In this instalment: good food, sour pusses, pigs, family and alcohol. Oh, and insects.

Pictures are at http://picasaweb.google.com/vemcharrier for those whose lips get tired when reading my guff.

Noumea

You know you are heading towards France or in this case a French Protectorate when not one of the hostesses on the plane can raise a smile. Great thing about the French. You know exactly how they are feeling. Makes them rubbish poker players.

V’s cousin, Fabien met us in the airport and transported us and our bags to his house which he shares with 4 friends. Our combined weight was a little too much for the little Peugeot 106, as it was having some rear axle problems (not to mention missing half an exhaust). The smell of burning material and the squeal of a banshee had an Alsatian dog poking its head out of an adjacent car at the peage. Man’s best friends were being summoned all across the land by our failed bearing.

Fab had kindly lent us his room, condemning himself to the sofa.

He warned us not to open the window as their pig smelled a bit. We thought that this merited inspection but to the dismay of the house, the beast had dug his way out of the enclosure. He was found nearby and then some comedy Rocky-type animal chasing ensued. I managed to get a hand on him but in a Jim Leighton manner (couldn’t catch a pig in a hallway – check out his bandy legs on google) he got around me. He was last seen disappearing into the twilight, never to return.

So we downed multiple beers and pastis to commiserate the loss of the pig and hoped to have him return in the morning. The boys were working the next day, some raising their sorry heads at 5.00am, but this didn’t stop them drinking way past 3am.

We were up early enough (around 6am) to head into town with Fabien. Him to work, us to pick up a hire car.

The plan was to tour the island with Fabien and his friend (and housemate), Thomas.

After a month an a half of driving an automatic on the left side of the road, getting used to a manual gearchange and sticking to the right took a couple of minutes.

Another way to recognise you are on French soil is if the sides of the cars are like the skins of golfballs. It took us one night to get a(nother) ding in our door from a 4x4 parked beside us.

We took the little train tour of Noumea, similar to the wally train you can take in Monaco and Nice. It was a private ride, us being the only passengers. The driver was equipped with an impressive mullet (he looked like a Chuckle Brother but without the ‘tache – try google again for pictures) and the friendship of all the inhabitants. He tooted his horn, rang his bell and waved to everyone he passed. He received a call, wave or thumbs up in reply.

Everyone you cross here waves at you in a gesture of friendship. It is genuine and just so laid back and relaxing.

It was not always so. The country has come close to civil war on a number of occasions. The main trigger has been the clashes between the loyalist (those who wish to remain attached to France) and pro-independence (those who want to govern themselves) movements.

Semi-autonomy was granted by France in a series of political masterstrokes and a referendum on independence pledged in 20 years time back in 1984. Now that everyone can vote, which was not always the case, it is a much debated but less heated subject.

Noumea is a little ragged around the edges, with some rubbish strewn in places and some poorly surfaced roads. This is all part of its charm. Beside its beautiful beaches and harbours there are ramshackle concrete buildings in various states of disrepair.

Compared to Fiji and Tahiti, which each receive around 250,000  tourists each year, the 25,000 that New Caledonia welcomes is small beer. The infrastructure is not here to handle the hordes that descend on the other Pacific islands and it is lacking in extreme luxury resorts which the others have. Again, this is a blessing in some ways as you have a real sense of a town, and not a holiday destination.

We took a tour of the Tjibaou museum. This stunning Genoan architect – Renzo Piano who also designed the Pompidou Centre in Paris - (thanks Matteo) inspired building – or more correctly, buildings – is named after the local Kanak independence campaigner and leader who was assassinated in 1989. It is state of the art in terms of using natural resources, blending in with the environment and using nature to cool, heat and light the structure.

Needing refreshed after our strenuous sightseeing we lunched in a classic French restaurant, La Chaumiere. It was surprising to be asked if we wanted to be in the smoking or non-smoking section.

More welcoming was having bread with our meal, without having to pay for it. How we have missed good bread at dinner or lunch. Also the quality food was above reproach. V and I just made appreciative noises at each other across our table. Oz and NZ have pies but this was Champions League level for much less cash. More bread, less dough.

Fab met us after work, we bought a sim card for the mobile phone and headed to the beach for a swim.

We grabbed dinner from a little van that serves Chinese food, similar in style to that in Tahiti. After eating on the beach, Fab and V downed a couple of drinks in a bar perched over the water before heading back to the house to the pool and more beer.

Just like the anti-smoking laws, there are a few regulations that have yet to reach these shores. Or their full impact has not affected the country as much as it has in France. Case in point is drink driving. I was on duty so was on softies (until I got home) but it seems for many NC’s the two are not mutually exclusive. One of Fab’s housemates totalled his Audi A4 into a tree when full of booze. He was lucky to stagger away, although the car sleeps with the fishes. He is still paying off the loan, had his licence revoked and is due to retake his test next month.

All the boys have been done. It hasn’t met the same socially unacceptable status that has been in Britain for many years and is now in most of France.

On a less sombre and even less sober note, the boys were now on holiday and it was into the pool and into the booze.

Next morning we were off (fairly) early for a hike. The countryside is red, like Oz .

Just like its neighbour it is also rich in minerals, which is a blessing and a burden which I’ll get to later.

We stopped for a swim in a mountain river pool, then had our picnic lunch, washed down with some beer.

To celebrate our dalliance into the wild, that night we had more alcohol and a swim in the (house) pool.

Bouraille

V drove as I was still over the limit from the night before. As I mentioned before, this doesn’t deter many of the NC’s, the paper being full of stories of those taking one too many to steady their hands on the wheel.

We tried to book kite surf lessons but there was no space available. So we played petanque instead. The 4 of us were in adjacent bungalows and we drank, cooked, ate and then drank some more together before retiring to bed.

The boys were up early (the benefits of youth) for a run and I regaled them with a British* breakfast.

Following our fatty feed, off we tottered to the pierced rock and La Bonhomme, the latter being a figure standing like the head of a Buddha.

We swam in the heavy surf, just managing to keep the saltwater out of our beer.

Surrounding us were turtles’ nests, protected by cages. Later that evening at the viewpoint, just offshore we spied turtles, dolphins and rays before heading back to our bungalows for food and wine.

* Ingredients were French; sausage, bacon, eggs, tomato, beans, bread and we washed it down with some wine.

Poum -  Malabou Beach Hotel

When it rains here, the tarmac steams. You drive through a fine mist of evaporated rainwater shrouding the car like the fog in a horror movie. It’s lovely.

We had booked into a resort similar to the one V and I had stayed with in Tahiti. The bungalows were not over the water and the standard was not the same, but it was still excellent. We played ping pong and mini golf, all accompanied with beer. The buffet dinner was good (although not to the majesty of the New Year in Tahiti) and we finished off back on the table tennis table but with full size racquets and actual tennis balls.

A great thing about here was that they let you be an idiot as long as you weren’t disturbing anyone else. You could do what you wanted and if you killed yourself, then on your head be it. Brilliant. After the boys had played some morning tennis (on a court) we took some kayaks around the bay. All the equipment was free of charge from the resort. The buoyancy aids were there, but you weren’t obliged to put them on and no one forced you to. As I said, go for it.

Hienghene and Tribu

Just as in Peru at Lake Titicaca we decided to try and stay with some indigenous (Melanesian) people in their community. It was a different experience from the one in South America.

On the way we had taken a small ferry across the river. It was like the raft of Huckleberry Finn and Tom (the escaped slave) from the Mark Twain novel. A direct drive 2 cylinder aircooled engine turned a shaft and propeller. One on either side for each direction. When the master wished to go the other way, he stopped one engine and started the opposite.

Am not sure of the alignment but bits of grease and packing were seeping from the intermediate bearings. One was supported on a steel framework, the other wooden. Functional, I feel is the best term to use. A little later we stopped at the viewpoints to wonder at the rock formations, one termed the ‘brooding hen’.

Arriving at the local tribu (tribe), we were not made to feel as welcome as we had in Peru; rather for our cash and we did not even eat together, depriving both parties of a method of exchange. A bit of a shame really.

The most interaction we had was when the lights went out unexpectedly. Thomas being an electrician investigated and narrowed the cause down to a defective DVD player.

Volcanic ash, humidity and salt in the air plays havoc with cars, never mind fragile electronics that are left outside open to the atmosphere.

There was also water everywhere. A garden hose constantly running, creating pools of water for my friends, mosquitoes, to breed in. The toilet constantly ran. Thomas said that the fuse box and electrical wiring was shocking. Literally.

