Dave Bikeabouts New Zealand's South Island

February 10-15, 2007

I have alighted in Christchurch having finished my six day cycling adventure. The trip was run by Adventure South – a New Zealand company that does both cycling and hiking excursions. To start with a brief geography lesson, New Zealand is a tall, narrow country of about 100,000 square miles, stretching through about 1000 miles of the South Pacific. In our measurement units, it is about 20 Connecticuts or a virtually infinite number of Rhode Islands. It is also about one Oregon, which is probably a better comparison, since it has about the same population (4 million) and falls in comparable latitudes in the southern hemisphere, though what with it being so long and thin the southernmost parts of New Zealand are somewhat colder (say mid Canada) and the northernmost parts sub-tropical (say mid California). It has two main islands – conveniently named North Island and South Island. The South Island where my tour was is more sparsely populated, rugged and colder. (Can anyone tell me why the South Island would be colder than the North Island? Let’s not always see the same hands.)

Whether or not you are keen on peddling, the South Island is worth visiting for the dramatic landscapes. If you are a Lord of the Rings fan much of it will look eerily familiar as it was filmed here. I saw an interview with Peter Jackson, the director, where he says that everyone assumed the mythological landscapes of Middle Earth were created in the studios, but really they are New Zealand pretty much as is. Clearly there was some cutting and pasting and shuffling around with green screens. But the landscape is true to the movies, or visa versa. Across from Queenstown you see the Remarkable mountain range – that’s an upper case 'R' – when you see it you can appreciate where the name came from. It looks just like some peaks Frodo and Sam crossed to enter Mordor. You pass a broad valley with distant peaks that looks just like the plains of Gondor. Here and there you pick up bits and pieces of Rivendale, the capital of the elves. Other places are reminiscent of Tudor, Fordor, or even Hatchback. Of course there are Lord of the Rings tours which drive you to the various locations in coaches with the films playing on monitors – kind of like the Sound of Music tours you can take in Salzburg, only for nerds instead of homosexuals.

My cycling tour was called the "West Coast Escape". It started in Queenstown and for six days ran through some spectacular mountain landscapes down to the western shore and then along the Tasman Sea coast past some impressive glaciers. For those looking for a longer trip or different types of terrain Adventure South offers other segments before and after this one which cover terrain like the Milford Sound or the east coast. (I actually visited the Milford sound separately on a coach trip from Queenstown. It is a pretty spectacular fiord that you cruise through and get wet, since it is always raining.)

This was a fully-supported bike tour, meaning that we had a van accompanying us all the way with the option of cycling as much or as little as we wished. The daily itineraries hopped along to the more interesting stretches, and individually we could choose to put the bike on the trailer for the tougher portions. There were nine people in the tour with varying levels of cycling enthusiasm, and I’d say they averaged 40 to 80 kilometers of fairly hilly cycling per day. I fell somewhere in the middle, neither disgracing nor distinguishing myself, holding back out of concern for my Iliotibial Bands only just recovered from my Inca Trail excursion. I’m pleased to report that the old ITBs performed superbly and that I will have to come up with a new excuse for future episodes of sluggishness.

For the seriously inclined, the South Island of New Zealand really is a cyclist's paradise. The scenery is spectacular, with dramatic ragged mountains, blue-green lakes, forests, fields, and rivers, with the occasional waterfall and glacier. The roads are uniformly in good condition, and traffic is minimal or nonexistent. Most riding was on blacktop, though there were a few stretches of dirt and gravel roads. The hybrid bikes provided were up to that task and (with one exception) they were an interesting change of pace. The climate at this time of year is reasonably cool though the sun can be intense. We ran into only one brief rain storm, though on our route that was exceptional since the West Coast is the wettest part of New Zealand -- other routes are considerably drier. There was a lot of variety in the terrain in a relatively small area, as we moved from the highland mountains, past lakes, lowland plains, and the more heavily forested West Coast.

For the less than serious cyclist there are probably better choices than New Zealand’s South Island. Much of the country is pretty empty aside from sheep (10 per man – make up your own joke), and in the mountains you can go a long way without even seeing them. So while the fully assisted touring mode means you only need to cycle when you like, there really isn’t anything else to do. Aside from one morning where we had options to visit a glacier, there were no non-cycling activities included as part of the tour. (Other legs of the Adventure South routes may have a little more by way of extra-biking activities, but not too much.) In comparison, bike tours through France, Tuscany, etc. have towns along the way to stop in, visit the church or café, or just dawdle through for those not interested in racking up the miles.

For what I was looking for it was a most enjoyable trip. It was a real nice group of people, a fine explore, and some great exercise. I am now fit as a fiddle, though somewhat out of tune. I have no idea what that means.

Your faithful correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

Anybody out there? Hello? Hello?

February 12, 2007

Judging from the dearth of commentary on these postings, I have come to the reluctant conclusion that most of my “readership” is functionally illiterate. I can see you now, phonetically sounding out the words of this post in a vain search for references to hot turtle action. Let me enlighten you. This blog does not exist for your prurient amusement. It exists for my prurient amusement. More fundamentally, turtles are reptiles and – hence – cold blooded. Any photos which may or may not appear on this blog of turtle afternoon delights will accurately depict them at ambient temperatures.

Remember, dear friends, reading is not a spectator sport! Well, actually I suppose it is, but blogging is not. You lurkers out there (you know who you are, no use hiding under your keyboards) certainly have worthy thoughts to share. Perhaps they are not as worthy as mine, but it would be nice to hear what they are so that I can mock them.

For the record, I am now on the third day of my bicycling tour through the South Island of New Zealand. Having a splendid time and you can count on me to report fully at a later date.

Your faithful correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

No guts, no glory!

February 10, 2007

Yesterday morning found me perched on a two foot by two foot square metal platform poised precariously 500 feet over a raging river, the only thing between your humble correspondent and eternity a rather large rubber band. Yes friends, I was about to bungee jump.

New Zealanders are bonkers for adventure sports, and Queenstown, South Island, where I found myself wobbling, is the capital of it all. Name an adventure sport and they hazard it here. Go on, name one. Well, hamster wrestling isn’t the first I would have thought of, but I wouldn’t be surprised if they do that. Along with class 5 white water rafting, canyon jet boating, rock and ice climbing, river surfing, paragliding, hang gliding, skydiving, aerial swings, mountain biking and the luge. Almost daily they seem to come up with new ones – such as piloting yourself in a wire-guided jet powered aircraft. And of course, there is bungee jumping. Did you know that it originated here in Queenstown before spreading its elastic tentacles around the planet? Of course you didn't. I’m sorry I asked.

Walking down the main streets of Queenstown you are deluged with stores offering you their unique brand of peril. “Face the fear,” the signs read, “the ultimate jump”, “freefall into paradise”, “twist and turn through narrow canyons at breathtaking speed”, “incredible ground rush”, “don’t look down”…” I selected among these with care. It had to be maximally impressive to others, provide a permanent DVD record of my exploits as proof for the skeptical, and – most important – involve zero actual risk of bodily injury to your precious correspondent. Bungee jumping fit the bill nicely.

The bungee options were several. Karauru Gorge has history going for it. It was here Mr. Hackett invented the sport, and the jump is from a 19^th century rail road bridge. Also I loved hearing the Scottish girl at the counter pronounce the consecutive “r”s in Karauru – sort of an extended purr. But the bridge looks kind of rusty, and perhaps they haven’t bothered to replace the rubber bands in the last two decades. Mostly though, the drop is only 40 meters or so. My operative theory is that only the first and last meter really count. Once you step out into space you are just along for the ride. And most serious falling injuries only occur in the final meter, right? I was quite sure that I would never want to do it again, so I figured if I started with the absolute biggest I could confidently check bungee jumping off my life’s to do list once and for all. That would be the Nevis jump, with a drop of 134 meters, one of the world’s highest. In Walkabout units that is fully 4/10ths of an Empire State Building.

It turns out that my theory of the first and last meter misses some of the psychological nuances of the thing. There is a part of me (one that I will always cherish) that balks at jumping from the equivalent height of a 50 story building. This quickly became evident when we arrived at the jump site.

