#054: This, The Final Blog

So, the end has come.

From time-to-time on this trip I have jotted things down that I deem worthy of inclusion in this, the final blog. Things that succinctly state the experience or the feelings or the things I have learnt. Things that describe the harrowing journey from blinkered everyman to enlightened being. Ahem.
I've said it before: I'm a lucky lucky boy. A year to one's self is a priceless commodity in AD 2012. For the first time in my adult life I have been free of the pressures of work and of westernised conformity. My thoughts have had the time and space to wander and wallow: through dreams and sights to experiences and memories, some long-forgotten. I've written about my thoughts, read about them, tried to make sense of them. I've read more books this year than in any year since I was still deemed a schoolchild, and I have made note of passages that resonate with the me-holding-this-pen, or the me-whom-held-this-pen-three-months-ago, or before.
To feel how I feel now is proof positive this year was the best decision I ever took. I can't say it any better.

I shan't ramble any longer. I'll just say thank you for reading, and will sign-off by borrowing from a writer (Doris Lessing) I encountered on the journey here:

"...growing up is afterall only the understanding that one's unique and incredible experience is what everyone shares."

#053: Back to the Future

My time in Sierra Leone was up. My time doing this thing, being this person, is to end in one single week. I am slightly disbelieving that it is over. The future holds with it a silent dread. Of returning to work and giving over my head which has been so free of the associated thought and stress. Of the potential of the things I have found, the things I wish to do. Of how the me who exits this last year fares, compared to the me who entered it.
But I have one final fling yet to embrace. Three nights back in New York City, with sister and the occasion of her 30th year.
Being once more in the States brought recent memories flooding back: the sights, the sounds; the people and the towns; the long lonely roads. What is this? Another desire to add to the list I have collated over the past twelve months. To once again drive these highways? The urge is stronger than I had expected. I may have to find myself an aging millionairess and relieve her of her life's worth.

For an age the plane pauses before taxiing; the queues at passport control file slower than any I encountered in this whole year; the subway trains drag their heels. (I note, with some humour, the inclusion of a Canadian glacial lake in the JFK "Welcome to the United States" showreel.) Emerging onto Broadway at 34th Street I am instantly up to pace with the locals; Africa-time a memory; an urgency to walk the five blocks to the hotel.
And there there is sister, looking every bit the extra from a Sex and the City party scene, not-diamond encrusted shoes sparkling in the chic lighting of the bar. She has no ideas for the evening, so I take her to the East Village, to a cocktail bar called Elsa where the beer taps are housed within a Singer sewing machine. And then it is time to eat, so we make our way under the East River into Brooklyn, to Williamsburg, home of 'loads of amazing restaurants' according to my new New York acquaintances with more than a finger in the pie of the local food scene. There we find The Guru Burger, and thoroughly feast. It is really quite late, and raining, so we hastily conclude the evening on the banks of the river looking back across to the many lights of Manhattan.
This visit is short. Two whole days and two halves. The list of things to do is extensive, and I have intentions to slip in one or two additional stops on our whirlwind tour. Whole Day One starts with a leisurely breakfast before we hit the Guggenheim. Becky is impressed with the materials of the John Chamberlain sculptures which fill the spiralled interior. I am drawn to the Francesca Woodman installation; photographs juxtaposing her female form with nature.
We criss-cross Central Park for a couple of hours, then stop for late lunch at its southwest corner. The evening's entertainment is to be provided by Broadway, so we swing by Times Square to get some cheap tickets. A stroll round the shops and a coffee fills the time before the performance: the blue muppets - not of colour - of Avenue Q. It is a technically superb musical, the players operating the muppets in full view of the audience. Everyone is a little bit racist.
Whole Day Two features an early start. The trick to scaling a skyscraper is to do it at 8:30am on a Monday, a Tuesday or a Wednesday. We make our way to the Rockerfeller Centre and are upon its' roof before 9am. It offers the best views: north over the park and south covering the whole of downtown Manhattan, the congruence of the rivers, and the full flank of the Empire State Building front and centre. Today is jam-packed. Nine things to do. But first, breakfast.
Afterwards it is north to Natural History, dinosaurs, deep sea creatures and dead and preserved relatives of the species I have seen about the world. Greenwich Village is the next stop. My surprises are less surprise and more additional-things-to-fit-into-an-already-busy-enough day: a short walk down the High Line with its differing perspective of the city, and a birthday cake from a renowned cupcakery. Becky wants to photograph a location from Sex and the City and Gay Street, which are in very close proximity. Lunch is next, taken at John's Pizzeria just another five minute walk away. Then it is south. All the way south to South Ferry and the free ferry ride to Staten Island, past the Statue of Liberty and back again.
Straight back on the subway, we head to City Hall and the footbridge over Brooklyn Bridge. The views here rival those we saw from the top of the Rockerfeller. Monday is just about complete. We pause at the hotel to drop off items collected throughout the day before making our way to Madison Square Garden to watch the American equivalent of Becky's sport of netball: basketball. The home crowd see their team, the Knicks, take a ten point lead which they promptly throw away to trail by nine. But some raucous support and some bizarre in-game entertainment during the many breaks in play see the team turn it around and they end up the victors.

