CFP ppn £54.52 $87.62
Taxi 1,000 CFP per km £6.82 $10.95
Sandwich 450 CFP £3.07 $4.93
Cheap roadside meal 1,200 CFP £8.18 $13.14
Water (1.5 litres) 104 CFP £0.71 $1.14
Coca-cola can 200 CFP £1.36 $2.19
Beer (50Cl) from supermarket 300 CFP £2.04 $3.29
Icecream in a cone 300 CFP £2.04 $3.29
Loaf of bread 450 CFP £3.07 $4.93
Chocolate bar 350 CFP £2.39 $3.83

Realistically, though, Tahiti and the surrounding French Polynesian islands are not the smartest place to visit if you’re travelling tight, and budget backpackers may well want to avoid the place.

Money matters momentarily put aside, solo travellers – and especially single travellers – may also want to avoid this honeymoon area. Even if you can afford it, having constant reminders of stereotyped romance mixed in with pitying looks will ultimately grate on even the most established solo adventurer and happy singleton.

Or you can just enjoy it for what it is, accept that everything is expensive and that you’ll blow your budget, and indulge in being surrounded by snippets of paradise and luxury and love.

It’s really pretty damn special.

But it’s time for me to leave. I’m all spent.

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September 27, 2012 · 10:00 AM

I’m just off to climb a volcano

‘What are you up to tomorrow?’ asked a friend during a Skype call. ‘Ah, I think I’m going to go and climb a volcano’, I told him, ‘an active volcano’. The island of Isabela is, after all, made up of six volcanoes (five of which are active) and to visit the Galapagos and not take in some volcanic splendour would surely be a half-hearted effort. As with many activities on the islands, local laws require you to be accompanied by a guide so doing it totally off my own back wasn’t going to be an option. I booked in for the $35 tour.

Tomorrow had arrived and here I was with a group of unknowns sheltering from the damp air, drizzle and grey skies, waiting to start the great ascent to Volcán Sierra Negra, one of the largest active volcanos in the world. But with this turn of bad weather and such poor visibility, would the trek go ahead?

It hadn’t started like this. Oh no.

Less than an hour earlier I had ran through sun soaked streets and arrived, in a sweat and seven minutes late, to an empty Tropical Adventures shop. No cars were waiting. No tour guides around to tell me off. They had left without me. Oh, crap.

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Running through the streets of Puerto Vilamil on Isabela, Galapagos

I started to walk back towards the main square in search of breakfast. A jeep drove by, five, maybe six people crammed inside. Someone waved. Was that one of the guys from yesterday’s Los Tuneles tour? Another car beeped and pulled up alongside me. “Quick! Get in! You’re late!”

No rucksack, no breakfast and late. It was shameful. I made my apologies. People were gracious, on the surface at least, but maybe their tolerance was tested when half an hour later we were still driving through the streets of Puerto Vilamil doing random pick-ups and drop-offs and who-knows-whats.

And so, having driven north east from Puerto Vilamil upwards into an increasingly hostile weather front, here I was standing snuggled in with a bunch of about twenty strangers, and all those efforts to get here seemed to be in vain. It was surely a no go. This weather encouraged thoughts of duvet days and movie sessions, of chatting and playing music by the fireplace with friends.

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The starting point

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Some of the group before the hike began

Stop. Doubt not. This weather was, apparently, totally normal. ‘English speaking with me’, said our young guide who later told me how much he loved doing this job in between surfing the islands various breaks. The variety in landscape and climate, he told me, made Galapagos the best place to live.

And what about city fun? Wild, chaotic moments? Didn’t he crave a bit of breaking loose at times?  ‘The mainland’, he said, ‘sometimes’. I found out from a few people that Guayaquil and Quito (on the mainland of Ecuador) offer them an escape at times, but do nothing in trying to tempt them away from the tranquillity of the Galapagos Islands.

For an hour we climbed along muddy, cracked pathways. The drive up must have dealt with a good chunk of the 1,124m altitude because the physical climb was the gentlest I could have imagined. As we ambled along, I chatted with French tourists and a young German couple, with an Argentinian wanderer and a chatty entrepreneur who had left his entire family and cultural sensibilities behind in India for a new life in Australia. As travelling often allows, I saw way beyond what was right in front of me, leant more about the world in a broader sense.

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Grassy, gentle paths

At the main lookout I realised my expectations of what a volcano might look like were limited to glossy photos in magazines that showed spewing lava flow and an excess of red and orange hues tipped with flashes of bright white heat.