A little bit of assistance and education in some matters from within the community is definitely required.

The thatched roofed hut that we spent the night in was just like the scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Things with more legs than a football team crawled everywhere, but mostly on me.

Their favourite trick (apart from biting my belly) was dropping onto me whilst we played top trumps and Rummikube (a kind of scrabble but with numbers).

It was leaping.

Needless to say that I didn’t sleep much that night.

When I got up to make my customary wee-wee, I passed the sleeping horses, cats, chickens and dogs on the way to the toilet. Around the can and at the sink were things that slept less than me. The tap was moving with earwigs.

Now I have no problem with insects, until they move or they are bigger than my foot. Or both. When I did manage to find some sleep the rooster woke me up at 5.30am.

Refuge de Farino

We traversed across the mountainous middle of the country, the Scenic struggling with its 4 adults and alcohol laden boot up the winding slopes. The scenery (no pun intended) was incredible. More incredible was the open cast mining for nickel that takes place in NC. They basically chop off the top of the mountains and leave it like that. None of this minimum impact stuff. Just decapitated hillsides. Foul.

The lagoon here is UNESCO heritage protected. This had a unifying effect on the whole island. The attempt to include the coral reefs under the same umbrella of protection was prevented by political pressure from the mining companies. Thomas was telling us that he was working on the construction of a new mine up North.

The mine is a divisive topic in New Caledonia. Although the company has promised to replant the land it destroys, the way it will extract the carcinogenic nickel is controversial, with the effluent from the chemical process being led to the sea. Coral bleaching may result and the third largest natural reef in the world be damaged.

Just like smoking, the full environmental zeitgeist has not hit NC yet. It has the most 4x4s per capita than anywhere else in the world. There are more Toyota Hi-Lux here than with the Taliban. Saying that there are occasions when they come in handy, like the time when I bottomed the Renault’s sump on a rocky track up to a viewpoint.

For a break we stopped at some falls to dip our feet in the mountain water. There, schoolkids were fully immersing themselves in a manner of ways; jumping from trees, sliding down the rocks headfirst, on their feet and on their bums into the pools.

There were a few adults partaking too.

Since it was a schoolday, am not sure if the grown ups should have been working. Fabien explained that there is practically 100% employment in New Caledonia. As Richard Ashcroft nearly said; ‘there’s work if you want it’. Many from France come here to be employed – Fab and his housemates all did – and to change their standard of life from what they could expect back home.

Not to say that NC is without problems. Just as back home, strikes occur occasionally, especially when revolving around the employment of the local indigenous nations.

It was raining again (it is aptly termed the wet season) enough to have Noah reach for his toolbox and we decided to get wetter still by dipping ourselves into Trou Feulliet or la cuve.

We stayed in a beautiful bungalow together, with Thomas and Fab cooking king prawns, washed down with the wine we brought from Margaret River.

I have to mention the wildlife here again. Unlike Oz, where everything can kill you – even a Koala can give you a nasty (bear) hug – there are no poisonous insects in NC. Just like Ireland, there are no snakes although I am unsure if St Patrick was involved.

However there are plenty of steroidal insects that are just too big to be real.

Thankfully they are too heavy to move so they leave it to the little ones to bite me. I’ve had ants in a blister in my toe, a fly sup juice from another blister on my other foot and mosquitoes slurp my blood from any part that I haven’t covered in repellent; the end of my big toe, the sole of my foot, the cuticle at the base of my nail. If you wash your hands before a meal or dip your foot in the sea, expect them to be on your appendages within seconds. It could be the humidity that saps your strength in NC, but it is more than likely blood loss.

The following day after a toasting walk in the nearby park we stopped to eat at Chez Mamie. Here a fusion of local ingredients and cooking with a twist of Western influences is still prepared by the originator, a great grandmother of indigenous descent. Simply wonderful. We could not stop eating.

Noumea

Back at the house of Fab, Thomas, Greg, Flo and Thibault it was pool and darts time. A couple of duels in the piscine, one of the boys atop the shoulders of another. As the Pastis and the beer kicked in the games were drawn to a close before serious injury occurred.

Greg, Thomas and Fab (who could hardly speak) got their glad rags on for a night on the town. We were up at 4am the next morning so decided to skip it.

Ile des Pins

As we were leaving the next morning, Thomas had returned with a young lady and they were both in the pool. Greg was flat out in his room. Either that or the pig had returned and was snuffling for truffles under his mattress. We had borrowed Fab’s venerable Peugeot 106. It wouldn’t start. I realised that this was due to the keypad immobiliser and we didn’t have the code. V returned to where Thomas was trying to eat the face off his new companion and thankfully he remembered it.

After parking Fab’s (non-fab) car we bought our tickets for the boat.

The rough crossing was not helped by a Miley Cyrus Disney movie. Enough to turn the hardest of stomachs.

V and I had to step outside into the rain and the salt water spray to prevent our beverages from the night before making an unwanted second appearance.

Others were not so lucky.

After checking into our bungalow, we slept for a good 6 hours. Feeling ill, pastis, beer and 3 hours kip the night before is not a good combination.

We stepped out late in the afternoon to orientate ourselves and search for some food. The white beaches here are mesmerising, and somewhere that serves food difficult to find. Back to what I said about catering to tourists. Just like in Nice, after 3pm try finding a restaurant that will put a plate in front of you. Here, if it is not between 12.00pm and 2.pm/ 7.30pm and 9.00pm and if it’s a Sunday or Monday, you’re bolloxed.

At a bar in a hotel conveniently located on the beach we managed to find somewhere that would serve us the first food we had eaten for nearly 20 hours (not withstanding the snack on the boat that morning).

The following morning we ate our breakfast (the ants having a go at my toe) and lugged our bags the km to our next lodging. Less character but closer to the beach.

For fairly new dwellings in an area where mosquitoes are the dominant species and we are lower in the food chain why did the windows not have mosquito screens? An architectural oversight of monumental proportions,

We set off to the highest point of the island without sunscreen, hats, insect repellent or water. With our flip-flops we were like Bambi on ice as we slithered our way up the damp and rocky trail.

Waves of rain followed by blistering sunshine then refreshing winds alternated during our ascent. On the way down, some properly equipped walkers pointed at us and our lack of suitable equipment.

We made it, although a little blistered (from our feet slipping on our wet Havaianas), moist and sunburnt.

It was then time to try and find some food.

The search for the Holy Grail was as before, with us finally returning to the place of the previous night after walking for another 2 hours in vain. Sunday, you see. We hiked a couple of clicks to a rotisserie we had been assured would be open, only to find it closed. Even though its opening hours were duly marked for all to see that it should have been very open. Very French.

Rules are to be broken if you want to go to the beach or just can’t be *rsed turning up that day.

While eating, we watched a young cat stalk two seagulls before V gave me swimming lessons. For the record, I can swim, but I am rubbish at it. Some expert tuition and a 300% improvement. Still work to do, though

Since there was not a laundry on the island and no service at the hotel we negotiated with the chap at reception to throw our stuff into the hotel machines after their own. Price to be sorted out later. We couldn’t obtain the status of our smalls from him, as he knocked off at 6.00pm. After a 3 hour lunch break between 12.00pm and 3.00pm. Not bad work if you can get it.

Sundowners at our now favourite bar while the rain poured down on the bay and our young cat friend purred with our strokes and sat on our laps. She even played like our own Saphie, biting my hand. When we left to eat at the hotel, she followed us part of the way, meowing in desperation for us to return. V almost cried.

Early next morning we had booked a voyage on a pirogue, a bottomed out canoe with an outrigger.

There was a mullet on show and it has been captured for the gallery.

The wind was against us so we motored for a little while before engaging the traditional means of propulsion. One of our fellow travellers was stung by a jellyfish when draping his feet in the sea. Our captain replied that they normally don’t make it into the lagoon, but it must have been the combination of wind and current that brought them inshore.

Apparently the waters around here can kill you even if the land animals cannot. Venomous sea snakes, spiney poisonous fish and aggressive sea shells – seriously, cone shells can murder you and they are not shy – and jelly fish all amount to a swim that is as exciting as taking a bath with a fan heater.

After making land we walked through the forest (in our flip flops once more) to the natural sea pool and where we would have lunch.