All too soon it is ended. The next morning brings with it my final re-pack of the year. We fly early evening and both have a desire to see what we can see in the boutiques before setting off. We split up. A few hours to browse before the commute to JFK and the seven hour flight. Back to the UK.

Back to the future...

#052: Hanging with Rosario Dawson's Mom, and other stories

Preface
Before I start rambling my way through this epic installment (it covers my whole month in Sierra Leone), I feel it is important I set the scene. Many an acquaintance, indeed nigh-on every person I spoke to about coming here, questioned why I was doing so; why I would choose to come to a violent West African country; the country of the blood diamonds, beset by the problems of the developing world, only recently saved from the ravages of civil war: the drugged child soldiers and the mass mutiliations and amputations. Why on Earth would I risk turning a dream of a year into a nightmare.
The truth of it is I took more of a risk walking home from the pub in Maidenhead for the last fifteen years than I did in coming to Sierra Leone. The collective international perception of the country is nothing short of scandalous. This is an utterly peaceful country; a positively peaceful country. From what I have seen, the biggest plus to come from the horrific conflict is that Sierra Leoneans never again want to witness the likes of it again. The populous strives to keep the peace.
Alusine told me of war: rebels determined how much limb to relieve you of based on the length of the sleeves of the shirt on your back, before passing an axe through your cuff. Alusine walked for the best part of two weeks to escape the rebels, with no food or water to speak of. He said that people turned to eating the leaves from the trees to keep from dehydration.
This all ended over a decade ago. In 2002, democratic elections were held and the country has been stable ever since. Indeed, voter registration was taking place while I was there, in advance of November's Presidential elections. Biometric registration. Miles ahead of the UK. Anyone found guilty of fraud (such as double registration) is heavily punished. I was told of a man who is now serving a seven year jail sentence for just this crime.
I shan't lie: the bustling markets house quick-fingered urchins with eyes peeled for ill-guarded wallets and, in certain areas, if you are stupid enough to leave your bag unattended, then a man with eight mouths to feed, who earns little more than pennies every week, might just help himself.
But there is a real scarcity of violent crime. In Reading I have been punched to the floor and seen a friend get repeatedly kicked in the head. In Maidenhead I have nursed a stranger on the Friday night pavement; a stranger whose features I could not discern for the blood. These things are virtually unheard of in Sierra Leone whereas they are daily occurrences in the provincial towns of middle England. I'd even wager that the problem of marketplace pickpockets pales in comparison to the balletic bandits of Barcelona. How many people do you know who have been to the Catalan capital and returned with tales of dipped pockets? I know I've only been there five times and the problem has occurred on three of those occasions. A 60% return is not to be sniffed at.
I can, with all honesty, say I feel safer in Sierra Leone than I do in a lot of places in my home town (God only knows how I survived eight months living on the Bomber estate without serious incident). The welcome is second to none as is the eagerness to share, as everyone who caught wind of my small-small attempts at learning some Krio was testament to.
I'll close this preamble with a bit of background. Sierra Leone is a country on the West African coast, about the size of Wales, population about 5.5m, with 2.5m of those squeezed into the capital of Freetown, so named because it was the docking port for returning slaves at the onset of abolition. Freetown sits on the northern tip of a north-south peninsula, which is joined to the rest of the country at its eastern midriff. And I'll be spending my four weeks here in the community of John Obey, on the Atlantic towards the south-western end of the peninsula, at an ecotourism project called Tribewanted.