This expanse of flat, cracked blackness that stretched off into the far distance was strikingly different to the volcano images in my mind. The drop off into the crater, although steep, was not as dramatic or as deep as I might have imagined, and swaths of clouds were swept along the surface by a moody breeze.

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Sierra Negra to my left…

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…and to my right

It was, undoubtedly, a unique landscape, all 10 kilometres of parched rockiness. We stood for a little while and looked out over this section of Sierra Negra. As recently as 2005 she had belched up a load of lava, and before that, 1979. There was a good chance that she might erupt again, right now. A sign stated ‘since the magma chambers are approximately two kilometres deep, there are cracks where every so often the fumes vent or lava erupts’. It could happen.

Onwards we walked, skirting along the eastern side of Sierra Negra, our grassy path contrasting with the bleak gravel of her belly spread out below us. The landscape started to change. More rocks, more slip, more hostility.

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Landscape change

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North east side of Sierra Negra crater, heading towards Chico

Those in the group who didn’t have boats to catch back to Santa Cruz continued on over shale and scatter towards Volcán Chico whilst the rest of us turned around and backtracked through ferns and hairy trees, walking and talking and stopping for a quick picnic lunch. Within two hours we were back at a still drizzly starting point, ready to descend back down to Puerto Vilamil.

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Ferns and hairy trees

One of the most active places for volcanic activity? Pah. Really? It all seemed very gentle and relaxed, dreamy even. Today, in any case.

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September 8, 2012 · 11:36 AM

Tunnels, tortoises and being a teeny bit terrible

I don’t know what compelled me to do it, but it had the desired effect: even the coolest amongst them couldn’t resist a hint of a smile. And the restaurateur and taxi driver laughed along, despite undoubtedly having seen many stupid tourists smile and giggle at the same silly – and possibly inappropriate – antics.

I had managed to persuade three fellow travellers to join me on a little trip out to El Chato, a reserve a half hour taxi ride away from Puerto Ayora on Isla Santa Cruz, one of the main Galapagos island stop-offs.

Not being the right season for this sort of mission, our driver had suggested we would be better off visiting the Charles Darwin Research Station, but determined to track tortoises in the wild we set off undeterred, and with the enthusiasm of explorers arriving to a new land, we clambered over tufty grasses and splintered off in search of our discovery.

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The adventurers set off

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Tramping through the undergrowth

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A little more familiar

One of the guys shouted over. ‘Here, here is one!’ Her four foot body hid in amongst tall grasses and she chomped away on stems, ripping off little clumps of organic feed. We gathered around and she got shy. For a moment she studied us through a crust of wrinkly skin and then retracted her head back into the safety of her hard-backed home. Enough.

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Oh rare creature! We found you!

To find evidence of this ancient creature in the wild? Incredible. It gave me a sense of how Charles Darwin may have felt, beneath his scientific façade, when he had a somewhat similar experience back in 1835:

As I was walking along I met two large tortoises, each of which must have weighed at least two hundred pounds: one was eating a piece of cactus, and as I approached, it stared at me and slowly walked away; the other gave a deep hiss, and drew in its head. (from The Voyage of the Beagle p543)

After an hour of wandering in the wilderness we had found only two of our tortoise friends, their rarity and the need for their preservation firmly evident. The second tortoise was a whole lot less social and, much like in Darwin’s experience, a whole lot more vocal.

So we left them to do whatever it is that tortoises do whilst they saunter on for years and decades on end.

Somehow, in amongst the grasses and scrubland, we stumbled across the entrance to a cave. Dust covered steps and a wooden handrail lead us down into the darkness where two of the group assumed the role of torch bearers and flickered their lights around. Our eyes adjusted to take in a curious cave over a kilometre in length full of pillars and archways and curvy, spiky edged formations.

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The tree that marked the cave entrance

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Into the darkness

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It starts

Strung-up bulbs hinted at the potential to brighten up narrow pathways and tight spaces that opened up into high-ceiling hallways, but we couldn’t find a switch. Anywhere. So on we went with considered, ill-lit steps, until we saw a chasm of light and a way back up and out.

The exit, we realised, was directly behind the empty restaurant that we’d started out from. When we told of our dark, daring tunnel adventure, the woman started to laugh. ‘I forgot to put on the lights!’ she said. Ah well. It added to the atmosphere, I guess.

So, back to the start and my clowning antics. As the only customers that the restaurateur would probably see all day, it was only courteous to stay for a drink. The driver chatted and laughed with her whilst we refreshed with a cold drink and lounged in the hammocks for a few moments of island laziness, during which time I spotted a ginormous tortoise shell.