The whole ordeal takes place at Nevis canyon, 45 minutes out of Queenstown. They outfit you with a harness that goes about the legs, shoulders and chest, and give you a brief briefing, the only part of which stuck with me is that there were absolutely no refunds available, under any circumstances, none, absolutely, none. Surprisingly, the question has come up before. The cost of a jump is not inconsequential – some $250 New Zealand dollars. Of course, New Zealand dollars are worth less than real dollars. I’m not quite sure how much less since one of Walkabout’s travel tips is to never be quite sure of the exchange rate. It makes spending your children’s inheritance much more fun. If cost is an issue, there is a cheaper alternative that involves collecting your own rubber bands. But it is time consuming and the results may be unsatisfactory.

After getting harnessed up I decided a brief stop in the restroom was in order. Though confident of my own fortitude, I was less sure of my bladder’s. I made nervous small talk with the fellow in the urinal next to me – “Ever done this before?”, I asked. “No, its my first time.” “That’s remarkable – you’ve never urinated before! Well, you seem to be getting the hang of it nicely.” As an experienced hand, I left him with the suggestion that he zip up. It would look better on the jump video.

While on the subject of sanitary facilities, I must say that New Zealand has some of the most varied and innovative urinals I have encountered in all my travels. I know you are expecting me to suggest some trenchant if improbable theory for this, but I confess I am at a loss. I would solicit readers’ suggestions, but I am afraid of what you might come up with.

The Nevis jump is made from a metal pod, a sort of cage, perhaps 12 feet by 12 feet, suspended by cables 500 feet over a dramatic canyon. You reach the pod by a small cable trolley, itself an experience to test the bowels of lesser men. Once in the pod, you can watch the plummet of those doomed to go before you through clear floor panels. I more sensibly followed the advice of their marketing campaign: “Don’t look down!”

When my turn came, they ushered me into a chair which – though I am admittedly no expert– looks like it was borrowed from a gynecologist’s office. With my legs up in stirrups, they put additional straps on each and then bolted them together. Apparently some genius decided the thrill of the jump could be enhanced by doing it in leg irons. I was then asked to inch forward onto the aforementioned tiny platform. I now know what it feels like to walk the plank.

Up to the last I expected a reprieve – that they would tell me I couldn’t jump because my VISA account had been blocked. You see, though Kathy is half a planet away she has iron control of all credit card charges. When her computer screen flashed a charge titled something like “Hackett’s Quite Risky and, Frankly, Irresponsible Bungee Jumping, Inc.” I assumed she would be on it like white on rice. One of the primary benefits of a wife is to give you a graceful way out of doing things you know you really ought not be doing in the first place. Inexcusably, Kathy dropped the ball on this one. Shame on you Kathy, leaving me to rely on my own judgment – not one of my long suits. Fair warning – next week I’m contemplating a visit to the Christchurch Poisonous Snake and Toothy Crocodile Petting Zoo.

By the way, if you are ever scheduled to bungee and concerned that you might back out, you could try what one English fellow in our group did. He brought along his wife and two daughters, ages 5 and 9, to watch. There’s a fellow who didn’t have any real options, unless of course he was ready to spend the next 10 years hearing his daughters tell everyone “our daddums was going to do something ever so brave, but then he went all wobbly”.

The important question, of course, is “why?” Why did your valiant correspondent feel the need to put himself on that ever so small platform over that ever so high canyon? Here’s the thing. The world is very large, and the range of experiences open to all of us is vast. But once you start caving in to your fears it can become very small very quickly. Clearly, just because you are afraid of something isn’t itself a reason to do it. Particularly here in Queenstown, New Zealand, there seem to be a lot of people who do frightening things for the adrenaline rush. They are fear junkies, and as much captives of their fears as those who stay away from anything that makes their hearts flutter. That’s not what I am advocating. Your reasoning mind needs to be in charge and it is quite reasonable to avoid things that are dangerous and unproductive. Frequently fear is a good indicator that something is not a good idea. But if there is something your reasoning mind wants to do, and you have carefully evaluated the risks, you need to confront the fears that get in the way. Whatever your fear is, be it commitment, rejection, failure, public speaking, flying, or any of the myriad others we share, it should be addressed head on. By bungee jumping I had the opportunity to prove to myself that I was capable of confronting a deeply held fear and overcoming it. And that is good practice for other more important parts of my life.

So I stood at the end of that platform and jumped off and out in a wide swan dive that caught some air and actually looks rather good on the video. I’ll post it on this website if I can figure out how. They were truthful – the ground rush during the eight seconds of free fall was incredible, though about eight seconds more ground rush then I care to experience in my lifetime. And the best part is I never have to do it again.

The only problem is that I am having flashbacks of standing on the small platform and leaping into space. I’m concerned that I may have post-traumatic stretch disorder. (Get it? You see I experienced a ‘traumatic stretch’ since bungee cords are elastic. Oh never mind, sometimes I wonder why I even bother… )

Your faithful and intact correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

Like the Zen master said to the hot dog vendor, “Make me one, with everything”

February 2 to 4, 2007

I arrived in Rarotonga on Friday, which is curious since I left Fiji on Saturday. Something to do with the International Date Line. It seems that tomorrow in the Cooks is yesterday in Fiji, while Fiji’s tomorrow is our next Saturday, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty deaths. (I must warn you, by the way, that an even deeper analysis of the Date Line is on my list of fascinating future blog topics, along with IMF policy in the South Pacific and the 20 uses Fiji islanders make of the cocoanut. There may still be time for you to have this blog filtered as spam before those posts hit.)

I wasn’t able to send out my post backlog on the flight over. A lot of airports I’ve encountered don’t have true wi fi connections for my PC – just kiosks which don’t let me upload what I have written. I do have a lead on a wifi connection at the hotel next door, so hopefully this will reach you this PM.

Rarotonga is a great island, worthy of its exotically cool name. It is oval shaped with dramatic saw toothed volcanic peaks in the center surrounded by a flat and fertile plain and lovely beaches. The perimeter road around the island is about 38 kilometers and I have rented a scooter and tootled around it a couple of times. It is a great way to see the island. They drive on the wrong side of the road, so I follow suit to humor them, most of the time. (Yes Kathy, I do have a helmet.)

The conventional wisdom is that Rarotonga is like Tahiti was, before it got overdeveloped, overpriced, dirty and crime ridden. And there are no French! (That could be the slogan of the tourist board.) I’ve not been there, but nobody seems to have much good to say about Tahiti, though in fairness the food has got to be better. Unfortunately I won’t have time to get to Aitutaki as previously planned. That is one of the outer Cook islands, a spectacular atoll compared to Tahiti’s Bora Bora of 30 years ago (and there are no French!). I’m only here till tomorrow (my tomorrow, not Fiji’s, which won’t come for several weeks).

Today is Sunday, and I was advised by many who should know to attend an island church service – a kind of cross between gospel and South Seas hula, inspiring, devout and not be missed. Not one to put the sacred before the profane, I signed up instead for a two tank scuba dive. I was sure I would forget to bring my newly minted PADI certification card and they wouldn’t let me dive. I set it aside carefully to be sure I’d bring it when they picked me up early this morning. When we reached the dive site at the other end of the island I proudly pulled presented my card and then realized I forgot my prescription dive mask. Those of you who know me well will know that, among my many imperfections, perhaps the most imperfect is my vision. (A close second would be my attention to detail when woken early in the AM, and –no- I am not accepting other nominations.) Without a prescription dive mask I would be a hazard to myself and all life aquatic. I’d be more likely to attempt buddy breathing with a moray eel than to find the surface at the end of a dive. I had to abort.

There I was, stuck at the other end of the island without my trusty scooter and no apparent way to return to my hotel. Rarotonga is well served by buses running around the perimeter, but there were differing opinions as to whether they run on Sunday in clockwise or (aren’t foreigners cute) anti-clockwise directions, or at all. Very little does run in the Cooks on a Sunday. Ultimately, a bus did come and I had a pleasant ride back about the island, as well as the opportunity to take what may be a prize-winning series of photos which I title “photos taken from bus after forgetting prescription dive mask like an idiot”. Plus I got a chance to go to a church service and become possessed of the Holy Spirit or at least get some face time with the big guy and give him a fighting chance to recognize me on judgment day.