The Various Varied Tribewanted Trades
Tribewanted is an endeavour that gives a visitor the opportunity to live in a community in a breath-taking setting. It strives to be sustainable, introducing modern eco solutions to the local area, providing full-time jobs and experience for 30 locals. A visitor can be as hands-on in their involvement as they choose. The current on-going projects include earth-dome building and maintenance of the permaculture garden but, being right on the beach, it is just as acceptable to spend your time in a hammock or lounging on the sand. There are a range of accommodations from which to choose: tents, pitched just a few metres from high tide, for those budget travellers, up to a deluxe construction called the 'Honey Dome': an earthbag building featuring private compost toilet and bucket shower.
The thirty local employees are divided between a number of job roles:
> Construction - the centrepiece of the project is the accommodations built using the earthbag technique. This involves reusing a ricebag, filling it with local earth, a small amount of granite and a small amount of cement, and stacking the bags (much like the ice blocks of an igloo are pieced together). It uses much less cement than traditional methods so is far more cost effective. The ricebag walls are then coated with more of the earth/cement mixture before being finished with a similar mix containing a measure of sand. The technique was taught by CalTech (part of the University of California) and the workers are duly certified. The hope is they will take their skills and earn independent work once the Tribewanted construction is complete.
> Permaculture - Tribewanted has its own garden, producing peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, squash and other vegetables. Right now they are battling a salinated water supply and a visiting tribe of locust, not to mention the parched weather of the Sierra Leone dry season. But plans are afoot for a new fresher supply of water and a terraced section, built using recycled tyres and complete with irrigation system. Much research has also been done into non-chemical ways to battle the invading locust. It represents a big job, but one which should see the project producing all its own vegetables.
> Chop - the kitchen employs five people and every day lays on three meals for visitors. Breakfast is a relaxed help-yourself affair with oats, fruit, bread and eggs. Six days a week lunch is served to workers and visitors alike. It is traditional Sierra Leone fare: local country rice (which is amazing stuff) with fish and a local sauce. It can be very very spicy but, after a few weeks certainly, one's palette becomes familiar. Some of these lunch dishes are among the tastiest things I have ever eaten. In the evenings dinner is often a more European-influenced affair, with pasta and salad to accompany the fish. Living, as we do, on the beach amongst a fishing community, you can't really get more local food than the catch of the day.
> Security - more to appease the concerns of visiting Westerners, a few guys are employed to provide security for the project. Working in shifts (one during the day, two at night), the guys are often found helping out around the project or, in the evenings, helping visitors with their Krio. For someone like me, who learns best by doing and repeating, their help means I can get by with Krio pleasantries and even a little in the way of where I am going and what I am doing.
> The fish trade - not employed by Tribewanted, but by far one of the most important jobs around, is the one of fisherman. Living and working right next door to the project, the fishermen buy a canoe fashioned from the trunk of a tree, thus enabling them to paddle out into the Atlantic and cast their homemade net once or twice a day. They are completely reliant on the tide - too high and a venture out could spell disaster. Indeed, they are unable to fish at all during rainy season, so stormy is the sea. The fishermen sell their catch to traders, whom immediately smoke the fish in the village, preparing it for market. This helps preserve the fish, as there is no electricity with which to make ice.
> Management and transport - also employed by Tribewanted are Fatorma, the local manager, and Mr. Alie, the driver. Fatorma's job is to oversee the progress of work and to assign tasks to workers, whilst generally managing the finances of the project. Mr. Alie drives the Tribewanted pick-up, collecting visitors from Freetown and helping with the twice-weekly shopping run to Waterloo. He is also available for hire by any guests who wish to explore further around the peninsula.