In all fairness, it was hard to ignore, sitting there in the middle of a tiled floor. Without its inhabitant, it lost some of its loveliness. On closer inspection I found the shell to be exceedingly tough. Unlike Darwin who gave the actual creature a bit of a rough rapping and tapping, I hadn’t bothered to disturb the living tortoises that I’d come across earlier in the day. But this deserted shell?  Oh, what the hell! Get inside the skin of the locals, live as they do? Oh, yeah. It was a tight fit.

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At least they’re smiling in the background

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This post is dedicated to Lonesome George, ‘a giant tortoise believed to be the last of its subspecies’, a rare creature from the Galapagos Islands in Ecuador who died aged 100 in June 2012. R.I.P. Good effort, mate.

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September 4, 2012 · 10:50 AM

Spending the day at Tortuga Bay

Ah, Galapagos! That place of mystery through which Charles Darwin journeyed back in the autumn of 1835; those islands chock full of natural wonders, of  unusual birdlife and iguana-like creatures, of volcanic formations and varied landscapes. The Galapagos archipelago, Darwin said, is quite simply ‘a little world within itself’. Time to get in amongst it and find out for myself.

So here I am, in Puerto Ayora on the island of Santa Cruz having spent my first night crashed out in a simple yet immaculate room. I’m wondering where to go, how to start on my independent Galapagos adventure. Most visitors to the Galapagos jump on board a week-long cruise around the islands. It sounds nice, I guess, providing you get on with everyone and get lucky with a good guide. But avoiding luxury and high costs is my thing, my necessary thing, so it’s a matter of keeping it local. And keeping it real. Surely this way I can get a better idea of the place? I’m going to chat to people in the town, talk to the woman who runs the residence where I’m staying. She’ll point me in the right direction.

And she does. In fact many people do. Today, I decide, will be the day to check out Tortuga Bay. It’s close, it looks beautiful, and it’s an ideal way to taste what the Galapagos islands are about.

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The pathway to Tortuga Bay

Clutching a map of the island I walk out west and it’s not long before I’m  ambling along a fine, white sand beach a few of kilometres from the town.

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Arriving at Tortuga Bay

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Tortuga Bay minus the tortugas (turtles)

I had anticipated crossing paths with a few more folk, but maybe I’ve hit the low season? It certainly doesn’t feel like I’m going to experience anything close to the three hundred visitors per day that this reserve typically expects. A lone surfer tries to carve up rippy waves to the left of Tortuga Bay and I see two people to the right in the far distance, the only other signs of human life.

As I get closer to the couple I see the girl crouch down, posing whilst her partner takes photos of her next to some… hang on… something moves. I squint and see that she is edging in as close as she dare to some chunky, four foot lizards oozing island laziness but whose spiky mohawks and slow, flickering tongues hint at a potential to turn nasty. In Th e Voyage of the Beagle (1836) Darwin describes this type of lizard (A. cristatus) as a ‘hideous looking creature of a dirty black colour, stupid, and sluggish in its movements’. A little harsh, maybe, but I hear him.

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Lazy lizard

Around the corner I find the crowds. All fifty of them, if that. A young couple play in the sea, mouths teasing and eventually giving in to the kiss. The first kiss? A holiday romance? Families shade beneath mangrove trees and kids paddle in the calm shallows.  Here in this little lagoon it is sheltered and perfect for a relaxing afternoon dip, a significant contrast to the rougher waters around the corner.

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Shallow water play in the bay

I sit down on a slither of sand and watch birds swooping and boobing, sorry, bobbing about in the water. (The boobing comes later. No blue-footed boobies for me today. Let the anticipation build.) My picnic lunch creates some curiosity and a Straited Heron moves in on my personal space. Feeding the animals and birds on the islands is, however, banned so sorry, matey, today I’m going to be selfish and enjoy my avocado, tomato and bread feast alone.

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My picnic companion

As I start to make my way back through a scattering of trees and shrubs and a speckling of deserted beach towels, a guy shouts over from a small boat in amongst the mangroves. ’Puerto Ayora?’ he asks. Nah, I think I’ll walk.

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Lagoon calm at home time

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Perching pelicans

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Looking back up Tortuga Bay towards Puerto Ayora

And I retrace my steps, back along Bahía Tortuga and past perching pelicans, back along the pristine, cacti edged pathway, back to the wardens’ hut. I sign out and sit down to pause and look down over a dusky Puerto Ayora and the visiting yachts rising and falling in the gentle swell of Academy Bay. Soon, I hope, I will make my home on one of those yachts and embark on the most daring adventure of my travels thus far: a South Pacific crossing, back towards Australia via the tropical magic of French Polynesia. Am I really going to do this?