Which brings me to my point (I always do seem to have a point, though my readers are often comotose by the time I get there) and the subject of my sermon this morning – “where can we find paradise?” You see, waiting at the shady bus stop on the side of road, for the bus that might never come, to take me back to the hotel from which I started, I was entirely happy. There was no place I wanted more to be and I didn’t particularly care if the bus ever arrived. I came to the South Seas hoping to find paradise on just the right blue lagoon, resting on sugar sand, under the perfect palm tree. As a crass American, I immediately think of paradise in terms of a place or thing. I love the landscape painting of the Italian Renaissance where the painters conjure up visions of earthly paradise in the Tuscan landscapes. Hanging on my walls back home are prints by Thomas McKnight who does more or less the same thing with the pools, gardens and mansions of places like Palm Springs, the Hamptons, Bermuda and the Greek islands. The illusion is always that if you can find, buy or rent just the right place and things you can be captured in the moment of peace and contentment of the painting.

Of course that doesn’t work. You travel 12,000 miles to get there, stretch out in the hammock, and find you have a nagging itch under your left shoulder blade. Or you need to go to the bathroom. Or you are too hot or too cold. Or, worst of all, you are just bored. What now? The truth is that paradise isn’t a place and doesn’t come from a thing. It can only be found inside you. The closest I got to it in my south sea travels turned out to be a shady bus stop.

If I knew anything more about Zen then I have garnered from 50 years worth of fortune cookies I could probably equate this to concepts like nirvana, which I gather is a state of lack of wants. And, next time I am strategically canned with some weeks of severance I am definitely overdue time with a Zen master in Nepal. But in the meantime, I’ll just leave you with a platitude I found in a particularly good cookie – “Life isn’t a destination. It’s a journey.”

“Ah master Walkabout!” I hear you say, “I think I finally understand your teachings. And when life deals you lemons, make lemonade!”

Not even close, you platitudinous chowderhead. Once again you have missed the point. You are working from a rancid cookie. Your fruit-laden aphorism falls a Pacific’s-width wide of the mark. My pearls find naught but swine. When life deals you lemons, screw lemonade -- be the lemon. Expressed yet another way, if you ever go looking for your heart’s desire, look no further than your own backyard. Unless your backyard is covered in snow. In that case, head South immediately.

Your faithful correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

At Beachcombers Island

February 1 to 3, 2007

Beachcombers was a disappointment. It didn’t have the expected level of water sports. Parasailing looked like a bore – they put you in a parachute harness on the beach, tow you into the air for a while and drop you back on the beach. Basically an amusement park ride involving no skill and virtually no chance of breaking your neck -- I couldn’t see dropping $70 bucks on that. The wind was only right for windsurfing a couple of hours in the afternoon, and it decided to rain both days. More substantively, the place was infested with depressingly young backpackers. I spent much of the time catching up on my blogging, and am now virtually up to date. So my loss is your gain.

A word on my blogging approach. I have been writing up rough notes as I go and then expanding on them when I have the time. Then when I hit an internet connection I’ll do a quick check to make sure they are sufficiently bitter and sarcastic and pop them off to your eagerly waiting eyeballs. But I’ve been traveling in some primitive, low bandwidth lands and a backlog is building up. Hopefully, on my flight tomorrow to the Cook islands I’ll be able to post them all. I’ve started putting dates on each so that you can see when the events occur, since the posting date is set by when I get the internet connection and submit it.

Your faithful correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

Farewell to Beqa

February 1, 2007

I write this post from the forward cabin of a 50 foot cabin cruiser as we pitch in the waves, headed back from my paradise island of Beqa to what Fijians refer to curiously as “the mainland,” that being Vita Levu, the largest island in the Fijian group, and a pretty sizable chunk of real estate at that – 10,400 sq kilometers, or about one Connecticut, give or take a Rhode Island (which long time readers will recall are the official units of land measure of the Walkabout blog).

I needn’t have left today. I have two nights remaining in Fiji before heading on to the Cook Islands. I had considered extending at Beqa for the duration. That would allow me to do a few more dives, including the much anticipated “Really Nasty Shark Encounter” in which they oddly enough try to lure sharks in the for the amusement of the divers, or perhaps I have it backwards. Staying had other attractions. I had made some good friends among the other Americans staying on Beqa. They were feeding me well. It was almost like being at home, pleasant and comfortable. I have to admit to a touch of tear in my eye as my boat pulled away and the entire staff assembled on the beach to sing the traditional Fijian song of farewell – “Lo sega vinaka. Ni vosota sara. O cei na yacamuni…,” – which I believe translates roughly as “Farewell dear guest. Thanks for the generous tips, though we think you could have done better. We can’t seem to find your beach towel, but no worries. We have your Visa account number…”

Yes, your globetrotting correspondent felt the lure of the sedentary life, of simple domestic comforts, and familiar faces, of a shower that I had finally figured out how to balance between arctic and scalding. Like Ulysses on his Odyssey I felt pulled in by the siren song of the lotus eaters, to travel no more. Fortunately, before being turned into a donkey (Have I confused several different stories here, including Pinnochio? My zero research policy does have its drawbacks) I recalled in the nick of time Walkabout’s mission: to boldly go where Walkabout has not gone before. Like Captain James Kirk of the Starship Enterprise (or more aptly his prototype Captain James Cook of HMS Endeavour, who explored the Pacific) my mission is to seek out new life forms, befriend them, and move on before my series is cancelled. My mission still awaited me. And like the shark, I must keep moving or die. I, a lonely predator of the deep (OK, this analogy is going seriously astray, but you get the idea). So I made a two night booking for Beachcombers Island, in Fiji’s supposed-to-be-lovely Marmaduke chain (off the shores of Dilbert and in sight of the far flung isles of Langerhans). Beachcombers is reputed to be a nice little spot for windsurfing, sailing, parasailing, parasurfing or parakeeting, I’m not sure which. But in any case I’m off to new adventures. Stay tuned.

Your faithful correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

Walkabout Dave sinks to new depths

January 25 – 31, 2007

One of my objectives on this trip was to really learn how to scuba dive. Previously I had dabbled in it at one resort or another. But I’d never spent any serious bottom, and never got certified. Growing up, my hero was Jacque Cousteau. I yearned to go down into the briny depths like Jacque and to speak with its denizens with a cloying French accent – “Hallo, hallo, my leetle fishee friends. And how arre you today, in your underwater habeetat.” So I built a week at Beqa Island, off Fiji, into this adventure. For reasons no one was able to satisfactorily explain, it is pronounced “Benga”, but this didn’t deter me in the slightest.

I actually took a course in scuba back in college, probably to fulfill some sort of phys ed requirement. The course focused heavily on the 86 common ways to get oneself killed while diving. They range from burst ear drums (from descending too quickly), the bends (from surfacing too quickly), nitrogen narcosis (from going to deep) to running out of air (from staying down too long). Of course, you can also get eaten by a shark. My personal favorite way to off yourself scuba diving is to drop a full air cylinder while on your dive boat. The necks have been known to shear off, resulting in an uncontrolled torpedo capable of sending the boat to Davy Jones. So I had the book lernin, but had never gone the final step to do the open water dives and get certified.

Beqa is one of the top dive sites on the planet and known especially for its beautiful displays of soft coral. It is an island of about 36 square kilometers sitting an hour’s boat ride off Vita Levu, Fiji’s main island. It lies in the middle of a huge lagoon, say 50 miles in diameter – formed of a virtually unbroken coral reef and a few small islets. Geologists will tell you, if they can corner you at a cocktail party, that Beqa is the remains of what was once an enormous volcanic island, extending out to the current reef line. Then the volcano exploded and collapsed, leaving the smaller central isle and the reef lines and islets to mark the old perimeter. Did you know who came up with that theory of the formation of atolls? I though not. If you would turn off the boob tube once in a while and read a book you might actually learn something. It was Charles Darwin the evolution guy. What a cool dude!

There are about eight small fishing villages on Beqa and several resorts. I stayed at Beqa Lagoon Resort, and one of the nicer places I have indulged in on my travels. I had my own little seafront burra (Fijian for cottage) with hammock and plunge pool. A plunge pool is a small round pool about five feet deep -- a refreshing way to cool off after the hard work of hammock swinging. The resort also has a large common open air dining room, and a lovely pool with water warm as a bathtub.