Hanging with Rosario Dawson's Mom
On my first weekend at the beach, Isabel (or Big Momma to the locals) and I took a trip with Perfectman, one of the local fishermen, in his boat to Black Johnson beach - the next bay along from John Obey. It took about an hour to paddle round the head of land to the North and we spent an hour or so hanging out on the beach, Perfect introducing us to the locals and assisting in the procurement of refreshments. Later in my trip, Perfect's expert tuition would turn me from clueless bystander into competent patcher (fishing net mender) in the space of fifteen minutes.
Having walked along the bay at Black Johnson, we somehow timed our return trip perfectly: the sun was setting and, for perhaps the only time in my four weeks there, the sunset was not totally obscured by the Sahara-induced haze. Isabel took some stunning photos while Perfect and I paddled along. But she was unfortunately too preoccupied to spot the turtle that surfaced ten or fifteen yards ahead of us before diving again.

How not to 'Be Prepared'
Tribewanted always has a volunteer manager staying at the project. This is someone either from or with experience of 'the west' and their role is to provide a cultural bridge between international visitors and the community and opportunities available in the area. For the duration of my stay the volunteer manager was Mark, a South African chap from Cape Town who had spent eight years plying his trade in the IT sector in the UK.
The two of us decided we wanted to do a hike so arranged with Daniel (Tribewanted's local tourist rep) to cross the peninsula from Coba Wata to Big Wata, taking in the peak of Picket Hill on the way. At Coba Wata, Daniel negotiated a guide for us, and how much we should pay the local head man for the privilege of walking from the village.
As you are probably aware, I am someone with some experience of hiking, so a three or four hour jaunt up a hill and back seemed like a pretty relaxing way to spend a day: the flora and fauna of the bush; a spectacular view or two...I had spent about twelve years in the Scouts as a youth, time that nurtured an instinct intrinsic to my being to always 'be prepared'. So when we were about to set off and it was revealed the hike was more like seven hours long...and we had no food...
Daniel quickly sourced us a mango each and, as we ventured into the bush, Samuel - our guide - passed a village acquaintance: the poyo man. Poyo, or palm wine, is a naturally occurring drink tapped - believe it or not - from palm trees. It is naturally alcoholic to the tune of about 1%, naturally carbonated when fresh, and is considered a food stuff in these parts because it relieves hunger and is actually nutritious. So Samuel got us a bottle on the spot and we continued on our way.
Having been totally unprepared in the rations department, I felt altogether more comfortable with the walking, which featured a steady incline for the three or so hours it took to reach the top. The sweating perhaps a little less so, but I feel we were helped by the thick canopy; rarely were we in direct sunlight. At the top the view was marred by clouds, which came as no surprise (many's the time when mountainous destinations have been shrouded thus). But perhaps the most unprepared I felt on the whole route was when we came upon a snake...
Samuel (who had led for every step of the six previous hours) paused to adjust his footwear while Mark (a few paces ahead of me) and I continued on down the clear path. Samuel caught me up and, as he did so, started jumping up and down on the spot shouting "Snake, snake!" Of course, Mark and I both stopped dead, Mark spinning round to find he had just stepped over the creature, oblivious. The cause of Samuel's excitement was preoccupied in a face-off with a frog, and quickly darted from the path into the bush. It wasn't until we returned to Tribewanted that the Temne name 'horuff' (sic) which Samuel gave us, translates to 'viper'. In fact, the snake was a horned viper and administers its' venom via the spike on its' head. It is one of the deadliest snakes in the region.