Another thing that can kill you in NC is a falling coconut. This eventuality accounts for the deaths of more people per year than quadbikes (which as Clarkson quips have maimed more people than world wars). Strewn throughout the forest floor were downed coconuts and amongst them coconut crabs. These marine animals come ashore to climb the trees, snip off the coconuts and feed on the flesh of the shattered fruit. Most scuttled out of our way, but one held his pincers up to show that he was there and not to trample on him as he ran out of sight whilst another, about the size of a donkey, stood his ground to defend his family of nippers.

Coconut crab is a delicacy in the Pacific, but their numbers are falling. Like coconuts.

On the way to our destination teems of much smaller fiddler crabs hid in their holes, except one of course who was unafraid. Thinking a little further he decided to take the hole option but his claw was too big to get inside. I don’t think he will prosper.

The natural pool is a seawater haven of fish. They swim around you as you wade, snorkel or sit in this paradise. One of our fellow travellers spotted the bodies of small blue jellyfish (around 10cm long including hurty bits) on the beach. Should we go into the water? There were already 5 or 6 others in the pool and we decided to give it a go as they were not screaming. Yet.

The dehydrated corpses of the invertebrates on the sand can still sting you if you walk on them. When I did, equipped with my multipurpose Havaianas, they popped like bubblewrap. Fun and danger in equal measure.

V and I floated around with the fish for an hour or so until a snorkeller exclaimed that she had been stung by a jellyfish. She had tentacles on her upper arms, her upper lip and forehead. She scraped them off with a fin, but her skin had already started to blister.

Time to get out.

We ate at Chez Regis, where your food is prepared in a pit, enclosed in banana leafs and surrounded by hot rocks. The mixture of fruits, potatoes, coconut and fish/ chicken is fantastic.

Our boat run home was later in the afternoon so we had time for a doze on a nearby beach where you could see and hear the surf break over the reefs before heading back home.

We collected our washing and had a beer to celebrate another successful day with neither of us being bitten or stung and me not having to rotate my Calvin Kleins any more.

In the morning a small motorboat ferried us to a sandbar, where we snorkelled, swam, and explored – not much to see for about an hour. It was truly paradise, the waves lapping across the small strip of land – we hung our dry gear on some driftwood to prevent it drifting off. Our master came and fetched – on the way I spotted a sea snake - us to the Ile de Brosse where we snorkelled amongst the shallow coral reefs. There were fish everywhere, in all shapes colours and sizes. Beautiful.

We ate grilled lobster and baked fish prepared by some locals while we gazed out over the white sands and the clear blue sea.

For sundowners we joined 5 people whom we had eaten with at lunch for more marvellous fare.

We never got their names. I really have to work harder at this socialising thing.

Dinner was so good a cat jumped onto my chair and started helping herself to my duck when I had turned to feed a forkful to V.

Next morning was time to check-out and after fighting off the mosquitoes in a battle of Britain manner (although in that encounter the Mosquitoes were on the goodies’ side) we headed to the beach. Hiring an aquacycle we splished out to our boat we would be taking that evening back to Noumea. American designed, it is heavier than a lead piano and covered in more warning signs than a nuclear power station control panel. If you removed the advisory plates, the thing would be half the weight.

Anyway, we needed the exercise.

Settling under the shade of some coconut trees we stretched out our towels and ourselves on the beach, careful to ensure we were not below the possible life-ending fruits.

Just then, a 4x4 passes spraying insecticide into the foliage. It looked like the locals have had enough of the mosquitoes, too. There had been a number of cases of Dengue fever and the authorities had reacted to the concerns. All good, but the poison was indiscriminate with the flying insect population and such as we were beneath the trees, it was not coconuts that started falling on us, but large flies, moths and other beasts. Which I loved of course.

After a bit of swimming we took our lunch at the spot that had served us well before, unfortunately without the cat for company. It was amusing to see the Japanese tourists order from the menu and laugh in surprise with what they had unknowingly asked for when their meals turned up. The same for us awaits in Asia no doubt.

With the sea like a mirror and the sun shining the boat crossing back to the mainland was a pleasure. Fab just arrived in the car as we glided into the port. The car was toiling under the combined weight once more and we were relieved to get back to the house – for more beer, pastis, darts, swimming pool and barbecue.

We had plans for the next day; shopping, essentials, a good lunch to treat Fab. However V was ill so we took the time to relax in the house, with Fab mowing the grass on his day off.

The big event of the calendar was happening that evening – David Guetta was playing a set on the beach in Noumea – and Fab had gotten us tickets.

Normally the French organise these things very well. As events they are safe, good natured, civilised and have a great atmosphere with everyone joining in, dancing and singing along. It was therefore a bit of a surprise to learn that no alcohol was on sale at the venue.

Fab explained the reasoning behind the no alcohol policy. Apparently the indigenous folk have a real problem tolerating the demon drink. Similarly to the Aboriginal people of Australia it destroys them.

Parking was quite a distance away, with free buses to take you the last 4 or 5 clicks to the beach. Checkpoints and riot police ensured that there were no transgressors. All this for only 7000 people.

To counteract the first point, Thomas and Fab skulled a bottle of whisky between them and a couple of beers before we departed the house. Second point, I drove. The car was screaming under the load of the 4 of us. We stopped to pick up our bits for the Asian leg of our journey; sunscreen, more insect repellent, Malarone and a bottle of Pastis (as thanks to the boys for lodging us) in the supermarket.

V and I shopped, the boys had a beer.

Thomas was blootered and thought it a good idea to bite my nipples (or more accurately termed man-boobs). After a couple of beers in a pub in town I handed the keys over to V and she took us to the concert car park as she was not drinking after downing antibiotics earlier in the day.

We lost Thomas immediately after entry.  We don’t even know if he made it inside. We had had to physically lift him from the car and on the bus he was keeping the crowd entertained.

No toilets at the gig so it was ‘au natural’ in the surrounding area. Not the best if you are a female or if you have the runs.

Many of the crowd were downing their wine and beer before entering the controlled area. For some it had already been too much and it was like the Somme, prone bodies everywhere, when I answered the call of nature.

I have to admit I don’t get David Guetta’s Euro-pop/ anthem/ cheesy techno riff stuff. The crowd reacted to his well known themes, though. They then settled into the doldrums when he mixed up some other artists’ work in between the markers of his chart toppers. I enjoyed the intermediate bits more than the mobile phone waving bits. As I said, not a fan.

So he didn’t lift the crowd and keep them in that trance, building to a climax as good club DJ would have. In my opinion anyway. And he only played 2 hours. Not strenuous stuff. In the local rag it had said that he would play 2 or 3 hours depending on the atmosphere.

Says it all.

Fab was chasing a young lady he had started chatting up on the bus to the concert so with Thomas AWOL it was just V and I who waited 30 minutes to get on one of the fleet of buses to the parking lot. We made it back to the house at 3.00am.

Up at 5.00am the same morning was a sore one. Greg (bless his cotton socks) was up as well and had promised to knock on the door to ensure we were moving. He even had the pot of coffee made. Star.

Thomas and Fab were flat out on the sofa outside and the couch, respectively. No idea how they made it back nor at what time. They probably don’t either.

At the airport we were in the check-in line behind none other than…..guess…….yup, Mr and Mrs David Guetta. Perhaps the reason he played a truncated session was that he wanted some kip before his flight.

Unfortunately my frequent flyer power cards did not cut the mustard and we were told that we had to return to the soup queue. What are we going to do? I needed a miracle. Evidently.

New Caledonia is a true paradise. The beaches, sun, diving and people all stack up to a memorable place to stay. Helped by some local knowledge from and genially accommodated by Fab, Thomas, Greg et al it is a less expensive (still far from cheap) alternative to Fiji and Tahiti. Hopefully the environmental groundswell that also helps unite the peoples of the country continues to keep it unspoiled. We like it that way. It will be interesting to see how the approaching referendum on independence unfolds and how that will affect the country. Personally, I don’t think much would change.

We’ve already started looking at house prices…….now if only I can get those crap David Guetta melodies out of my head.

In this instalment: hostels, extreme sports, pies and family ties.

Photos can be found at http://picasaweb.google.com/vemcharrier as uploading pictures to this site was crushing my soul.

Auckland

We lost a day and an hour on the flight, so we skipped straight from the 2^nd into the 3^rd when we crossed the international date line. This is strange. Where does it go? Does the Lord take this into account on your 3 score and 10 quota? This was the reason we had stopped off in Tahiti. Our original plan would have us lose the excuse to be royally drunk on the 1^st, as it would have disappeared during our flight.

The chap at bio-customs pulled V for not ticking the little box to indicate that she had walking shoes in her bag. After an inspection of the offending items and deducing that they were clean he gave V a stern wag of the finger and ‘tell the truth next time’ look.