Beqa is definitely a dive resort meaning people go there to seriously dive. Surface activities being only necessary interludes while air tanks are refilled. This was my first introduction to dive culture. Divers, it must be said, are fanatics. Until you can count your total dives in thousands you are still a neophyte. Veteran divers will happily tell you how many aggregate weeks or even months they have spent at the bottom. They eat, breathe and sleep diving, and discuss endlessly the relative benefits of 3, 5 and 7 mil wetsuits, dry suits, aluminum versus steel tanks, titanium versus steel regulators, and so on. They are also incredibly nice people and took me under their collective wings (fins?) giving me a great introduction to the sport.

Diving, I was pleased to find, is a toy-intensive activity. Beyond the basics needed to sustain life underwater, you’ve got the dive knives to strap to the ankle (there is no known use for them, by the way, other than to look like James Bond in Thunderball), dive lights (for night dives and caves), dive computers (which do everything but play Tetris) and full face rigs with radio communicators built in. And don’t forget underwater photography – which allows you to replicate all your land-based gear purchases at several multiples of the cost. I was stuck using rented equipment and looking rather shabby. The only thing I had brought was the prescription mask and – of course – my ankle knife. I do have a nice shopping list put together though for when I get home…

Each morning after a light breakfast of omelets, pancakes and French toast, those of us who could still fit in our wet suits loaded on board one of the dive boats to head off to that day’s dive sites. The prize diving sites are scattered along the lagoon reef like pearls on a necklace (Zing! Nailed that metaphor!) They bear compelling names like Seven Sisters, Three Thieves, Golden Arches and Blue Wall. (Less popular dive site bear names like Slow and Excrutiating Death and Nagging Rectal Itch.) We then dive one of the sites, return to the boat and after a suitable rest interval, do a second.

There is something very mellow and colleagial in the nature of diving. It is not a sport for showoffs or hotshots. When you are diving you are basically taking a stroll through the three dimensional world of the coral reefs. There are no points for being faster or flashier (provided you have a dive knife), everyone wants everyone else in the group to feel safe and comfortable. Sebastian was right – “things are better, down where its wetter, take it from me”.

Basically, you want to see as much neat stuff as possible, and you want to share it with your fellow divers. I had one moment of glory when – swimming off a ways on my own – I found a shark. Given the generally bad rep of sharks it is ironic that they are actually rather rare and some species are endangered. On many of our dives we didn’t come across any, so finding one was reportable news. This was a five or six foot white tip, not a monster. I swam back and reported my find (a fin hand signal over the head) and then returned to make sure Jaws it didn’t abscond. When the others caught up they found me tailing the beast over quite a stretch of ocean. When later asked whether I wasn’t concerned it would turn on me, I pointed out I was never in danger since sharks don’t bite lawyers – professional courtesy.

Over my week at Beqa I did a dozen dives over various conditions, including a night dive, a wreck and dives with and against current, and got a pretty good education. Diving is much fun, but I’m no divaholic. I can take it or leave it. I just wanted to complete my qualification course to get certified so I could do a recreational dive here or there, without anyone questioning how deep I could go, or making me prove I could clear my mask in a swimming pool. Of course, there was that moment at the end of the night dive that I realized I might be slipping over the deep end and developing a dunking problem (sorry). There I was at the end of the dive, pitch dark lit only by flashlight, dismal visibility, nothing to see. I was doing my safety stop holding onto the weighted line hanging from the back of the boat. The safety stop is a three minute hold at 15 or 20 feet before surfacing, to avoid any possibility of bends. And there I was, as three minutes ticked off to four, five and six. Hanging on the rope as it heaved up and down with the boat in heavy seas I realized I wasn’t coming up. I still had some air in my tank and there was no place I’d rather be.

Your faithful correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

Los Angeles … City of Angels … Not!

January 22 – 23, 2007

Attentive readers of this blog will recall that the Walkabout plan, design, scheme – if you will – is to circle the Pacific in a clockwise fashion, seeking new experiences, opportunities for growth, yadda yadda and yadda ya. My next destination was the South Sea isle of Fiji so you may be excused for wondering how I ended up back in the USA, Los Angeles to be precise. Chalk it up to a quirk of transpacific flight routings, a you can’t get there from here sort of deal. I actually also could have crossed from South America to Fiji via Easter Island, which would have been quite nice since I was eager to see the mysterious stone megaliths dotting same. The catch is that I would have had to spend a full week there before catching a flight out. And though I like a nice stone megalith as much as the next guy, I figured a week would be more than enough to see them all, solve the unsolved mysteries, and then become seriously bored with the whole business. So I opted for a routing through LA instead.

I had a one night, two day stopover in the City of Angels. Eager to make the most of it and get fully into the flow of LA life, I rented a convertible, a GPS unit, and a hair piece, put the top down, cranked up the Doors on the CD player and drove up the entrance ramp and out onto the great American freeway experience. Actually, Alamo wouldn’t rent me a hairpiece, which is just as well since it would have blown away together with everything else in the car. I don’t quite get the convertible concept. At least for your faithful but follicley-challenged correspondent either your head bakes, or your hat blows off, or if you secure it with neck strap it still blows off and you get garroted by the cord. Of course, if you started off with a full head of hair you wouldn’t have those problems, but then if you had a full head of hair you wouldn’t need the convertible in the first place. In any event, if cruising for babes was the objective it would have been rather awkward. Since my rented Chrysler Crossfire has a trunk barely large enough for my third grade lunch box and no back seat I would have had to ask any blonde bombshell I picked up to balance my suitcase on her lap. (Kathy, I joke of course. I’m not having that type of midlife crisis.)

Renting a GPS unit is a nifty way to see an unfamiliar city. I was able to plug in names dimly recalled from my LA iconography and see where I ended up – Wilshire Boulevard, Rodeo Drive, Mullholland Drive, and so on. I visited the new Getty museum, which is architecturally fabulous and a decent collection. Well worth the stop.

An obligatory visit was Venice Beach where I sat down at a sidewalk café and ordered a good old bacon cheeseburger with string fries and a beer, and settled back to watch the human carnival wheel by. I have to say that after three weeks of eating foreigner food a cheeseburger tasted great. And the scenery was endlessly entertaining. All manner of wheeled vehicles, skate boards, roller blades, bikes and unicycles passed by. Some cameramen were filming what was either a porno film or a documentary on the problem of excessive shrinkage in women’s halter tops. A trio of drag queens, a barefoot surfer with board, a woman who looked like Cruella DeVille, complete with cigarette holder, wheeling a baby and carrying a bongo drum, all passed by. Watching this pageantry on a cool 65 degree January California day, I could understand why people want to live there. I can see why people put up with the high costs, crime, earthquakes riots, fires and so on to live in a place where it is eternal spring. It all started to make sense. Except of course for Arnold. I’ll never understand the Governator.

Your faithful correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

Over Machu Picchu? I’ll never get over Machu Picchu!

January 20, 2007

The morning of Day 4 found me and my little band of merry brothers, and sisters, perched at the Sun Gate, high over Machu Picchu.

The Incans were big on the Indiana Jones trick of lining things up so that on a solstice or equinox the light of the sun would slit through some combination of rocks, illuminating some hidden sacred chamber, telling them it was time to plant, or harvest, or maybe sacrifice a virgin or a llama, or a virgin llama, or just a hairy virgin. The Sun Gate is one of their better tricks. It is perched high up on the mountainside overlooking Machu Picchu forming the last stopping point or guard post on the Inca Trail and – if your socks are still intact – a place to get that last knock-your-socks-off view of the fabled Incan city below. It is also precisely situated so that the first rays of the rising sun pass through the Sun (get it?) Gate, down into the window of the high priest in the city below. Kind of a pre-Columbian wake up call. Unfortunately, it was wrapped in fog when we arrived, so we saw nothing, but in theory it was pretty awe-inspiring.

Actually, when you think about it a moment, the civilization that built the Incan Trail and Machu Picchu surely had the ability to count up to 365 ¼. No way did they really need all those elaborate stone constructions to nail down the seasons, plantings and harvests. I expect it was just some priestly theater, but pretty good theater at that.

After waiting futilely for the sun to appear, we walked (or in my case – hopped) the last half mile or so down to Machu Picchu. There, we reunited with spouses and tour group mates and toured the place. About Machu Picchu itself, rather than slinging more of my diminishing supply of adjectives, I’ll just say it doesn’t disappoint. Definitely a wonder of the world, and well worth the visit. If I ever get around to posting photos you can judge for yourself.