The Dark Night of the Sloans
I sat myself on the seafront boulder, outside the door of my tent, for the combination of sunset and high tide. Yet, even as I sat there, the sea took with it great swathes of the beach; a foot-high step appearing in the middle of the shore and gradually retreating from the swell as more and more sand was washed away. Long-shore drift in real-time. I would estimate that, in the ten days I have lived here, 300 cubed feet of sand has been removed from immediately outside my doorstep.
As wave after wave pounded the sand ridge, I watched as crabs were evicted from their burrows at a moments notice, before being flushed out to sea or miraculously scrabbling to safety. One fellow gingerly investigated the hole of an as-yet safe compatriot, nosing his way inside before accepting his lot with a short-lived stint as sentry.
As the Saturday of my middle weekend in Sierra Leone slowly ticked by, it started to feel like I had been allocated to completely the wrong table at a University reunion dinner. Lying in the hammock I gave a shudder, involuntary yet revealing. My initial thought as I watched more and more people arrive and air-kiss each other on both left and right cheeks throughout the day, was that this evening is likely to be hellish and I will, more-than-likely, make excuses for myself and find somewhere quiet and unassuming to pass the night by. I had no desire to spend an evening with a holier-than-thou clique of the table-topping 'volunteer-what' jet-set. Paradise had turned parasitic.
If I had been completely honest with myself from the outset I would have anticipated the obligatory campfire rendition of 'Wonderwall'. Fortunately, though, the invasion was wholly tempered by the presence of Kirsty and Emily who, themselves, get exactly this much of a mention. The alumni-aria was rounded off, quite perfectly, with messers Hendrix, Marley and Spears. Tally ho.
It didn't take so long to banish the memory, the ex-pat contingent slowly filtering away during the course of the next day, leaving us to reclaim the hammocks. Isabel was back from volunteering as an administrator for an AIDS clinic in Freetown and Kirsty and Emily stayed a few nights, so the four of us took a walk to Bureh beach. Along the way all manner of things had been washed ashore (TV remote?), apparently detritus from a sunken Korean trawler that had been fishing illegally nearby and ran into trouble. At Bureh we found the high tide (given impetus by the full moon a couple of nights before) had broken through the beach and joined with the lagoon behind, so we couldn't make it as far as the village. However, the local lads swam out and said hello, offering their assistance. We contented ourselves with a swim before heading back to John Obey for lunch.
Isabel returned to Freetown before dawn the next day so in the afternoon Kirsty, Emily and I decided to visit Tacugama Chimpanzee Sanctuary. Here are housed (currently) 98 chimps; mainly youngsters rescued from being kept as pets and living lives of film-watching, alcohol-drinking and cigarette-smoking. It takes a long time to ween them off these things and they pass through five phases of rehabilitation before release back to the wild. The sanctuary has various enclosures to help them through this process, including some fairly large sections of the Western Peninsula Forest. If you ever find yourself visiting, keep your wits about you: the chimps can be very protective of their food and are a deadly shot with a rock in hand!

A Beginner's Guide to Retail Therapy
Elijah, head of the Chop team, goes into the town of Waterloo twice a week to stock up on supplies. The market there is bustling to say the least: narrow streets lined with traders selling everything you could possibly need. I joined Elijah on a couple of his excursions and learnt a thing or two about safely negotiating the thronged streets:
> Don't step on other people's bananas
> Your mentor likely has a sixth sense for buses sneaking up on you from behind; stick close
> If at all possible, avoid causing speeding wheelbarrows to collide and spill ground nuts all over the floor
> If someone shouts "white man", they mean you
> Unless you aren't white
> If a superstar Liberian popster cruises past in a convoy of pick-ups crammed with sound systems and entourage, prepare for the whole town to stop what they are doing, rush you, and start dancing
> If you accidentally kill a goat, be sure to pay the owner