One of the wardens comes out and perches on the wall a few metres away. I’m crucially aware of his presence, a quiet, strong guardian of this beauty spot, and I wonder whether to continue sitting in silence or to strike up a conversation.

Of course I go for the latter, studying his face as I nosy in on island life. He has kind eyes. ‘Do you ever think about working somewhere else? Going somewhere a bit busier?’ I ask him, trying to not show that I’ve noticed his visibly beating heart. A stress condition? Surely not, not in this lovely, serene environment. He fixes his gaze on the village below. No, he tells me, he can’t imagine leaving this place, not for more than a few days.

And why would he want to? Fair enough.

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May 12, 2012 · 5:26 AM

A solo mission to start the Che Guevara trail

I WATCHED THE BUS FLY past. I’d been waiting for nearly four hours for the bus from Samaipata to Vallegrande, perched on my bag by the roadside, dust kicking up in my face every time a vehicle went by. Everyone I had asked had told me a different time. If I waited long enough, a bus would show eventually. I wasn’t too worried.

This was the start of my solo adventure to follow some of Che Guevara’s footsteps, apart from that I was bussing and taxiing it rather than hiking the trail. Apparently, disappointingly, this was the way of La Ruta del Che for us followers.

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My stray dog companion whilst waiting for the bus. They get attached.

A few minutes earlier I had given in to the wait and bought a cup of tea in a café, a thinly veiled excuse to use their bathroom. ‘In half an hour’, a woman told me, ‘mas o menos’. I sipped my te con carnela and was pondering why Che’s men had come to Samaipata, raided the town and robbed the police station when I looked up to see the bus drive on by. I waved madly. The woman ran and waved. But there was no stopping it. Dammit.

I was bundled into a taxi intent on getting me to the bus. The windscreen was broken, the seat belt didn’t work and the driver had a heavy right foot. After a few miles he pointed up the hill. Sure enough, there was the bus, winding up into the mountains. We gained ground. We overtook. We waved and beeped the horn and eventually it stopped.

I had to perch upfront until we reached the next village. The two young lads driving the bus didn’t say a thing and any conversation I tried to initiate was shutdown. Music played loudly, the guys kept their cool.

And then we took a refreshment break in Mairana where I tried to be inconspicuous as men and women and children stared shamelessly at the solo gringa.

Finally into the main bus section and I took a pew. A guy with a gammy eye wasn’t impressed and got me to move. Not wanting to offend anyone else, I waited to find a spare seat.

Everywhere was full so for the rest of the trip I wobbled around on a little plastic stool in the aisle at the back amongst groups of teenagers from Santa Cruz who fed me peanuts, took photos with my camera and teased their friend about being in love with me. A Quechua-English mix would apparently be okay, they agreed. The poor kid looked like he wanted to die.

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Teenage happy clicky: dusk in one of the villages we pass through

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Teenage happy clicky: a typical, rural Bolivian mud brick building

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Teenage happy clicky: mountain landscape on the road to Vallegrande

I arrived into a dark bus terminal in Vallegrande two and a half hours later with no idea of where I was going to stay. I hate turning up anywhere at night, particularly when I’m alone. But sometimes it just works out.

A kind soul sorted me out a taxi that dropped me off at a lovely, family run hotel where half an hour later I was celebrating a birthday, eating cake and meeting the in-laws and babies to be.

‘Us Bolivianos are warm and welcoming people’, one of the girls told me, ‘You will meet so many friendly people on your travels in Bolivia’. My earlier judgement calls were truly being challenged.

Vallegrande, the town where Che Guevara’s body was initially displayed and buried back in 1967, was opening its arms to me.

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I got my information about La Ruta del Che from Roadrunners in Samaipata. Austrian Olaf is an enthusiastic, helpful guy who gave me so many ideas and completely re-inspired me to go off and do some adventuring by myself. La Ruta del Che is the route that Che Guevara and his men are said to have taken before they was arrested and assassinated in La Higuera, although there is considerable ambiguity surrounding the exact roads. What is more certain is where Che’s body was displayed, where he was held and where he died.

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May 6, 2012 · 9:04 AM

Exploring El Fuerte (and why it’s worth paying for a guide)

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Setting off from the little bit of bliss a.k.a. El Jardin in Samaipata

Together with three German backpackers, I set off on foot along the road out of Samaipata through a landscape of mountains and greenery. ‘It could almost be Germany’, said one of the girls, ‘and that could easily be my home town’, she said, pointing at buildings nestled in an arboreous valley.