After getting our fill of Machu Picchu we took a bus down the final 1,000 foot descent into Aguas Caliente. The ride down is an experience in itself, as it is a series of hairpin cutbacks crisscrossing the mountain face. The local kids have a nice little racket. They chase the buses down the hill, showing up at each switchback to run yelling frantically in front of the bus. Of course, they follow a staircase going straight down, so it isn’t all that difficult. Once at the bottom, they board the buses and hit up the passengers rather aggressively for contributions. Everyone else thought it was real cute, but in my contrarian way I found it objectionable – effectively we were paying a third world 10-year old pocket change to risk death or serious injury for our amusement. So what is the morally correct thing to do in this situation? Stiff the kid? Write a letter? You tell me.

So at the bottom we arrived at Aguas Caliente, which is actually a funky little tourist town on a raging river, and worth a couple of hours. Just don’t go into those caliente agues (hot baths), since they are reputed to be muy skuzzy. We then took a scenic train and bus ride back to Cuzco. Thus endeth our excursion to the land of the Incas.

Your faithful correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

Your faithful correspondent encounters adversity and perseveres. Or does he…?!

January 17 – 20, 2007

Editors Note: What follows are notes taken from the mummified body of a bald but dashing (in a dorky sort of way) American found frozen in the ice in a high Andean pass. He is identifiable only by the phrase “Walkabout D” tattooed on his forehead. – the Editor

Day 1. We set out from Olyantambo and hike for about six hours on a relatively easy grade, first following the main Urubambo river valley, then turning inland to follow a steeper tributary up into the higher elevations. The only major setback is that the woven indian cloth handle tears on the bamboo walking stick I had purchased in Olyantambo for a dollar. The stick is still functional, and I resist the urge to turn back. I am unsure whether it is under warranty, but just in case I spend my time mentally composing a demand letter in Spanish.

Day 2. I am in my glory. We climb almost 4,000 feet to Dead Woman’s Pass. For the numerically challenged, that is comparable to ascending about three Empire State Buildings (the official measure of elevation of the Walkabout blog). Think of climbing the stairs in your house. Then do it again. And again. For five hours. I am unstoppable. I race ahead of my comrades despite being possessed of more years than they collectively. Rain deluges me but out comes my trusty pancho and I skip not a beat. The sense of triumph on reaching the top at 14,000 feet is indescribable. I have set myself a formidable goal and persevered. I look out toward the awesome view of snowcapped Andes, forests and waterfalls that surround me – where is the next world for me to conquer?

My triumph is hardly dimmed when a beaming seven year old girl from Australia, known to us on the trail as the Amazing Phoebe, reaches the top shortly after I, to considerably more applause. On the way down from the pass on the other side I have a chance to chat with the Amazing P. It seems she is also on a three month voyage of adventure and discovery, without the burden of having worked 20 years only to be canned, while growing old and decrepit. On reflection, that is probably the better way to do it. Why wait? I urge all my seven year old readers to get cracking. Her next stop, by the way, is “America!,” which she pronounces with that adorable exclamation point. She is headed for Disneyworld, and is quite pleased when I mention that I am both an American and a personal friend of Mickey Mouse. So, Mickey, when you check in on this blog please be sure to show my good friend the Amazing Phoebe an especially good time when she comes your way.

Day 2 is an excellent day.

Day 3, not so much. Somewhere around midday my legs decide that they no longer wish to bend. I find this work stoppage inexplicable; they had functioned superbly on Day 2 when the heavy lifting was called for. Now they are letting me down when all I ask of them is to coast me down to the wreath of laurel awaiting me in Machu Picchu. I cannot tell you when I have been as let down by a body part as I was by those legs, at least not in a family blog. Fortunately, I am traveling with a full slate of physiotherapists and – while they prove useless in coaxing my legs back into activity – at least I have no shortage of people professionally obligated to listen to my whining. It seems that there are these tendons in my legs (and your’s too, I would guess if you are as unlucky as me) called ITBs. That stands for ilio tibio bands, though they might well be called “Incan Trail bands” since I’m pretty sure I’ve never used them for anything else. They can and do become inflamed by repetitive actions, such as walking up and down 4,000 feet of Incan steps. I hasten to add that this is considered a sports injury, not a decrepit old man injury, and hence can be worn as a badge of honor.

My on trail physiotherapist is a charming Scott named Ruth. Her main contribution to my treatment is to veto the application of any of my arsenal of high powered pharmaceuticals such as steroids or morphine drips as ineffective and habit forming. I don’t know how they train physiotherapists in Scotland, but they have hearts of stone. When I finally get back to my tour group physiotherapist – Erin – at Machu Picchu she is able to prescribe some stretching exercises which don’t do much other than make me look more dorky. Still, when your ITBs go out under exigent circumstances it is very comforting to know that there is a whole profession charged with humoring you about them. I now place physiotherapists high up on my list of what to pack when traveling, on a par with howler monkeys.

If you are contemplating hiking the Incan Trail, or a similar exertion, let me offer you some of the patronizing and blindingly obvious advice at which this blog excels – be sure that your ITBs are well exercised and in good shape before taking your first step! I cannot state this too emphatically! So I won’t!

For the remainder of Day 3 I am in the curious position of being able to walk uphill with no problem, but downhill only with excruciating agony. This is unfortunate since Day 3 requires descending some 3,000 feet. I experiment with several techniques. The first is a Frankenstein-like gait, keeping the legs rigid while descending. Beyond terrifying local villagers, this has the drawback that I am unable to control my speed and accelerate faster and faster with legs windmilling, sort of like Road Runner in the cartoons – not desirable as I am rounding narrow trails along thousand foot gorges and do not want to end up like Wiley Coyote. (I am reminded of the villain in a classic episode of Get Smart! He is in a wheel chair and can’t walk – however he can run.) The other technique is a crablike sideways two step. This is less perilous, but painfully slow and I limp into camp as the sun is setting to receive the applause of the porters, along with my welcoming cup of refreshing juice. I can tell what they are thinking “Sure he is a decrepit old man, but he has real heart. If only he had better ilio tibio bands…”

Day 4. I limp on in to Machu Picchu, to reunite with my beloved wife Kathy, to bask in the glory of at least having survived, and to encounter the first real bathroom in four days.

Editors Note: As the above text makes clear, Walkabout Dave did actually survive his ordeal on the Inca Trail, and is even now writing this Editors Note. He just used this hackneyed device in a cheap-assed attempt to create a little drama. He is very much looking forward to being able to write future posts in the more comfortable first person, past tense. – the Editor

Because it was there!

January 17, 2007

While the faint of heart took the train to Machu Picchu, your faithful correspondent set forth to conquer the Inca trail. And what a spectacular trek it was! Having used up my limited supply of hyperbolic adjectives to describe the Galapagos, I will restrict myself to the bare facts. The Inca Trail is a walking path built by the Incas some 500 years ago to connect the city of Olyantambo, in the “sacred valley” outside Cuzco, with the hilltop redoubt of Machu Picchu. It runs for 25 miles through rugged Andean mountain-scapes, climbing some 4,000 feet to top out at over 14,000 feet at Dead Woman’s Pass, then descending and ascending through a second pass almost as high, to drop down several thousand feet to arrive at Machu Picchu. It is generally about 4 feet wide, broadening at various points. The typical trek consists of three solid days of hiking, finishing up with a several hour hike on the fourth day to arrive at Machu Picchu for the dawn sunrise.

The Incans built to last. Though some sections are packed dirt, wherever there are steep grades or potential for erosion they paved with stone ramps and steps on solid foundations, crafting stone culverts to divert rain water. My driveway can’t go three years without developing potholes, but the Incan trail has lasted over 500 years with little maintenance and is in fine shape. Substantial portions of the trail were built on steeply sloping mountain sides, and I saw places where retaining walls had been built 20 feet or more in height to support the narrow width of the trail. Several sections are tunneled through the stone mountainsides, and in some locations near vertical staircases are carved into solid granite rock.

The Incans never got around to inventing the wheel, and it’s probably just as well since they wouldn’t have had much use for it in their mountain terrain. And though they had llamas and alpacas to use as pack animals, they apparently found that people made more effective beasts of burden. Some sections are too steep for all but nimble two footed creatures. The Inca trail had a utilitarian purpose, to be used by foot porters. But it was also built to serve a clear ceremonial or religious purpose.