Maidenhead District Scout Association Pioneering Champion 1994 versus John Obey District Speed-Pioneering Display Team 2012
In 1994, I and my crack team of pioneers were crowned Maidenhead District Scout Association Pioneering Champions. So refined were our skills, so honed our technique, that our lookout tower of big logs tied to other big logs looked more like a NASA satellite dish. You know the ones: the huge dishes out in the New Mexico desert or somewhere similar. Still, we beat Pinkneys Green and, if I've learnt anything in this life of mine, it's that beating Pinkneys Green is all that truly matters. As I still dine out on that glorious victory (and, of course, that 6-1 thrashing we handed them in the Cub Scout Cup, despite being massive underdogs (Daniel Horner literally scored direct from a corner; what are the chances?)), I thought I should introduce my skills to this little corner of Africa. It's what Baden-Powell would have wanted after all.
Tribewanted installed a water pump near the project which also serves the fishing community. A short way up a hill from the pump is a large water tank which feeds the taps in the Tribewanted kitchen, toilets and housing. This tank has to be topped up a couple of times a week. This involves repeatedly filling six large jerry cans and walking them up the hill, lifting them up a ladder to the top of the tank and emptying them inside. One particular morning Abu (one of the construction team), Hassan (trainee carpenter in the construction team) and myself took on the task of filling the tank by about a quarter. This meant 48 jerry cans had to be pumped full, carried, lifted and emptied. This much water required just shy of three thousand accumulative pumps. It is fair of me to say this is tiring work. Especially in Africa. In dry season. And it is forty degrees. So when the ladder that is climbed to scale the tank started to fall apart, I figured it was time to do something. And that is where pioneering came in.
That same afternoon the three of us sourced the wood and rope and I set about teaching Abu and Hassan the art of the square lashing. Not one hour later there were just three lashings to go and I found myself being challenged to a race: first to finish their square lashing wins.
Competition was fierce but I won, of course. Beating Pinkneys Green isn't just some stroll in the park you know. I have real pedigree. But Abu and Hassan picked it up really quickly and proudly paraded their new ladder past the other workers on the way to the tank. They have themselves a pretty proud old pioneer right here too.