We turned off on to a dusty road and before long reached a junction. ‘If we want to go to the river, we need to go down here’, I said. I’d forgotten my map but it seemed right.

It wasn’t. After a kilometre of steep climbing a woman stopped us. ‘Go back and continue on the other road’, she told us, so we backtracked and walked a while longer, breath short at times.

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Continuing the climb to El Fuerte

Yesterday’s dull skies and drizzle had made way for a brilliant blue sky. Bright green plants clung to red rock faces and rough emerald coloured stones popped out of the red road dust. Sun and full colour saturation and fresh, mountain air. Stunning.

A little downward respite took us to the Rio El Fuerte. A woman pointed to where we could swim. ‘Dos bolivianos’, she said, hand outstretched. We each dropped two coins into her palm and headed off upstream.

Whether we reached the right place or not, who knows, but the smooth, stone landscape through which the river had carved a course proved to be a perfect stop point. We dipped into plunge pools, dunked our heads under miniature waterfalls and lay out on flat, warm rocks to dry off. We chatted and then were quiet, listening to the gentle rush of water and watching blue and yellow butterflies and little fluffs of cloud and the feint, slim crescent of the moon in a midday sky. Our own private paradise.

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River and plunge pool find before finishing the climb to El Fuerte

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Dip, dry and relax

But it was time to push on and continue the climb until eventually we arrived at the entrance to El Fuerte, no other tourists to be seen.

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The final push to El Fuerte. A flat bit. At last.

A guide approached us and spoke in English. ‘I’m Cecilio’, he said, ‘I can show you the ruins for 70 bolivianos’. The others declined and we all started to walk away, but then I stopped.

A few days earlier I’d chatted to Olaf at Roadrunners and his words were now screaming at me: ‘…get a guide, it’s a much better experience… you get a better understanding…’.

I knew he was right. Without the information I’d be looking at piles of rock, I’d fly around the site and it would only hold my attention momentarily because, well, I just wouldn’t get it.

So I retracted and paid up and for the next hour and a half Cecilio accompanied us around partially reconstructed ruins and the main hunk of rock known as El Fuerte. Regularly he stopped us and drew in the sand to help illustrate his explanations.

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Cecelio’s lessons at El Fuerte

He pointed out the stark, unusual geographical meeting point of mountains and jungle and rolling hills, and he described how cut-out doorways were used as lookouts by the Amazonians whereas the Incas used them to display their dead.

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The main El Fuerte rock

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Reconstructed ruins at El Fuerte

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Ruins at El Fuerte

Cecilio also stopped at various points to show us South American medicinal plants, including the carqueja used for liver treatment. ‘First a few beers’, he said, ‘then carqueja tea. It’s good’.

The echo point was fun, the views spectacular and the walk was varied and definitely not difficult, whilst Cecelio’s talks were enlightening and entertaining. He clearly loved the Incas for their organisation and significant progression of the site into a structured, well-built place where society was carefully managed (including assigning defined roles working the land or weaving or knotting alpaca wool, or sending girls of eighteen to marry into a different tribe or village to avoid inbreeding).

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Views from El Fuerte

And we stifled giggles when not only Incas were praised for the hundredth time, but we left with confident knowledge that it was German archaeologists that had discovered many of the buildings and artefacts. And it was in 1995. It has stuck. Thanks Cecelio.

Whilst we had barely noticed the climb up to El Fuerte due to Cecelio’s regular stops and energetic explanations, the bounce back down was still a relief. We were last out, gates were locked behind us.

We could have walked back to Samaipata but the offer of a ride back to town – 50Bs. (US$7.29/£4.51) for the four of us – was too tempting. We clambered on board a bench seat ride with some of the guides.

The car rattled and bumped down the dirt track. ‘Us poor Bolivianos’, said Lenny, an older woman whose eyes danced mischievously, ‘we can’t even afford a good car’. She grinned and then chatted away, keen to practise her English.

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The wonderfully warm and chatty Lenny and a journey of laughter from El Fuerte to Samaipata

Back in Samaipata we jumped down from the back of the vehicle. ‘Gordo’, said Lenny, ‘I’m fat and old. It’s difficult’. And with another big smile she said goodbye.

Could I have done this without a guide? Sure. There’s a clear route to follow with signposted lookouts. But, there are no information points or plaques and even with the pre-information from the museum, I would have struggled to make sense of the place.

For me it was worth it. For someone simply wanting to tick something off a list, or a history buff with a lot of reading under their belt, maybe not.