The trail passes through some of the most sacred terrain of the Incans. And it is apparent that the trail was designed to accentuate and highlight the sacred and awe inspiring. That is certainly the impression you get walking it. Each turn of the path elicits an involuntary “wow!” revealing progressively grander vistas threaded by paths and staircases, fortresses and temples, until finally – if you survive – you arrive at the fabled redoubt of Machu Picchu which blows away all else. Imagine if you will Indiana Jones, absent the enormous rolling stones and (as far as I could tell) poisonous snakes, but with the eye-popping snow-capped peaks, thousand foot drops, rickety gorge-spanning bridges, and thunderous water falls plummeting to uncharted depths. With a unique combination of natural, manmade and historic significance, the Incan trail has got to be one of the great walks on the planet.

Accompanying me on the trail were David and Samantha. Beyond being delightful traveling companions, they were thoughtful enough to be smokers, which slowed them down on the uphill stretches just enough that their otherwise youthful energy did not embarrass me too greatly. David also was nice enough to weight himself down with about 20 pounds of toiletries and hair gel, apparently of the view that there was no point hiking the Inca trail if you can’t look your best doing it. Key Inca trail advice – travel light. Though not quite as light as Sam, who about five minutes into the trek announced “my camera is saying ‘memory card full’. Does that mean I can’t take any more pictures?” For the next several days any new photo op had to be balanced by deleting another photo. Today’s too obvious travel tip – bring extra memory cards.

Our party also included Nancy, our charming guide, a veteran of more than 100 trips down the Incan trail, and a bottomless source of information on all things Incan. She cannot be blamed for the innumerable inaccuracies in this blog. While I really enjoyed listening to her, it had little appreciable impact since I start out each day with my metaphoric “memory card full”. Anything new I learn must be balanced with something forgotten. I compensate though with creativity. If a recounted fact is not boring you can be reasonably sure I made it up. We also had eight porters.

Yes, eight porters, for four people. I’d hoped to slip that by but you are just too quick. The truth is that a trek down the Inca Trail can’t actually be considered roughing it. The porters carry all your baggage, including sleeping bag, air mattress and tent; you need carry only a day pack with camera, suntan lotion, hair gel, extra memory cards etc. Moreover, the porters are carrying a dining tent, with table and stools, a propane stove, pots and pans, and enough food to eat remarkably well (and even gain a few pounds) over the four day trek. The whole trip is fraught with an embarrassing level of indulgence, beginning with the morning wakeup call when the smiling porters appear at the door of your tent with a silver tray of tea and coffee. After you set out on the trail, the porters pack everything up, load it on their backs, and jog off after you. Just as you are starting to congratulate yourself on how little you are wheezing on the uphill, and what a sensible purchase those $200 hiking shoes were, the porters clad only in flip flops jog by you with all the gear happily chatting among themselves. By the time you reach the lunch stop they are waiting to greet you with a refreshing glass of juice and warm water to wash up with. They have made camp and are at work on the meal. The process repeats in the afternoon. A porter’s life is not an easy one – it takes its toll. The oldest – a wizened fellow you might have called grandpa – turned out to be almost a decade younger than me. They are mostly farmers who do the work for supplemental income and are paid just $30 for the four days, plus tips. The whole system seems so inequitable and abusive that it occurred to me to recommend the Inca Trail only to Republicans. Or possibly to Democratic union organizers. But, on reflection, nobody told them they had to be born poor Peruvians, right? There is also an option where you can take fewer porters and carry your own baggage, if you are out of your friggin’ mind.

Your faithful correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

You won’t believe what those crazy sea turtles are up to now!

January 15 – 16, 2007

From the steamy jungles of the Amazon we ascended some 12,000 feet by plane to Cuzco. The ancient capital of the Incan empire and of its Spanish conquerors, Cuzco is a city of perhaps 400,000 people perched in a high Andean valley. At its peak the Incan empire stretched across much of Ecuador, Peru, Bolivia and Chile. Then the Spanish conquistadors arrived and the rest, as they say, is history. With a small force of soldiers Pizarro did to the Incans what Cortez had done to the Aztecs in Mexico – kill off their leaders, steal their gold, and pretty much enslave the continent. I’d go into more detail, if I could remember any. There was something about ransoming a king for a room full of gold and then killing him anyhow (which really doesn’t seem sporting). But that may well be Cortez and not Pizarro – the stories are pretty similar – so if you care you best look it up.

The bottom line is Spanish bad, natives good. At least that is the party line you get from the guide books and the guides. One of our local tour guides went so far as to explain that the Incans kept their empire together by making the locals happy with liberal applications of coca and fermented beer. Then the Spanish arrived and systematically erased all record of what great guys the Incans were. Far be it for me to defend the Spanish (the inquisition, for instance, was a bad thing, though I am quite fond of both gazpacho and flan). And bear in mind that – on this topic particularly – I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. But it does seem that there are some one-sided judgments being made. After all, the Incans and the Aztecs didn’t get where they got by being pussycats. They were ruthless conquerors, relied on slave labor and practiced human sacrifice. Just ask Mel Gibson. One reason their empires fell so easily is that there were subject peoples eager to join the Spanish against them. Another reason was that European diseases killed off as much as 80% to 90% of the population. But you can’t really blame that on the Spanish. My point (and yes, I have one) is that history is largely a series of big fish getting gobbled up by bigger fish, and all the fish have teeth. If you are being gobbled, it is little consolation if it is by someone from your own continent with your own skin shading, rather than creepy white dudes from across the ocean.

To conclude this pontification, I’ll plug the book “Guns, Germs & Steel”. That is a fascinating (if ferschlepta) analysis of the factors that determine who gobbles whom. That is, why did the Europeans conquer the Americas and not the other way around. Curiously, one factor is simply that Eurasia runs east-west and the Americas north-south. This meant that advances in Eurasia could quickly spread along corridors of similar climate, while advances in the Americas remained localized and were unable to bridge the tropical zones of Central America. So the Mayans had a written language but no large domesticated animals. The Incans had the llama and alpaca, but were reduced to communicating through knotted strings. Had they been able to compare notes, things could have worked out quite differently.

The Incan period in Cuzco remains visible in the elaborate stone walls throughout the city. Though they built entirely without mortar and didn’t know about the arch (the most perfect shape prior to the invention of the VW bug), the Incan constructions were so solid that they have survived through earthquakes and neglect, while much of the later Spanish construction has crumbled. The Incans built their more important structures with huge blocks – some up to 30 tons – carved in irregular shapes but all fitting together like a three dimensional version of Tetris. The work that must have gone into fitting each stone – some with as many as 12 edges on a surface – is mind boggling. And adjoining stones sometimes combine together to make figures, such as llamas. All this is explained as devotion to the gods, as well as a raw display of wealth and power, but I know a serious case of obsessive compulsive disorder when I see one.

The Spanish arrived and, perhaps embarrassed by heathen works more impressive than their own, demolished a good deal of what the Incans had built. They kept much of the lower foundation walls though, so Cuzco has the curious appearance of being an Incan city on the bottom and a colonial city on top. One marvel of Machu Picchu is simply that the Spanish never found it and there is a rare opportunity of seeing an Incan city as originally built. The Spanish of course were no slackers (they had the benefit of using the remaining natives that hadn’t died off from disease as slave labor, and they recycled a lot of the Incan stones). They built some impressive churches, plazas, convents and the like.

Cuzco is a fun city to visit. It has great historic architecture, nice hotels and restaurants, and good shopping, all set in the dramatic setting of a mountain valley. The criticism I’d make is that it has that artificial feeling of a city sustained only be tourism. The stores sell variations on the typical tourist crap, the restaurant menus are as likely to be in English as Spanish, and the cute girl with the elaborately coifed llama you meet on the street is a set up hoping to charge you a buck if you take her picture. You are accosted several times per block by someone trying to sell you something – one useful purchase is the t-shirt that says “no gracias!”. It also seems to be a stop on the “hippy trail”, a stopover between Marakesh and Katmandu populated by scruffy backpackers who missed the memo notifying them that the 60s are over. What is missing is a sense of being in a real city, with real people leading real lives. So I found myself missing Quito which, if I ever get around to blogging, I will tell you is a lovely real city, also set in an Andean valley, with a marvelously preserved colonial city center (alas, not much Inca stone), a modest level of tourists and real character. Cuzco is a museum piece, but as a museum it is a nice one.