The High-Octane World of Professional Yahtzee
Visitors came and went over the course of my month in John Obey; some for a night, others for more. It was on the occasion of my first evening with New York couple Scott and Laura, towards the end of my stay, that Scott uttered the immortal words: "Do you know Yahtzee?"
Scott and Laura were in West Africa for three weeks - Tribewanted for five nights - using the experience to gather content for their new website: eatyourworld - a  site where you can discover and share traditional and typical cuisines and food stories from around the world. On top of this Laura is a writer, putting together a story on community tourism, whilst Scott, a photographer, used his keen eye to capture pictures of their time here, including shots of every single food item that passed under their noses. We introduced them to the poyo - fresh out of the palm that morning - and also to the ginger beer which Aminata (one of the chop employees) had made the same day. Mark had been given a gift of scotch that week; scotch that went so well with the ginger beer you would swear they were separated at birth. We christened the re-conjoined twins a 'Ginger Leone'.
Not long afterwards the battle dice were out and Scott instantly "happened upon" his best-ever-game scorecard: a three-Yahtzee game. Four hundred and eighty-something points. Nice, I said, as my expression dropped into the featureless stare of my Yahtzee-face. Three Yahtzee's. He would have no idea that I was impressed.
My memory is hazy, but I was introduced to the sport by my Grandma, at the age of eight or nine. Quite young, you may think, to enter a world where the stakes are so high: to winners, the spoils, while losers are consigned to the gutter, forever. But Grandma knew what she was doing. She knew I was ready.
Grandma died before I was out of primary school and I was left without my six-sided mentor. Yet, in those few short years, she instilled in me a profound sense for the game; a sense for the dice. I knew an early four-of-a-kind with the sixes could make or break a game, freeing up your top, or giving a firm start to your bottom. And I knew that, sometimes, you've just gotta take a chance.
Scott took the first two games, Laura the third. This was serious.
A couple of days later the three of us conscripted Daniel to take us on a tour of the local beaches, to find out more of other community tourism initiatives in the area. Tourism isn't greatly developed in Sierra Leone, so there is great potential here to build it up in the right way; protecting the great beauty of the land, showcasing the wonderful welcome of the people, providing much-needed investment in one of the least-developed countries in the world.
We began our trip at the roadside in John Obey, hoping to get a ride to Tokeh. While we waited, Scott was seconds from inadvertently buying himself a raw fish to eat, until Daniel stepped in and convinced the trader to return his money. Daniel was just beginning negotiations with a motorcyclist to ferry us in pairs up the road when a rickety taxi carrying one patron pulled up. The four of us and a mother and son clambered in, and it wasn't until we reached Tokeh that we realised the original passenger had made the journey in the boot.
Tokeh is a bigger community than John Obey and has a secondary school. The beach there is a pristine white and we walked along it - in the midday sun - towards Number Two, a village at the mouth of River #2. A private American businessman is commissioning a new hotel - a series of chalet-style accommodations - on the beach-front at Tokeh. At present it is hard to tell how the buildings will look, as only foundations are in place, but it is a very big development, flanked by typical local constructions (houses and bafas) that, I suspect, will contrast greatly.
We waded across River #2 to get to the village, and lunch. Number Two is a regular haunt of weekend visitors, and it strives to be sustainable. There is solar power and, like Tribewanted, bags for recycling (although there is no state collection of refuse or recyclable items, so the bags are a statement of intent more than anything). Unfortunately the toilets at Number Two seemed to run to a hole in the ground; no signs of composting. Daniel hails from the village and is a great advocate for doing things the right way. He introduced us to his mother; and his brother, who owns a huge allotment with many successful vegetables that he sells to the villagers. Between him and Daniel, I suspect they pretty much run the place.
Next on the tour we needed to return to Tokeh, so Daniel arranged to courier us on a couple of motorbikes. After thirty-two-and-a-half years in this world, this was my first journey on such a contraption, and I was wearing flip-flops, shorts, a skimpy t-shirt, and no helmet. Mother, I apologise. The road was, shall we say, bumpy; the bike struggled with any inclines and regularly threw me a foot or so into the air. Perhaps the most exciting part of the journey was when we passed a patch of land - a very large patch of land - being cleared for a new owner. A common thing in third world countries is to deforest not by hand with axe or saw, but to burn the forest to the ground. The flames licked ten feet into the air and bent over the road in wicked arcs as we passed. I suspect the fact we were moving was the only thing to keep up from getting burnt.
In Tokeh, Daniel contracted a taxi for three hours (for 50,000 Leones - about $11) to ferry us south to Kent and then back up the coast to Bureh and finally John Obey. In Kent we found the remains of a slave fort and a holding cell - now with a school built on top of it - a slightly uncomfortable sight. The youth of Kent have recently built a bar/restaurant in an amazing location looking out to the sea and Banana Island, although we felt the area needed some work, both aesthetically and professionally, if it is to regularly attract tourists; certainly under the 'community tourism' banner.
Up in Bureh we found our favourite beach of the day. The bay there offered a little surf and we managed to ride a couple of waves. We were introduced to Tommy, a local 'entrepreneur', who brought us oysters on the beach and showed us around the village.
Bureh sits on a small headland with the bay on one side and a beautiful beach on the other. Unfortunately, like much of the peninsula coast, rubbish is a real problem. The back of the beach was totally covered in it, which was a complete turn-off.
Tommy walked us through the forest behind the beach, and his conversation with Daniel became slightly heated. The forest was beautiful - we saw one huge tree whose trunk exploded into many fine boughs, sprouting in all directions. We asked Daniel what the two of them had been talking about. We were told the forest is sacred to the community but, despite this, had just been sold to Lebanese developers. The likelihood is their ancient trees will be cut down in the near future. Daniel was incensed. Number Two had been approached to sell their whole village, beach and all, to Chinese investors for a paltry $500,000. Thankfully they refused, seeing things in the longer term. There is a real danger that Sierra Leone, with its stunning beaches, landscapes, forests and wildlife, could be destroyed by the wrong kind of investment. This is a poor country. The culture here is to take the easy money when offered. That Number Two refused that cash was an exception. Unless the right kind of initiatives are supported, the beauty that is intrinsic to the land, the people, could easily be lost.
As we exited the forest we came across a village football match, where we met a living legend.
Prince Williams of Bureh was taking part in the match, for the side playing in skins. Presently he approached to bid us hello. To say he was ripped is an gross understatement. His proud breast would make silicon ashamed to be called an implant. And silicon isn't even sentient. All three of us became instantly bashful at his gaze. His face was surely crafted by the likes of Michaelangelo and, when he smiled, we all just melted. He may well have caught me casting a glance at his exquisite torso, his rippling stomach. And you know what? If he did, I am not ashamed.
I am not ashamed.
A couple of nights before, Scott and I had shared the spoils in two games of Yahtzee, and after the tour the three of us played once more. This may come as news to the uninitiated, but by playing Yahtzee, you learn something of yourself; your true self. For instance, I now know that I can be an aggressive roller: had I aimed that third roll away from the other dice, I may have gotten the five, and the Yahtzee, I was looking for. As it was, I still won the game. This was due to some cunning points allocation of difficult rolls; sacrificing my topsies in favour of a strong bottom, ably led by my 'of a kinds. Scott had written me off. But from out of nowhere I had back-to-back wins. It was great Yahtzee.
The next day was my last full day in Sierra Leone. I spent it in the community, saying the first of my goodbyes and taking snaps of the project and the workers. I hadn't expected it what with looking forward to seeing friends and family again, but I was feeling a tinge of sadness to be moving on. The difference to the way of life in the south of England is marked; there is something truly warming about living in this community as I have done in the past month. People's roles dovetail so everyone plays a part; the community takes great care of itself, of its' own. The contrasts to the West are stark, and not just in the obvious aspects of wealth and development, standard of living conditions. The human aspects: the ability to live together in harmony, to resolve disputes amicably, to share; these all stand out.
For my last Sierra Leone sunset, Laura, Scott and I walked down the beach back to Bureh to swim in the sea and look back upon the stunning peninsula. Tommy predictably swam out to meet us and offer his wares so, after turning down a massive carving of an antelope (with 16 horns), Scott haggled for friends price on 14 oysters. That night we played our final game of Yahtzee.
I'm not going to lie; the standard of play was spectacularly bad. Bad, that was, until the last few rounds, when Scott somehow pulled out a couple of magical third rolls to consign Laura and me to yet another defeat. As much as it pains me to say it, Scott was a deserving champion. (Although Laura will be quick to point out she had the highest single-game score of the series.)