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February 9, 2012 · 6:43 AM

A gift from The Blue Mountains

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Starting to make an appearance… the Blue Mountains

It was when I arrived home from a trip to the Blue Mountains and kicked off my hiking shoes and socks that I noticed trickles of bright red blood dripping down on to the floor. And it wouldn’t stop.

By the awesome power of a borrowed car and a TomTom sat nav, I had cruised along the Great Western Highway, away from Sydney with the radio blasting and the Blue Mountains up ahead.

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Busking at Echo Point, the Blue Mountains

At Echo Point nearby Katoomba, a thick covering of fog concealed any natural wonders. I sat down and ate a sandwich to the sound of a didgeridoo being played by an Aboriginal guy who had been traditionally painted up, ready to pose for photos with impressed tourists.

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The Three Sisters, the Blue Mountains

Within a little while The Three Sisters revealed themselves, their stony prison smaller than I expected. I joined the crowds on the viewing platforms, got some truly bad pictures taken by a stranger that I had to delete (lots of sky, lots of me, barely anything of the Three Sisters) and then did a short walk over to the Lady Marley lookout where I took in the vast mountainous landscape, wisps of mist still drifting about giving it a mystical edge.

Legs unsatisfied, back at the start and with the Information Centre behind me I took a right and headed over to the start of the Giant Stairway with over 850 narrow steps leading down from the Three Sisters mounting point and into the arboreous gulley below.

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Views out from The Three SIsters

The signposted track led me along the Federal Pass on forest pathways, squelchy and covered in leaves. A building purr of thunder rattled the sky as rain drops slapped onto damp leaves, working up to a steady downpour. I hid in a hollow tree trunk until the worst of it passed.

After two hours and a steady pace later, I arrived at the Scenic Railway. Would I cheat and take the train up for an easy wander back to Echo Point? Hell, no!

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Views from pathway of The Blue Mountains

In fact, on the way back I was on fire, getting to the bottom of the Great Stairway within 40 minutes. Super speedy (wait for the pain tomorrow). ‘Are you really going up?’ asked a Dutch guy raising his eyebrows. He had just made the descent with his friends. ‘Sure’, I said, ‘I came down so now I’ll go back up. It’ll balance things out!’ ‘If we don’t see you back by 6:00pm’, he said, ‘then we’ll send the search parties out to the steps’.

It was unnecessary. Although I took a couple of breaks and nearly puked as my heart battered my rib cage, I was back at the top within twenty minutes, legs fully worked out and shaking.

And then back along the Great Western Highway, back to the house and kicking off my shoes and my socks and spotting the mystery blood dribbling down my ankles. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted my sock moving. I lifted it to reveal a squirming, wet and well-fed leech. Eurgh! How had I managed to miss that?! Thanks very much, Blue Mountains, what a parting gift.

For free parking by Echo Point, drive past the Information Point on your right, continuing along Cliff Drive. You will see a sandy stretch on the right hand side where you can park for free.

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January 20, 2012 · 7:27 AM

Sunday sail to Waiheke Island

Back in Auckland for a couple of days, I wanted to fit in a trip to what has been voted ‘Auckland’s best day out’? Waiheke Island, aka ‘Jewel of the Hauroki Gulf’ is a forty minute boat ride away from the bustle of Auckland, an easy daytrip with the promise of good tramping tracks and other activities such as kayaking and mountain biking. Lunching out and visiting art galleries and wineries offers an alternative for those after less of a physical challenge.

If I’m honest, I had hoped to go to the Great Barrier Island which sounded incredible and more off the beaten track, but the practicalities of getting to Waiheke and the more structured nature of the walking tracks meant that for a solo adventure it would be the better, safer option. I had woken up tired and a bit hungover after a late night of beers and chats with my CouchSurf host, Nate. Without a clear head, a total random, unmarked adventure may have not been too smart. So Waiheke it was. And what a lovely decision.

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Leaving Auckland behind on the ferry to Waiheke Island

I arrived into Matiatia Wharf just before midday having shared a ferry over with day tripping families and groups of friends. Everyone seemed to be wearing flip flops. Were none of them planning on hiking?

I set off boldly in the wrong direction before being walked to the right start point by a taxi driver. ‘Tide’s in so you’ll have to use the goat track’, he told me before disappearing and leaving me to do a cliff scramble through thickets and under branches for a few hundred metres.

Re-joining the path, I traipsed through tall grasses and clusters of trees alive with the sound of cicadas, and close to grand houses with manicured lawns, vast glass frontage and wide driveways, nestled neatly into the hillsides. I watched bees feasting on thistle flower nectar and boats bobbing around in a wind rippled sea.