New Zealand is very protective of its wildlife and fauna. Invasions by alien species have damaged the balance of its natural habitat. The possum population, introduced from Australia (by two New Zealanders, no less) to start a fur trade had blossomed to over 70million. Since they have no predators here, they wreck the ancient forests. To control the population to a meagre 30million the authorities carpet bomb the forests with poison. Unfortunately this also kills much of the native wildlife, not to mention your cat and dog if they are outside that night. New Zealanders are doing their bit to reduce the possum population by running them over in their high powered cars (see later).

We rocked up to a Hotel mentioned in the 2000 edition of LP. The tome is on loan from Matteo and Erica and I have replaced it with the most up to date copy now.

The hotel was above a pub, but cheap and clean.

NZ is an expensive place compared to central and South America. Unfortunately Oz would be more expensive still.

Situated close to the 328m Skytower, we took at trip to the top. Well the part you can get to. Some muppets were jumping off, attached to wires and a descender of course.

NZ is the home of the bungee jump and throughout the country Kiwis and visitors throw themselves off of, into and at various parts of the land.

We did partake in a bit of this in Queenstown, but I needed the time to build up to it.

So for our first meal in NZ, we had an Indian. Tasty stuff and not too hurtful to the wallet.

Running low on undercrackers we attempted to do a laundry but were not willing to sit and wait. Things to see and do. Stressful this professional holidaying. So it would have to be my cousins’ Hotpoint that takes the load.

So off we trotted to the Auckland Museum. It is stacked full of stuff. And stuffed full of kids. There are live beetles and worms that you can prod. The non-PC toys from the forties made me laugh. There were metal war figures, one descriptively titled ‘Jap soldiers with bomb’. Another was a jigsaw of Europe. The catchline on the box; The Nazis have dismantled Europe, it us up to you to put it back together. Gollywogs (I remember those) and potent toy guns that launched wooden bullets (Belfast police are still using them).

V and I had gone our separate ways in the museum so I could not find her. We had a wine tour to go to (booze versus education is not a fair contest) so I asked a nice lady to make an announcement over the tannoy for V.

The tour was on a nearby island, Waiheke. It is an aberration with a micro climate than can cause variations in temperature across the island of up to 10°C. Various grapes can therefore be grown with success.

Our driver was an elderly gent who provided us with snippets of info while ferrying us between vineyards in his Venga bus. Two of our fellow tourers were an American couple and again we swapped travel stories. This trip (one of many) was his 60^th birthday present.

In the final winery, the owner explained how to taste wine properly; what to look for, what to smell for and what sensations to feel for on your palate and tongue. He described the conventional winemaking process against the organic method he employed.

He also took the piss out of Australian wines*.

*Insert your own joke here about urine content in Australian beverages.

He asked if there were any Australians in the group and seemed genuinely disappointed that there were none, therefore not being able to make an adult cry before strangers.

I felt obliged to buy from someone more caustic than I.

After returning to Auckland and walking back to our hotel I received a bit of chew from fat pricks in a car. They were hurling unfunny insults at anyone they passed, so I did not feel particularly special. Nothing changes when you put 4 lads in a crap buggy. I admit I had a tear in my eye. Not because of the insults; it was nostalgia from Blantyre.

I have to mention New Zealand dress sense. Am not really sure it exists in fact. I feel like Jean Paul Gaultier here. I doubt baseball caps and sleeveless shirts will be showing in the Milan show this summer. But at least they are no worse than their Australian neighbours.

I contacted my aunt who I had not seen in about 16 years. Pauline lives with her husband Graham, son Peter and daughter Anna in Whangaparoua about an hour north of Auckland. Their youngest, Ruth lives on the south island with her French fella and their new born son, Tui.

Just to clarify, I had told them I was going to be around some time in advance.

We managed to hire a car, there not being many left and most hire companies being queued out the door in an Argentinean style.

It was great seeing them. Pauline and Graham had not changed at all. Peter and Anna had grown up to be handsome and beautiful young adults, respectfully.

They had always been the new worldy part of the family, Pauline outspoken on nuclear missiles – I thought they were great because they were in submarines, which I loved – and the environment. They were just the same, which was lovely to see.

So we ate and made merry on wine.

Bay of Islands

Pauline and Graham were our tour guides the next morning, taking us along to the beach at Whangaparoua. Pauline left her shoes at one end, only realising she was missing them once we headed back to the car. There they were, where she had left them when she first stepped onto the white sand.

There were plenty of people on the beach and many in the frigid water. Reminds me of swimming in the Irish sea off Milport when I was a kid. I can testify that it was like a walnut whip.

Auckland is a sprawling city and it has grown to engulf Whangaparoua. Graham showed what existed when they moved here in 1996. Very little. Now the road that runs past their front porch is an artery to the city, with a flow of commuters from early morning to early evening.

We said our short goodbyes as we planned to return the following evening and took our leave up to the Bay of Islands.

In the petrol stations in NZ you can buy good coffee from a smiling person and best of all; pies. Everytime we stopped for a snack on the road we had one. Why has the pie not made it into France?

There are also lots of clean public toilets everywhere. The French and Fi-Fi take note that this is possible.

It was holiday season and places to stay were in short supply. The cost of a room had forced us down the hostel route, and this was to be our first venture into the mainstay of backpacking accommodation. The Peppertree was clean, friendly, high quality and the owner booked a tour for us the next morning. Why hadn’t we tried this before? I suppose because accommodation had been pennies up until Tahiti.  The Fi Fi experience had left its scars but this healed them all. To celebrate we popped to the local pub where we were the oldest there. Tui is a local rare bird, but also a beer as well as Pauline’s grandson so we sampled some in his honour.

The following morning as we checked out we tried to open the car to put away our stuff for the day. It was only when the boot of the adjacent silver Toyota Avensis popped open that I realised I had been trying to break in to someone else’s motor.

A passing couple just laughed.

Our sailing tour was on a three masted brig called the R. Tucker Thompson. She is named after the man who built her from scratch but who never survived to see her afloat.

New Zealand is a great place for kids, with an extra effort being made to keep them amused in every location. I was apprehensive when I saw the number of tykes due to climb aboard, but the crew had them playing games, climbing the rigging then swinging into the sea all day long.

That night we headed back to Whangaparoua. In our car.

We shared some thoughts and pictures with the family once more (as well as much wine). Peter gave us a calendar of the pictures he has taken around NZ. He usually takes a tour around once a year to indulge his photography habit. His book of industrial landscapes (his term) of man influencing nature was stunning.

Gisele, I hope the calendar is hanging in a good place in the office.

One question from Graham made me think. He asked which was the most sustainable society/ way of life we had encountered? None. Although the inhabitants of Lake Titicaca come closest by far, having lived this way for hundreds of years.

Rotorua

Rotorua smells of Sulphur (so people say). It is one of the most actively volcanic parts of the earth. Bits blow up every couple of hundred years or so. We were staying at another backpackers hostel, again being of high quality and extremely friendly.

Stepping out we discovered that everything closes early. We did manage to play mini-golf and swing a baseball bat at balls being launched at us. Following this we popped to the supermarket to prepare ourselves for what we hadn’t done in months; Cook.

Great thing about hostels is that they are equipped with kitchens, freezers, fridges and pans so that you don’t need to pay for overpriced restaurants every night. After lamb and wine we were ready for bed.

The next morning we visited the Wai-O-Tapo volcanic park. Again, it is extremely child orientated.

Note: it depends on the kid. We saw a fat ginger (doubly afflicted) creature being dragged around by his father and friend.

We made it just in time to see the Lady Knox Geyser erupt. In truth it is stirred into action at 10.00am every day by the addition of a little washing powder. This lowers the surface tension of the cooler water above the pool of superheated liquid below, and out it comes. This effect was discovered accidentally by convicts who had been using the geyser to wash their clothes. One brought some suds and the rest is history.

V loved this place as the colours, smells and shapes are astounding. Her favourite was the oyster pool, of course.

Wellington

The next morning was a long drive south to Windy Wellington. With the channel between the North and South Islands acting as a natural funnel, no wonder all the people walk at a 45° angle. Parking the car, we asked the lady in the hostel if we could leave it in the private car park across the road. She told us that it would be towed, even over a weekend. Indeed, the tow truck was in action for some poor soul’s Ford Fiesta the next morning.

I cooked (badly) and we finished off our wine and headed to our scratchers.