Our main activity while in Cuzco was discussing the consistency of our stools. As mentioned in a prior post, most of our tour group contracted salmonella infections while in the Amazon. We have differing theories about which food was the culprit, though with only 6 hours per day of electricity and limited refrigeration it is perhaps not surprising that some food might spoil. It could also be that the kitchen facilities were staffed with feces hurling howler monkeys, and they neglected to post a sign reminding them to wash their hands before leaving the restroom. In any event, the blood tests confirmed a good percentage of us with salmonella, which sounds nasty, but judging from our well documented research on stool consistency, is basically equivalent to travelers’ diarrhea, Montezuma’s revenge, Atuhualpa’s wallop, the Aztek Two Step, what have you.

As I have noted previously, among the greatest joys of travel is the people you meet, and we had a great group on the Amazon, Cuzco, Machu Picchu excursion. So a special Walkabout Shout-out to Donald and Doreen, Linda and Erin, Harold and Kathy, David and Samantha and Allen. If you are tuning in, please drop Kathy and me a line and stay in touch. We met up in Lima, traveled together through the Amazon and in Cuzco, and – though we split up at one point when David and Samantha and I took the Inca Trail and the rest of the group toured the Sacred Valley, we reunited in Machu Picchu and for the return trip to Cuzco. Together we shared some of the most awe-inspiring scenery to be found on this small blue planet. But what truly brought our group together was a small microorganism commonly found in undercooked eggs and poultry. We pooled our various pharmacopeias aimed at intestinal distress, engaged in discussions deep and profound on the comparative benefits of different types of Imodium (taken daily or following each movement?), Cipro versus narrow spectrum antibiotics and bathrooms of choice in central Cuzco. I can think of no nicer group to share a case of the runs with, and if you have ever traveled in the third world you know that is high praise indeed.

“So what about the sea turtles?” you ask. “Your post title hinted at some steamy turtle action. Like I give a flying rat’s derriere about how many sides an Incan stone has? Bring on the hard shell action!” For shame! Shame! Isn’t it just like you to take something as beautiful as the act of love between two sea turtles and treat it as cheap and tawdry? Listen closely, since I’m only going to explain this once. When two turtles really, really care for each other… Oh never mind. Ask your mother.

Your faithful correspondent,

Walkabout Dave

Back from the heart of darkness

January 15, 2007

We’re back from the Amazon, which was fascinating, exotic and uncomfortable. It’s one of those places that you are really glad you have visited, but only after you have left.

Our Amazon adventure was at the Sandoval Lodge on Sandoval lake, outside Puerto Maldonado in Peru. You may not realize it, but while Brazil certainly has the biggest piece, the Andean countries of Columbia, Ecuador, Peru and Bolivia all get significant chunks of the Amazon on the eastern side of the mountains. Trust me, there is enough to go around. Puerto Maldonado is a short (1/2 hour) flight from Cuzco so that it is easy to pair it with a visit to Machu Picchu. There were options to visit the Ecuadorian Amazon from Quito which you’ll recall was the departure point for the Galapagos. My humble guess is that Amazon is Amazon, and though they made a big deal of how there were differences in swampy jungle, terra firma jungle and others, I don’t expect that there will be any real difference the uninitiated would notice between a visit from Peru, Ecuador, Bolivia or elsewhere.

The big draw in the Amazon, of course, is the chance to see an astonishing diversity of unique flora and fauna. And see them we did. There were barrels of assorted monkeys – howlers, spiders and others. The howlers were my favorite. They are named (duh) for their habit of howling, a practice which starts uncomfortably early in the morning. The wake up howls don’t mean much, except to evidence their total disregard for the sleep of others. It is only if they start howling later in the day that you need to worry because that means there will soon be a might rain storm. In my experience they were uncannily accurate, though predicting rain in the Amazon is like predicting corruption in the Republican party – it’s hard to go wrong. Still, it is comforting to have an audible meteorological alarum, and going forward I intend to take a howler monkey with me on all my travels in potentially damp locales.

Other delightful animal sightings in our time in the Amazon included Caymen (or possibly Caywomen, I was reluctant to turn them over to find out) – which are a disappointingly docile type of crocodile. There was one right near our dock which they undoubtedly fed so that they would have one to show the tourists in a pinch. We managed to catch view a sloth – actually not a tough thing to do since they will hang in more or less the same place for days at a time. We were less successful in sighting greed, pride and envy, though we saw gluttony aplenty and frankly, you don’t have to go to the Amazon to find lust. (I seem to be short one of the seven deadlies. Extra credit for the first person who lets me know which one.)

Also there was a charming family of otters which we could get distant glimpses of, cavorting in the water and seemingly effortlessly snagging fish for breakfast, lunch and dinner. They would bring them up out of the water to proudly display and then gobble them down. Lots of birds, including mackaws, parrots and herons, though by far the predominant bird is the so called “stinky” bird – a garishly feathered creature which has refined flatulence to protective strategy. It dines on a choice selection of leafs and berries which then rot in its gut. The result is – well – stinky. Apparently no predator is willing to go near it, perhaps out of fear that its friends will accuse it of having dealt a foul one. Mother Nature does have a sense of humor.

You can’t make this stuff up. Well, actually you can, and I suspect the guides do to have their fun with us ecotourists. On the one hand they go out of their way to whitewash the piranhas -- which are numerous in the Sandoval lake. True, the guides say, they have needle sharp teeth, but it is pure myth that they will attack people. Well yes, if they catch a whiff of blood they might – but who could blame them. It is as though the naturalist guides have family members held hostage by those vicious carnivorous predators and they are being extorted to cover up their rampages of blood lust. And, as if to compensate for the piranha whitewash, the guides have fun with what I dearly hope are made up predators. Like a type of carnivorous eel that can swim up your butt. Or a tiny parasite that will invade swimmers urethras. The latter particularly bothered me since I thought I had made it up in a previous post on nano-piranhas (I hasten to add that the former with its obvious homo-erotic overtones hadn’t even occurred to me). So the bottom line is I can no longer say for sure whether any of these misbegotten creatures really exist, but if you do have the opportunity to visit the Amazon, I wouldn’t bother to bring a swim suit.

On land we saw an amazing selection of trees, including one that walks and another that can grow only by cannibalizing one already there. We saw a virtual pharmacy of beneficial plants – though how the Amazonian Indians figured out what each of them do is a mystery to me. For example, there is a plant which is a perfect antidote to the bite of one type of poisonous snake. How would you like to be in the test group to figure that out? (“OK Flugalmugel, you are going to eat plant number 47 and let snake13B bite you. I have high hopes for that combination…”)

Perhaps most absorbing to me were plain old ants, which in the Amazon have evolved to size and ruthless devouring efficiency unseen in our country, outside of Wal-Mart. You will come across virtual streams of them, perhaps a foot wide, but stretching for hundreds of yards, with millions of worker ants marching along, each carrying a – to scale – enormous piece of leaf. The flow policed or guarded by mean looking soldier ants not inclined to look favorably on slackers.

So should you bother to visit the Amazon? Well in theory it is a fascinating place, and doubtless with the vivid and compelling narrative provided by your faithful correspondent you are just itching to book your own trip into the heart of darkness, to get your own weather-predicting howler monkey before they are all gone. But slow down for a second. That’s right, put down that phone. Your travel agent can wait. Let us consider the cons.

Firstly, it is not like the Galapagos where the animals actually line up for their turn to entertain you. In the Amazon most of the cutest and – doubtless – yummiest of the jungle creatures spend most of their time trying not to be seen. For example, the stick bug is a fascinating example of defensive camouflage in nature, but you have to look at an awful lot of sticks before you find an actual bug. With all those leaves to hide behind, there is a high probability that anything you actually manage to see is in the process of trying to bite you.

Moreover, the whole place is unreasonably hot and humid. I’ve never before seen an ecosystem that could benefit so much from just a little air conditioning. I’m as eager to escape the rat race of the modern industrial world as the next guy – to experience the simple pleasures of getting back to nature and living the way man was meant to live – but not if it means I have to be uncomfortable. I was sticky for three straight days. That’s a record for me, at least since puberty. It’s all well and good for Thoreau to talk about simplifying from his cabin on Walden pond. He could go in for a cooling dip anytime without having to guard his urethra. Trust me, if he had lived in the Amazon he would have been the first Transcendentalist on his block to invest in a dehumidifier.