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Waiheke map: Northern walk

I was on the ‘Northern walk’ (North Yorkshire, North Devon and now North Waiheke – can’t keep me away from the north!), a hike said to be ‘ideal for visitors wanting to take in as much of the island as is possible without venturing too far away from the ferry’.

The walk from Cable Bay to Owhanaka Bay was a bit of a killer: a stretch of steep calf burn followed by a knee crunching descent. Luckily it didn’t last and was followed by a blissful flat period and a bench where I sat down to reapply sun cream and refuel in the company of anchored speedboats. Clearly it was food and siesta time.

The cut across to Island Bay went through a lush garden of reeds and palms and bushes, ending at the prettiest little bay where crystal clear waters lapped onto the beach and sea-seasoned tree trunks lay washed up on the sands.

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Island Bay on Waiheke Island

And then the climbing started anew, but this time on steady, constructed steps that wound ever higher to give wide views out over the coves, a patchy, turquoise sea topped with a little white chop, and not a soul in sight.

Things then got easier. The path that had thus far wrapped around the coastline now meandered inland through olive groves and vineyards and along dusty, wider tracks until I reached one of the few actual roads crossing the island. Walking by houses with boats parked out the front, I tried to imagine living here: nature and beauty on your doorstep. But too isolated, I concluded. Not for me.

The upper woodland walk back at Matiatia Wharf, Waiheke Island

The last little walk from Oneroa Beach back to Matiatia Bay took me through the Atawha Whenua Reserve full of clematis and pigeonwood and NZ mahogany. Known as a good bird watching spot, my untrained eye saw nothing other than a load of little plaques detailing various trees.

I got back on the boat to Auckland with all the flip floppers but now I noticed that there were also women in pretty summer dresses and high heels carrying handbag dogs, and I thought, have I totally missed something here?

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January 16, 2012 · 6:35 AM

5 New Plymouth highlights

New Plymouth in the Taranaki region of New Zealand, a city of nearly 69,000 inhabitants, sits about 360km south west of Auckland. I was visiting some friends who were determined to show me a good time and help me to experience some of the best parts of the city.

1) Stone carving

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Stone carver at work in New Plymouth


In what has become a biennial event, during January 2012 various stone carvers from the Te Kupenga Stone Sculpture Symposium could be seen grinding away great hunks of rock to reveal a range of shapes and structures. Some were incredibly detailed, like the little girl statue which my friend Rob said looked like ‘a 3D illustration’, whilst others were more based on flow forms and organic design. With such a bad run of weather, these guys had a real job on their hands to get the sculptures finished before the exhibition opened on 14th January and the auction kicked off on 21st January.

2) Beaches and the waterfront

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The walkway in New Plymouth


Down at the walkway in New Plymouth, people wander along checking up on the progress of the stone carvers (see above) and keeping an eye on the Wind Wand. My first stroll along the seafront was in glorious sunshine with a bit of a stiff breeze, my second outing was in stormy, raging conditions where breaking waves splashed over the walkway and, together with some torrential downpour, gave us all a good soaking.

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Dund running down the sand dune to Back Beach, New Plymouth

A little south of the New Plymouth city centre and the Paritutu Centennial Park is Back Beach. Having got ridiculously hot climbing the Paritutu, the idea of jumping into the water once we were back down was so appealing. I took off my sandals, burning my feet on the hot, black sands at the top of the dune and then ran down full pelt, sinking ankle deep and kicking up sand as I went. Paddling in the sea simply felt delicious. This was Back Beach with clear, blue-green waters and the Sugar Loaf Islands dotted about in the near distance. Families played on the beach up by the car park end and surfers caught lovely two foot peeling waves (and some doses of sunburn).

The second beach that I visited was off of the Surf Highway where many of the side roads lead down to little beaches. I went in for a surf in choppy waters, caught nothing (I lie, I caught one great wave and messed up the take-off and got a right, royal working – about right for my skill level!) and I also managed to smash up my knee on the rocks when getting out. All sound a bit pants? It wasn’t. Surfing on a reef, I was way out of my comfort zone (good thing) on a deserted beach soaking up some sunshine. I wanted to get out in the sea before I got my tattoo because once it was done, sea and sun were going to need to take a backseat. For a few weeks, in any case.