With the weather bad (or typical if you are a Wellingtonian) it was a lazy next day. The Te Papa (our place) museum was full of interesting stuff, especially about volcanoes and earthquakes. More interestingly, it is also the national art gallery, with a mix of native and immigrant art on display. We took the little funicular to the top of the hill above the city (where everything was closed) before heading to the pub. It was quiz night. Our team consisting of V and I, Norfolk Enchants (say it out loud), finished 6^th. It made us happy anyway so we had another Guinness.

I think the type of cars that a country has gives an insight into the people. There are V6 and V8 Fords and Opels with spoilers, diffusers and bodykits all over NZ. These are driven by your average family man/ woman. The number of cylinders are emblazoned on the side in red, or perhaps it is how many times they have to fill them up in a month.

They look as if the design hasn’t changed since when the Ford Sierra made a stir with its unconventional shape back in the ‘80’s. They are unassuming – like the car the Sweeney used to chase the villains – but pack a hefty punch. A bit like the Kiwis at sport and as a national psyche as a whole.

This ‘steady, but different’ choice is outdone by what V termed the ‘mullet car’. From the front it resembles a normal family saloon, but as it pulls past you see that it has a loading bay like a pick-up truck. It is the low rider sporty choice for the Taliban, when they get tired of hanging about in a Toyota Hi-lux. They are painted lurid colours and their engines are of the 6 or 8 variety. And they race these things. We saw one on the back of a pick-up truck with race livery, callipers, grooved disks and slick tyres. Mental.

The Sunday/ Saturday journey to B&Q/ Leroy Merlin would be so much more interesting.

Kaikoura

The ferry across to Picton from Wellington was uneventful, except for another loud yank telling the poor people next to him (and most of that deck) his holiday destinations for the last 20 years; how he would not have loaded the ferry in the way that it sailed, the family he would be visiting in the South Island; how he came here every year; until I stemmed the flow of blood from my ears with my iPod.

The South Island is very different to the North. It is spectacular compared to the North’s beauty.

Driving in NZ is an ethereal experience. There are about 2 motorways. All the other main roads are 2 lanes with an occasional overtaking area.

Relax and enjoy the scenery at a serene maximum of 100km/h (62mph).

Saying that, the car is really the only way to get about NZ.

It was a picturesque drive to Kaikoura where we were waitlisted to take a boat trip to see the locals; sperm whales, albatrosses and dolphins.

Looking as if we weren’t going to get on the fully booked tours we reserved a plane for the next day, even though I knew I would be throwing up my breakfast in a Nazca lines style.

On the very last tour of the day our luck was in and our names were called.

Truly awe inspiring, these leviathans, taking in air and expelling CO2 before diving to the depths to hunt once more.

Paul Watson need not have worried as there were no Norwegians nor Japanese on the trip. They were more than likely in the abundant shore side sea food restaurants, hoping for a special ‘catch of the day’. For scientific reasons only, of course.

The slow moving whales were juxtaposed with their cousins, Dusky dolphins and their speed and acrobatics as they swam alongside the high speed catamaran.

We partook in seafood in one of those restaurants (no mammals) and we settled down to writing our backlog of postcards.

Instead we chatted to an English couple, living and working in Lisbon who had taken a year to travel the opposite way from us. They had visited Myanmar and were on their way to Argentina, Chile, Bolivia and Brazil.

Living in Portugal will have prepared them for the driving in Argentina. Corrine put the shocking road behaviour of the Portuguese down to the very hierarchical society and workplace where they are confined and restrained. Once in their car, they are all powerful. And infinitely dangerous. I think it is just that it is very warm and they need to move so fast to keep air flowing through their un-air-conditioned cars.

It is a mystery as compelling as whale communication.

On this subject, Sperm Whales use their clicks to communicate and to hunt. The level of sound they can produce – over 190 dB – can kill fish. Those that have been foolish enough to swim with these fabulous creatures have been pulled from the water with massive internal injuries. Just for comparison, a jumbo makes around 110dB at take off. The decibel scale is logarithmic so it doubles every 2.6dB or so. 115dB is 4 times as loud as 110dB. Work it out.

Swimming with Sperm Whales; more dangerous than Argentinean taxis.

Hanmer Springs

We overslept so we never saw Dave and Corrine before we had to hot step it out of our room. It was another long and beautiful drive to Franz Josef glacier so we took a stop at Hanmer Springs for a sauna and a private bath in the hot and cold waters that mingle there.

Hope the water changes quickly before the next bathers, is all I can say.

Fully cleansed and refreshed with our limbs feeling heavy we were back on the road (following a pie, of course).

Franz Josef Glacier

After checking into the hostel and surveying the other occupants we deduced that we were some of the youngest there, for a change. All ages use the hostels. Being able to cook for yourself and having clean, cheap accommodation are the main draws. I had never considered them before as I am an inherent snob and accommodation was always so reasonably priced in all of the other countries we visited (excluding Tahiti).

I also blame Tahiti for turning me farther away from the idea of backpacking after the state of Chez Fi-Fi’s and the disappointment of the other one, too.

Really there is no need to stay anywhere else.

Trying to plan ahead I had a bit of difficulty reserving a place in Queenstown at the same time as booking the accommodation at the glacier. They were all full. When calling the Southern Laughter hostel, the most dowr, unhappy lady in the Southern hemisphere answered. She told me I had the wrong number. I then understood her manner as the (wrong) number in the Lonely Planet is the one that I had called. She must receive 300 calls per day asking if they can stay with her. If I was her I would turn it into a sport. She definitely needs something to cheer her up. Take the booking and the credit card number anyway. She can then have a smile knowing that the unfortunate traveller is not going to giggle when the Southern Laughter turns them away.

After eating our cereal from teacups (there were no bowls available – one downside of a hostel is that you have to share utensils with the other peasants) we set off to the Franz Josef glacier. I was impressed. A 30 minute stroll across the riverbed with a little bit of danger of getting your feet wet and you reach the ablation zone. You can pay a guide to take you onto the glacier and inside it, if you wish, but we were gunning to see its neighbour and took the free option of just looking at it. V’s remark was; ‘pffff. I’ve been on the Mont Blanc glacier. It’s bigger.’

One girl was in high heel boots and had to take them off to traverse the melt water river, one lad had a walking stick and had to be helped across. Both made it.

William Fox Glacier

We prepared our bag with our picnic and set off in the direction of the glacier face. At the access gate a chap from the DOC (Department of Conservation) was explaining to some German tourists that the path was closed due to a rockfall. The risk of subsequent slides was high. He stated that ‘rocks the size of camper vans’ had slid down the valley and they were ‘expecting more’. The route would reopen in a couple of hours, with luck.’

The camper van; Not officially an SI Unit but a common form of measurement in NZ, it appears.

So that was that. We ate our lunch and viewed the blues and whites of the glacier from a distance.

Some facts about the Fox Glacier. It was named after the then Prime Minister…..by himself. An ego not seen outside of the French Football Squad.

2 young tourists were killed last year when climbing on the face and it collapsed. They had passed the security barriers and were posing for photos being taken by none other than their parents. 

Thankfully plastic bags are being phased out across the globe or the parents could accidently do themselves a mischief.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    Even when driving in this country the views are fantastic. Our Cuban habits die hard and we picked up a hitchhiker (a lad from England) who had been working in Oz for a couple of years before trying his hand in NZ with his wife (a teacher). He had worked in hotels, as a mechanic, as a tour guide; anything at all. It is admirable that people such as him and his good lady still exist. No barriers, no conforming to the culture of the 9-5.

Queenstown

The Welsh lad in the hostel advised us to take the canyon swing instead of a conventional bungee jump. Reason being it last longer and also that the company that runs the bungee jumps, A.J. Hackett has become a bit of a factory. According to our host, the venerable Mr Hackett, inventor of the bungee jump was bought out by his ex-partner and ex-friend of the rights of his own name. Legally it was above board but morally it was below the belt.

V wanted to see a Kiwi – the flightless bird not just a bloke from NZ – so we visited the Kiwi wildlife park. An interesting story in itself as it was created out of a garbage dump, by one man and his family.

A veritable scrapheap challenge.

We sighted one and also a couple of Tuatara, dinosaurs that have been unchanged for 230 million years. They have a 3^rd eye on the top of their heads, for some reason, still unknown. For 230 million years.

After that it was off to throw ourselves off of stuff.

An Australian lad with us had voluntarily endured these things before and was yet to be scared by any of them (he told us). He was first off with a bin over his head. Don’t ask me why.