The discomfort started on our arrival. One of the more inconsiderate aspects of the Amazon is its remoteness. We flew from Lima to Puerto Maldonado, which is one of Peru’s gateway towns to the Amazon. From the small airport we took a van to the Sandoval lodge office where in a scene of utter confusion we transferred 7 kilos from our suitcases to small duffels and – ominously – were issued high rubber boots. The van then took us to a dock on the river bank where small and colorful little stores gave us our last chance to buy essentials (such as batteries and bug spray) before our trip into Apocalypse Now land. Puerto Maldonado has sort of a rough hewn boomtown feel that is compelling if not charming. New construction everywhere mixes with dilapidated old wood plank structures, well paved streets trail off into muddy gullies. It is picturesque in some ways (and I have the photos to prove it) but fundamentally depressing in that its growth is all built on supporting new and ultimately destructive ways to exploit the rainforest. Petroleum exploration, clear cut farming and lumbering seem to be the driving forces. Ecotourism, such as our little trip, is but a small side line.

We set off on narrow wooden river boats onto the Madre de Dios river (“Mother of God” a great name if ever there was one) which soon joined the Vaca del Diable (“Cow of the Devil” -- not really, but you have to admit it would be a cool name too). My apt references to the African Queen and Joseph Conrad were lost on just about everyone. (The level of cultural illiteracy out there is astonishing and a subject – perhaps – for an especially boring and pedantic future post.) A ride of perhaps 45 minutes took us to a riverbank dock where the reason for the afore-mentioned rubber boots became apparent.

You see, the Sandoval lodge, our ultimate destination, is not on the Madre de Dios river itself but on a small oxbow lake several kilometers away. A 3 kilometer jungle trail led us there. It being the rainy season, the trail was mud up to our ankles and slow, hot and uncomfortable going. We had real concern for some of the older (70 plus) members of our tour group who had been told only of a modest and scenic stroll. GAP Adventures deserves a wag of the finger for that (if not a hefty lawsuit) but fortunately, all of us made it through not much the worse for wear. The trek did have the effect of making us feel we had really fought our way into the wilderness.

From the trail end small boats took us across Sandoval lake to the Sandoval lodge. Sandoval lake is lovely and pristine. It’s a kidney shape, say a couple of kilometers from end to end. Much of the animal sightings described above come while cruising on comfortable boats or rafts along the lake shores. The Lodge is also charming and rustic. There is a large public room with chairs and hammocks, dining tables, and a much appreciated bar. The lodge rooms are quite basic – a couple of beds with mosquito netting.

In retrospect, it really was an interesting trip. And perhaps my tone is excessively soured by the mud. (The return trip, by the way was even muddier thanks to new rains while we were there, but if you go during the dry season or get lucky you may fare better.) And the fact that we all contracted salmonella while there may not have helped either. But more on that anon.

Dave shows his deep abiding respect for cultures not his own

Waiting in the departure lounge in Lima for our flight to the Amazon we watched on tv what is apparently a traditional Peruvian art form. Men clad in native garb do elaborate synchronized dances while rapidly snipping the air with large pairs of scissors. Then women in billowing gowns come out and do a similar series of gyrations, absent the cutting implements. I’m all for respecting the customs and traditions of others. It is important that we open our eyes to the creativity and beauty produced by all the many people that share this small planet with us. But this Peruvian dance is – how can I put this most diplomatically – idiotic. How can Peruvian moms and dads teach their children elementary precautions about running with scissors when just that behavior has been elevated to a cultural icon? What’s next – dancers poking each other in the eye with sticks? Slamming doors on each others fingers? It’s just irresponsible. And beyond that, it is also kind of dorky. Now if the men and women came out on dance floor at the same time and the men snipped the dresses off the women you might have something worth watching. Yes, if I had my own country, that’s just what we would do!

Enough with the Galapagos Already

In the last post I wrote about the blue footed booby and its mating dance. The booby also curiously has another mating ritual where the male gathers twigs, leaves and other suitable nesting material to present to the female. The reason this is curious is that the boobies don’t actually build nests on the Galapagos, but lay their eggs directly on the rocks. The nesting material is useless to them. his is a nice example of the myriad proofs of evolution that appear anywhere you care to look. It is explicable only when you realize that the Galapagos blue footed booby must have evolved from a species of nest-building booby. And in fact, mainland boobies do build nests. They need them to protect their eggs from predators. But on the Galapagos those predators don’t exist. After arriving on the islands the boobies would have instinctively continued to build useless nests for awhile. But over the eons, natural selection would have progressively favored the sloppier boobies who wasted less and less time on unnecessary nest building, leaving more time to gather food. Ultimately nest building was dispensed with entirely.

But then why did the nest building mating ritual continue? It illustrates the peculiarities that happen with sexual selection, which is a special case of natural selection. Females choose mates based on rituals and physical traits that conspicuously highlight the male’s fitness, and the fitness of the genetic heritage he will pass on to their shared offspring. (Males also make similar choices but – at least in polygamous species – they can afford to be less picky.) Perversely, the traits that become the focus of sexual selection may be useless from the standpoint of survival, or even costly. The very fact that there is a cost which the male is able to carry evidences his fitness in the ways that ensure survival. The peacock’s tail is a classic example. It is useless in practice, expensive to maintain, and increases his visibility to predators. But the very fact that the peacock is able to support a great tail, shows the female that he is in other respects a great catch.

So by gathering useless twigs our blue footed booby is showing his prospective mate that he is first class. The behavior continues to have value as a signal of fitness even when the underlying motive for the behavior is gone. But even if twig gathering only shows fitness for an obsolete behavior it is unlikely to disappear anytime soon. The problem is that a male with a mutation that reduced the behavior would have a hard time breeding while females continued to look for it. On the other hand, a female that had a mutation that no longer found twig gathering “sexy” wouldn’t benefit since she would likely have sons with impaired twig gathering skills. And as long as other females are still looking for that her sons would have trouble finding good mates. (Talk about a chicken and egg problem!) Sexual selection works rather differently from natural selection generally – in natural selection ANY fitness advantage will be selected for and eventually predominate. But traits that have become a focus of sexual selection can persist even where they have negative impact on overall fitness, and – like the peacocks tail – can even spin out of control until they become a real burden.

As you’ve probably noticed, I find this stuff really fascinating. To explain why, let’s pause for a brief joke:

A man finds a magic lamp on a deserted beach and rubs it. A genie comes out and says “Hi, I’m a low grade Genie. I can only offer you one wish, so make it a good one.” The man thinks for a minute and says, “OK, I have always wanted to visit Hawaii. But I’m afraid of flying and get terribly seasick. I’d like a bridge built from my home in LA out to the islands.” The Genie takes out a pad and pencil and makes some calculations. Finally he says, “I don’t know, it’s over 4,000 miles, and the Pacific is up to five miles deep in some places. Can you come up with an easier wish?” The man thinks for a moment and says, “Well, another dream of mine is to understand women. What is it that they really want? What motivates them and what does it take to make them happy?” The Genie replies “About this bridge – two lanes or four?”

“Yes Dave,” you say, “that is a hilarious joke, and nicely told as well, but what does it have to do with blue footed boobies?” To which I reply “You obsequious moron, it should be obvious.” And here’s what I mean by that. Much about the relations of men and women, attraction, courtship, romance, fidelity, commitment and so on seems on the surface inexplicable – as though a process that ought to be simple and straightforward has broken down. But the only reason it seems inexplicable is because we expect it to be simple and straightforward – that people will meet, fall in love and mate for life, like pigeons and Catholics. But viewed with the perspective of evolution and sexual selection, it becomes apparent that there is nothing simple or straightforward about it at all. It is a game played for the highest possible stakes, and any possible advantages will be selected for. And – like the boobies – we will be burdened with all sorts of selective biases that may have made sense a million years ago on the plains of Africa, but now only provides juicy material for country-western songs. Why do men adorn themselves with BMWs and Rolexes and women with makeup, gowns and high heels? Why do guys bring their dates flowers and chocolates? Why do men seek out bimbos and women cads, and then complain because they act like bimbos or cads? The answer, of course, is that we are all just doing the dance of the blue footed booby. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to my twig collection.

[A great book on the subject of sexual selection is “The Red Queen” by Matt Ridley. And, yes, this will be on the exam.]