3) Walks into town

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Huatoki Walkway, New Plymouth

I was staying with my friends on the outskirts of New Plymouth. To get to the centre took a ten minute car ride or a forty minute walk on pretty forest pathways along what is known as the Huatoki Walkway. Always opt for the walk-in. All sorts of trees, some snapped in two by recent gale-force gusts, and a little stream running alongside a mud and leaf pathway make this a relaxing, calming mini hike. And barely another person to be seen. Lovely.

4) Puke Ariki museum

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Dund trying her best to ignore the shark in Puke Ariki, New Plymouth

On entering the Puke Ariki, my friend Dund had to pull down her cap. One glance of the massive shark sculpture hanging from the ceiling would have sent her into panic mode.

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Getting ready for a screening at the Puke Ariki, New Plymouth

We made it into the little cinema without any dramas and sat down on funky, lighted seating to a screening of Mutanga: Our Legacy, Our Challenge, Our Future, which gave an overview of the Maori struggle in the Taranaki area. Running through until March 2012, this exhibition talked about the land grab back in the 1860s and the resulting on-going struggle to get a better settlement from the government. It also discussed the importance of cultural identity in helping you to ‘get on with what you need to do in life’.  Maybe that’s why so many people, myself included, are on a continuous search for something else? What is my, your, cultural identity?

5) Festival of Lights

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Lights at Pukeura Park, New Plymouth


I already posted about this a few days ago, but free music and a magical atmosphere made this a great evening out when the wind and rain held off.

There were a few things I noticed about the city that I found a little odd, like the fact that down by the waterfront there is a main road and industrial and commercial buildings in a place that would be perfect for cafés and bars. And although many bars and cafés have outdoor seating space, they mostly front on to a main road, which doesn’t make for the most relaxing time. But ho hum, it was a cool little city with a nice, laid-back vibe and some lovely people . And great pies.

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January 12, 2012 · 6:26 AM

Me, you and the Paritutu

When planning this post, me and the friends that I was staying with in New Plymouth had a bit of a giggle trying to come up with a title. Most suggestions were completely inappropriate (leave comments if you can guess what they might have been!) that may well have drawn in more readers, but undoubtedly for the wrong reasons. So instead, to keep things polite, this is dedicated to a tiny, little adventure with my friend Dundee.

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Views of Paritutu from Back Beach

The Paritutu is a mini mountain, well hill really, overlooking New Plymouth and some of the Taranaki region of New Zealand. My plan had been to climb Mount Taranaki itself but other than a peek of the peak on my arrival into the city, she had kept herself well hidden under a swath of heavy cloud. The weather had also been particularly bad for New Zealand summertime: torrential downpours and forceful winds that snapped trees in two and forced us humans to retreat indoors.

But then one morning a little sliver of sunshine promised a better day and my friends suggested a practise walk to and up the Paritutu. We dropped Rob and his surfboard off at Back Beach, and Dund and I set off along the cliff top walk through passageways of plants and grasses. The views opened up to show the surf below; nice lines and peeling two foot waves on a bright blue ocean under a Simpsons sky.

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Back Beach

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The walk from Back Beach to Paritutu

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Approaching the Paritutu rock

After less than half an hour we were at the start of the Paritutu climb where the first part was an easy ascent up solid, supported steps. The next section was more fun: a return to the ropes and cables of some of the climbs I had experienced in Peru, although here the chain was really necessary to help launch you up to the next level. Not really a path, it was a steep scramble with rocks jutting out all over the place that put vertigo and basic climbing skills to the test. I loved it. (Coming down was a bit of a different matter, the incline and height accentuated by the views down to the bottom, and Dund’s legs were shaking when we arrived back at the start, an adrenaline-achievement mix).

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Dund starting the climb up Paritutu

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Steep climb further up the Paritutu

At the top of Paritutu there was a little platform to catch one’s breath, take in the views and reapply some sun cream. No shade though, and the strong midday sun was a bit vicious. The height of the Paritutu, although only 156m, allows you to take in the views of the city, seascape and the mass of fields stretching out into the distance. And if you’re lucky, Mount Taranaki, but on this particular day she was still feeling a bit shy. Not uncommon, apparently.

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Me and Dund at the top of the Paritutu

When I was in Rotorua, I listened to a radio interview with the  British adventurer Alastair Humphries who talked about doing mini adventures that were doable in a day. This Paritutu experience was essentially a micro adventure, and although fairly structured and safe, it still had the undertaking of the clamber up steep crags which gave it an element of risk. It wasn’t for the unfit or the frightened (though the girl who point blank refused to go up when her parents were up for it was probably being a bit pathetic), but it is a short and sweet morning activity.

If the rain holds off, give it a go.

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