I was up just before V and I chose to go off backwards. Originally I wanted to be dropped head first, but was not sure how my brain would have coped. Contrary to popular belief my brain is in my head.

Although it was supposed to be scarier, I was unsure that I would be able to step off facing the precipice. Unlike bungee, the jumpmaster can touch you before the canyon swing and seeing that I was filling my grids, the jumpmaster and his assistant dutifully ripped the piss out of me.

I screamed and flailed like Pat Bonner facing a corner kick.

V went face first leaping into oblivion, then signed up for another go; this time to be released whilst hanging over the canyon to swing upside down.

My bottle had smashed so I watched.

We took the gondola to the mountain overlooking Queenstown and raced down on a non-powered kart (luge). Great fun and no too scary so we did that twice, the 2^nd time on the more difficult track.

Back on terra firma we played Frisbee golf in the gardens. Just like real golf but without the ridiculous clothing or infidelity to your wife. It was my hubris that dealt me a cruel blow following me laughing at V fishing her Frisbee (well a rented one with a NZ$20 deposit) out of the lake. The following ‘hole’ I was up to my thighs in duck pond. V managed to find the pond as well but was saved from a dip by a huge lily pad.

We did our laundry while writing postcards and I whopped V at table football (babyfoot) at the same time. Not that I am competitive, you understand.

Christchurch

It was a long drive to Christchurch but a beautiful one. Mount Cook was shrouded in cloud so we missed the highest peak in New Zealand.

Whoever named the mountains in New Zealand was prone to some violent mood swings. The Remarkables encircle Queenstown, but there are also Mt Hopeless, Mt Horrible, Mt Aspiring, Mt Soaker, Climax Peak, Elusive Peak, Adventure Hill, Attempt Hill, Deceit Peaks, Devil’s Backbone, Mt Give-up and Mt You’re F*cked^†.

For the Scots there are the Ben Nevis, the Grampian Mountains and Celtic Peak (not Park).

For SBM’ers there are Ramsey Glacier and Mt Donald Maclean.

^† Some of these names I made up but I’m not going to say which. You have to work it out for yourself.

It took us 6 hours with a couple of stops for driver changes and one for lunch. As we scoped out the pies on offer a helpful French lad explained what a pie was to V. ‘En fait, c’est comme un tourte avec la viande dedans’.

Merci beaucoup.

We checked in to our hostel an old countryhouse (hence the name). It was just superb once more. We wandered into town for a swish degustation menu with wines for each course and a meander back to our accommodation. There we crossed those who had been lubricating themselves in their own homes prior to stepping/ falling out on the town. They were the most happy, friendly good natured pissed people I’ve ever seen. ‘Have a good night on the piss’ was one greeting from an inebriated reveller. In Glasgow I would have crossed the road or have my fists clenched in my pockets.

It sums up the country, for me. Amiable people with a relaxed demeanour but with a penchance for a good time too. The country is beautiful, spectacular and rugged and only the chill in Christchurch on the day we left (11°C in summer for Christ’s sake – perhaps the name should be changed to this) would dissuade me from living here. A great place to raise kids and always plenty to see and do. A good month would be necessary to see more of the South Island and to explore farther into the North. Or you could stay forever, like my cousins.

Buenos Aries

If only we had deciphered the transport omen of doom on our flight into BA. Sitting next to a (Canadian) gentleman who would not shut his face hole. He spoke French too, so there was no escape. V and I buried our faces in our books. I was reading Homer’s The Iliad, when really it should have been The Odyssey. Or perhaps Dante would have been more appropriate.

Next it was into a taxi. Not going to go on about driving but Argentina is like Peru….on steroids. Cars are faster, more powerful and some still have those gas canisters in the boot if you are not already scared enough…..

Steve Irwin would be filling his jocks.

We had reserved an hotel in the bustling microcentro to be close to the action. In Argentina they eat later than a Roy Keane tackle so off we toddled to a classic BA restaurant at 9.30pm. Not a soul there. By the time we finished at 11.30pm it was rammed. The old waiters treated you like grandchildren, recommending which plates to have. It was so convivial; like eating at a great uncle’s. Oh and delicious food. 1-0 to the GdR in Argentina.

Next day it was grids to the launderette and an attempt to reserve some flights south to see some whales and glaciers. No luck on the transport front once more. It appears that unlike its A-Team namesake, BA hogs all the flights. Everything comes through here and there was not a connecting plane to be had. It seems Argentineans head home at Christmas too.

Not being able to see our families at Christmas, we tried to track down a post office to send some presents back. It had moved as the main building was under renovation and on locating the temporary office (after about an hour) we were told that we could only send parcels of a maximum of 2kg at a time. So off to the ‘International’ post office at the other side of town with all of our stuff.

The post office is not in the Notting Hill area of BA and when cutting through the crowd I felt the zip on my rucksack being opened. I turned in time to prevent the miscreant taking V’s camera and my laptop. Fortunately I had left my passport in the hotel.

At the post office a sour-faced female Jabba the Hutt informed us that we needed a passport to send items out of Argentina………….

Plan B was to DHL the gifts, as the Argentine mail service has a reputation more chequered than Diego Maradonna.

The only items that we could not send were the Peruvian chocolates (French regulations), so we gave some to the girl at DHL and the rest we kept for us. A partial success.

Following our jaunt into the blue collar area of Retiro (where the post office lurks) we toured Palermo, the most chic region of BA.

Subsequent to the crash of the Argentine economy in 2003, the middle class were decimated. Some are still living in poverty and for those who were struggling before, the situation became very Portsmouth football club. The government is squeezing the more fortunate with some controversial policies to aid the lower classes. This was explained in a very different way to the text in my guide by Claudio and Viviana (see later), who are obviously on the receiving (or is it giving?) end of Mrs Kirchner’s methods.

Feeling suitably bourgeois, we ate in the best restaurant on the quay, slurping fine wine while the well-heeled looked down over their noses at our shabby attire. Fortunately there were Americans there, so we were not the worst dressed.

The next day it was an early rise resplendent with hangover for the fast ferry to Uruguay.

Prior to our scintillating food on the dockside the night before we had reserved tickets to travel across the River Plate (In Spanish it means the silver river – it is indeed greyish – but the English translator must have had a schedule to meet).

V was not amused to discover that our reservation had been deleted. A bit of arguing with Mullet 1 at the cash desk and we were prompted to Mullet 2 (more helpful) to redo our reservation. Then it was back to Mullet 1 to pay.

Queuing. The Argentineans love standing in line. Not just straight ones but ones that have gaps across pavements to allow those not queuing to pass by and that can also turn corners and extend for 200 metres. French people do not understand the art of queuing but being a Brit I was strangely compelled to stand at the end of any I saw.

Colonia (Uruguay)

The fast ferry was comfortable and the immigration control a marvel in efficiency. This was the only transport that we took in Argentina that was flawless.

We arrived in Colonia, a quaint picture postcard colonial (no pun intended) town, wandered through the 6 museums (all about the size of a decent bedroom) and had a rubbish lunch by the riverside.

Dinner in BA the previous night had been V’s choice, prompted by the Guide de Routard. Lonely Planet (my guide) wins on info, Guide de Routard on culinary matters.

From now on we’ll put an LP (for Lonely Planet) and a GdR (for the Guide de Routard) after every restaurant and keep score.

An example of the Lonely Planet’s thoroughness is that they mention an industrial town by the name of Fray Bentos, a 4 hour bus ride from Colonia. For those not familiar with this most British of brands, Fray Bentos manufactured meat pies in Frisbee shaped tins and kept students alive for their first months away from home. Being too far away to get there and back in a day we did not manage to see if there was a monument to Chris Williams inside the (now defunct) factory.

That evening we took in a spellbinding tango show. Another discovery was Dave Montgomery’s splendid singing voice (see the photos).

Iguazu

In a downpour we took a taxi to the airport to catch a flight north to the border town of Puerto Iguazu. Being Europeans we arrive in airports early and we walked into carnage. Orderly queues everywhere but it had taken so long to check-in for some, they had missed their flight. A flight cancellation also knocked us back to the following flight. No apologies, no voucher for a sandwich but we were thankful that we would be moving at least.

The bad weather continued and we finally left 3 hours later than scheduled.

We recovered our sodden bags from the carousel in Puerto Iguazu. They had been sitting in the torrential rain for 5 hours or so. In the hotel it was everything out, air conditioning on and our room transformed to a Chinese laundry.

At the airport we had taken an official taxi. It was twice the price from my guide. It seems inflation is hammering Argentina with the real rate far above the official one of 9%. From when my guide book was written (middle of 2008) prices for the tourist attractions, guides and tours have all doubled.

Only the entry into the national park, AR$60 instead of an indicated $AR40 was below this.

The falls are on the border of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay and are mesmerising in their size, noise and beauty.  At lunchtime we took a fast RIB and due to us only being a few, the helmsman made sure we were well dunked under the torrents.

The name of the RIB (Rigid Inflatable Boat)? Espiritu Santo. It was just like its (almost) namesake FPSO except that it actually worked.

At the end of the day we were rowed down the river in a boat. All very relaxing.

The wildlife was abundant. We saw Coutis (Raccoon type creatures), monkeys, many wild birds (including Toucans), tiger ants (about 3cm long), yellow ants that defend their host tree from insect invaders, snakes, lizards and alligators. Butterflies are everywhere and they land on you to hoover moisture from your skin. A strange sensation.

Back in Puerto Iguazu we broke our unwritten rule of not eating Italian food when not in France or Italy. Argentina has a strong Italian heritage and the pasta was fabulous. V had gnocchi which is served on the 29^th of the month in most restaurants. In the past, the reason for this was that it was subsidised by the government and served at the end of the month – why is there always a lot of month left at the end of the money?

Gnocchis is also the less affectionate name for members of the Argentine Civil Service. They do very little but are guaranteed something at the end of the 4^th week. 

The following day we revisited the falls from the Brazilian side. It was an idea that many others had as we saw some familiar faces from the previous day.

We made a trivial error with the immigration, checking out of Argentina but not into Brazil. Erroneously stopping at the Brazilian immigration on the way back there was consternation and calling of station chiefs. V’s fine Portuguese apologies (and blonde hair) worked wonders and we were let off with a wag of the finger and ‘do better next time’. 

Food was good in a restaurant that struggled with the service of so many patrons so much so that families complained vociferously or walked away without eating at all.

I replaced my Havaianas as my feet were torn to pieces by the muck I had bought out of necessity in Mexico. I still wonder how a Brazilian product can be cheaper in Argentina than in the country of manufacture. Similarly, in Mexico, Perrier is cheaper than in Nice. Discuss.

Mullets

Note that a mullet is a hair style and not a place.

Argentina is the country of the mullet (as well as the queue). This was not acceptable in Maradonna’s heyday in 1986. Unlike fine claret, the mullet does not age well and 23 years have not made ambrosia from vinegar. Still there are many impressive examples to spot; the twist (pony-tailed); the Michael Bolton; the Pat Sharpe; the Bono; the Peter Grant. It defies generations, sexes and social boundaries. V’s sister and brother in law, Caroline and Fabrice (both hairdressers) could do some meaningful work here. They would have queues around the block for their services. Literally.

We have tried on our journey to bring you the documentary evidence of the finest examples of mulletry. Argentina is unparalleled. It is uplifting to see this fine tradition of appalling (appealing, if you are German) hairstyle alive and well throughout the world.

San Ignacio

The bus was stopped in traffic for 3 hours (on top of its scheduled 6) due to a strike by disgruntled locals. They blocked the road and refused to let any vehicles pass until someone in power came to speak to them. To compound our misery a teenage baw-bag insisted on playing snippets of his repertoire of Spanish power ballads on his mobile phone. I spoke to him (in English), another woman had a calm word before V threatened him with me taking the phone off of him and either inserting it in him or ejecting him/ it from the bus. He had told the lady who spoke to him after I had that his earphones were not working. Miraculously they appeared to be functioning again after a threat of a Nokia/rectal interface.

We therefore had only one hour to explore the ruins of the Jesuit Mission in San Ignacio. If ever there was need to show religion having a positive effect, this is it. Unfortunately, the government of the time (and the Vatican) suppressed the Jesuits and the missions faltered. For a good cry rent the DVD The Mission with Jeremy Irons and Robert de Niro.

We raced with all our gear to the tourist office to attempt to catch a bus to anywhere. Cordoba was the only option and there were 2 seats available on a bus at 8.00pm. The chap in the tourist office was very helpful, even offering to phone ahead to book our accommodation. V gave our ad(mission) tickets to a grungy French couple (Swampy and Marsha) as they granted access to the nighttime light and sound show

We were waiting at the side of the road for our transport as there is no bus station in San Ignacio (contrary to what the LP says). A chap asked where we were going and with which company. He told us we would have to walk another 2km (we had already transported our bags weighing the same as a standard American lunch about 1.5km from the Mission) to the petrol station at the top of the hill to flag down the bus we were to take. It was 7.55pm so we grabbed the same taxi that picked us up when we arrived earlier that evening and he took us, his wife and his daughter (who were still there from before) up to the Esso garage.

There we waited for 3 hours, flashing our torches and waving like castaways who have spotted a passing ship at any bus that came our way. Just before we were about to head back into town to try and find somewhere to sleep the night, the correct bus pulled over.

With champagne and a hot meal we settled down in our reclining seat/beds to watch a film.

Cordoba

We arrived in Argentina’s 2^nd city in the middle of the afternoon. The hotel was under renovation and the room the temperature of the sun.

It started to rain. The same torrential rain that Singapore and Malaysia have. Except that it did not stop. It flowed over kerbs and cut power to blocks of the city. I was scared to lose one of my new flip flops in an Igauzu-style white water drain. We were on our way to a recommended restaurant and we stopped for a beer out of the downpour. The rain was mesmerising and we decided to eat where we were before the power disappeared from this part of the city.

After the deluge the air sizzled with an electrical storm. Lightning flashed behind and between dark clouds. An incredible sight. Even more spellbinding was that there was no accompanying soundtrack.

Next day was Christmas Eve and laundry day. It was also a day of trying to hire a car or book a bus and reserve a restaurant for the night.

With not a car to be had we managed to get a place on a bus on Christmas day to La Rioja. The lad in the hotel also managed to book a restaurant for us for the night. All beyond the call of duty, so we gave him one of our bottles of wine we had picked up in the supermarket earlier. We had bought a contingency picnic for Christmas Day.

Dressed in our Sunday best we ate well at the restaurant (even though they overcooked V’s meat - normal for South American countries), stepping outside to watch the fireworks. There were police on every corner. I guess that they were there for overtime to pay Santa as the streets were silent.

Like an SBM FPSO it could have all been perfect, but it was just a little flawed in places. Over Christmas you need to plan or else you are stuffed more than the turkey.

We watched the fireworks from our hotel balcony. Two great free shows on successive nights.

On Christmas day after speaking to my younger brother on Skype we ate our picnic in the square in the centre of the city. Hardly a soul. Only homeless people, dogs and us.

It was time to take the bus and our luck had not changed. With the brake locked on one of the wheels, it smoked like Yul Brimmer on the highway. The bus pulled into a little mechanic’s place in a tiny town/ settlement and the fella performed some percussive maintenance beneath the stricken behemoth. For once we were lucky.

A girl on the bus was returning home and when waiting for the mechanic to work his magic, she reserved a place for us in La Rioja. Bless her cotton socks.

La Rioja

Next morning was spent trying to track down a car rental place mentioned in the GdR. It did not exist. The ones that did were closed. We found one called Winner and we hired a Chevrolet Corsa but with a boot. The one advantage being we could put both our bags in it. American car companies deserve to go bust for creating things like this.

With the morning gone we drove to the geological park. The roads are arrow straight going on until melting into the horizon like mercury in the heat haze. It was 38°C outside and we passed a cyclist, replete with panniers toiling along the burnt tarmac.

Not my idea of a good holiday.

In both directions we passed only a handful of other motorists but plenty of goats (the 4 legged kind, not the cyclist), horses, cows and sheep.

Occasionally a road runner would dash from the bush scrambling across the road in front of the car. The cartoon Road Runner must be the only one with a sense of self preservation. The rest are suicidal.

Parque Nacional Talampaya

It was only V and I on our private tour. Even though the sand burned my flip flop shod feet (it was 43°C in the park) I could not help be impressed by the rock formations, early nomadic inscriptions and 150m sandstone cliffs. See V’s photos.

My Uncles Frank and Graham (geologists) would love this place. Lucy Capeling, too.

San Agustin de la valley fertil

On our way to our hotel for the night we passed the same cyclist on the road. He must have covered over 100km that day, and he still had 14 to go before he made it to a town. All in 40°C. He was not going to be happy with the comical undulating road where the river (when it rains) runs over the asphalt. Once installed in the hotel we took some olives and a bottle of wine to the swimming pool. There we met two couples; one Argentine – Claudio and Viviana. We chatted as Viviana had spent some time working in Paris, and Claudio had been everywhere. After the bottle and a wash we met them again for some dinner in town.

Parque Provincial Ischigualasto

Next day we headed back along the rollercoaster road (no sign of a cyclist so I hope he made it) we traversed the day before to the park of Ischigualasto. A little less eco friendly, we toured the site in our cars (4 of them) with the guide hitching a ride with Claudio and Viviana. Our host explained how 250million years ago the sedimentary layers (and the oldest dinosaur on record) were displaced through tectonic action, tipped over like a sliced loaf of bread (explaining the angle of repose) and uncovered numerous fossils.

Enough to leave geologists and palaeontologists reaching for the special sock.

The double acts of wind and water erosion had again created some dazzling effects and V’s photos are worth a view.

For the drillers out there, there were hills of bentonite, that white stuff that you put down the well to increase the specific gravity of the mud. No? That stuff you once tried to eat and you were very ill and couldn’t eat your jelly and ice cream and the OIM was very annoyed and took your crayons and colouring-in books off of you for a week.  

Our car had a semi flat tyre to add to the blowing exhaust (on inspection on the ramp later it was found only to be the coupling between the front silencer and the rear box that had loosened). 108000 km. Heap of dung and a fortune to rent. The car in Cuba and most of our buses were a better ride.

It made it back to La Rioja where V gave the owner some chew, only to be met by a smile.

We had time to grab some dinner and a beer in the main square and watch the boy racers do their laps before grabbing an overnight bus to Mendoza.

Mendoza

This was the bus of Satan. Although V had explicitly requested seats on the top deck we were folded in to the bottom at the back next to the engine. In fact, it felt like being in an engineroom on a ship. The thump thump of the diesel behind us and the temperature of 35°C. Our seat numbers had been written in (drillers’) crayon on the bulkhead above us leading us to believe that an extra row had been crammed in as a very poor afterthought. The seat of the guy in front of V was broken so when it reclined, it landed on her lap.

I asked the co-driver to up the output of the air conditioning but as the system was not balanced properly those upstairs turned to ice. One hour of kip and I was awoken when we were stopped once more with an unknown problem at the side of the road. We arrived at 8.00am in Mendoza. In pieces.

After paying the sweaty man who removes the baggage from the hold of the bus a couple of dollars we grabbed a taxi that was coke can thin. I prayed that we did not hit anything, and if we did then it to be another taxi.

I later read of the legend of ‘Gauchito’ Gil, a Robin Hood-like character from the 19^th Century who was eventually captured and killed by the army. Before his grisly death at the hands of the law - he was hang upside down from a tree and beheaded - he informed the executioner that his son was ill if his body was buried – uncommon for a renegade – the boy would recover. On returning to his home the hangman discovered that his son was indeed gravely ill, fetched the body and buried it. The lad recovered immediately. So there are makeshift shrines to Gil along Argentina’s roads that passing cars should honk their horns to or else face interminable delay or sometimes not at all…….

As I said, I found out about this later.

Or perhaps it was when the black cat stood on a cracked pavement while walking under a stepladder and caused a mirror to crack.

The GdR had recommended a small hotel and we checked in with the most exuberant and friendly woman in South America. The room was not ready, so no shower, no doze but we could drop our bags.

A quick coffee in a café and we embarked on a mission to a wine tour in nearby Maipu.

An old chap at the bus stop directed us to where we could buy our chip card for the bus and to where we could hire transport (bikes) in Maipu. The amateurs are more friendly and helpful than the organised tour operators. La Rioja and Cordoba take note

Maipu

Vineyard heaven, with olive trees growing alongside. We picked up some hire bikes and helmets (safety first). This is more than what some motorcyclists wear in Argentina.

Claudio had explained that the law differs from region to region. In La Rioja we saw father, mother, daughter and baby on a moped; all of them without helmets. They were at least wearing their safety flip-flops.

V convinced the reluctant tourguide in the museum to do just that; guide us on a tour. We then sampled some wine before moving on to taste chocolate and liqueurs. One being absinthe. My Lord.

Back on the bike we cycled the 9km to a little French run vineyard, sobering up en route.  The two owners restarted it - it was a defunct vineyard - in 2003. A small operation, it produces only 100,000 litres per year. Pifling compared to the quantity the other vineyards pump out. We invested in a bottle after some (paid for) tasting, as we had decided to give a gift of a bottle of wine to my family in New Zealand from the previous country we had visited.

A tradition that we plan to continue.

Another French couple with us bought a 2004 bottle (the first vintage from the vineyard) for Ar$500 (about 100 euros). Am not sure I would ever spend 100 bucks on booze, unless it was an ample amount of Guinness. Saying that, I have blown more on a bottle of vodka in a Monaco Club, but by then I could hardly speak.

One of the vineyard owners is an electrical engineer. It therefore seemed more strange to me that the winery was using neither solar or wind power.

He explained that there were infrastructure problems (storage and cooling capacity) so it would make sense to harness the available natural resources. In Mendoza they already do, with glacial meltwater being used to artificially irrigate the vines. All very different from France where nature is left to its own devices.

This stream diverted through the warehouse would provide adequate cooling. His wine is very good so perhaps he made the better career decision.

It was then back on the bike to another vineyard, again small but this time much cheaper.

Following our last wine stop we ate excellent lasagne (GdR), thoroughly smashing our Italian food abroad rule. We only drank water with our food. No wine was necessary.

On returning our hired bikes we had a chat with the owner’s kids about their currency collections. They coaxed a Brazilian Riais and 25 Cuban cents out of me. I think it will be hard to trump the latter.

On the return to our hotel we finally had a shower, soaking our aching cheeks. When you haven’t cycled for a long time, it hurts. Sorer than Macauley Culkin’s after a visit to Neverland. The bikes were the most successful and least painful transport we had in Argentina.

Refreshed, we ventured out to a specialty wine and cheese tasting restaurant (LP). Excellent stuff then off to bed.

Bueonos Aries (again)

In Mendoza, we had mulled (see what I did there?) over whether we should take a good hotel and simple food or vise versa when we returned to BA. In our normal fashion we had not reserved an hotel and the Costa Rica was full. Helpfully, they arranged a room for us in the hotel Magnolia in the adjacent street. With a little negotiation on the price (go V) that Carwin would be proud of, we were installed for welcome wine and canapés.

Learning our lesson we organised our hotels in Tahiti via the web.

As we had chosen a boutique hotel we ate in fair priced restaurant, Don Julio. Still, the food and service were superb. Less so were the manners of the lady in the restaurant. They are strange the BA’s. They’ll queue like it was a soup kitchen but if you are discussing with a receptionist, maitre’d or the pope, they’ll butt in. This was what occurred when we were putting our names down for a table. A blonde, highly stressed woman had been standing like rigidly outside but had not addressed herself to the maitre’d. When she saw us do so, she jumped over our shoulders to put her name before ours.

Originally we were seated outside, but being a little chilly for V we were relocated inside by the friendly waiter. We also signed the bottle of wine we enjoyed (from the little French vineyard where we were in Maipu) and it was placed with the others on display.

Next morning with a great breakfast in us we took a pre-booked taxi to the airport. It was just like the French movie of the same name.  

If you ever have constipation I would recommend an Argentinean taxi ride.

So there we were 2 hours before our flight. Or so we thought. We had not verified our departure flight and it had moved to one hour earlier.

Thank you, Fangio.

For all its good food, we ate some substandard offerings in Argentina. Transport scuppered us. We lost about 3 days with strikes, broken down buses and just trying to get anywhere. It blunted the experience. I am sure and hope (for Argentineans and tourists alike) that it was just due to the Christmas period.

Socially, there is a large split between the middle and the working classes in Argentina. This was evident in BA more than anywhere else and through discussing with Claudio and Viviana. Why should those with, pay for those who have not? Why should there be those who are poor? I don’t mean this in the terms of the ‘disappeared’ but more in the way Norway operates. There are those who would be on the street with nothing earning a good living in Scandinavia. Mostly as Project Managers.

It will be interesting to see how Kirchner (Mrs) copes with this growing discord in the richer parts of the country.

To see how the country progresses under its present leadership and to experience it in winter - skiing in the Andes, whale watching, glaciers calving into the ocean – would necessitate a return to this vast and fascinating country. Hopefully next year.