Football: A True Underdog story
Football is huge in Sierra Leone. And I mean huge. Every day you cannot fail to see dozens of replica shirts being sported, the English Premier League taking the lion's share of people's obsession. Almost everyone I spoke to supported one of the big teams: Manchester United, Chelsea, Arsenal. I even saw a Grimsby Town shirt.
John Obey, being just as football mad as the rest of the country, has a team. They are very much low down in the footballing hierarchy - their pitch is the one at the primary school; a rocky patch of dirt only really big enough for seven-a-side at most. Abu told me about training and asked if I would like to join in. I hadn't played for almost a year, but I jumped at the chance.
The guys trained without goalkeepers - scoring is achieved by playing the ball onto the opposing posts - and showed far greater technical ability than is nurtured in the UK. They formed neat passing triangles and strived to keep the ball over getting it forward quickly, as is my education in the game. Later that week John Obey hosted a seven-a-side game against Tombo, local rivals with a much better footballing pedigree, who play several levels above John Obey. There was a fairly sizeable crowd for the Saturday evening match, the primary school benches brought outside to accommodate the fans. Tombo were such overwhelming favourites that the John Obey manager hadn't made time to attend, expecting a drubbing. Within ten minutes of the thirty each-way match, John Obey were 4-0 up, and in stunning fashion too - the goals flying in from all angles.
The Tombo team was clearly struggling with the label of favourites, whilst John Obey revelled in the freedom of rank outsiders. Towards the end of the first half Tombo pulled a goal back. Then they hit the angle of post and crossbar, collapsing the goal to great mirth from the gathered crowds.
The second half was a more nervy affair, John Obey content to soak up the pressure and preserve their lead. They were helped by a couple of great saves from their 'keeper although, to be fair, the Tombo 'keeper made a couple of fingertip saves as well - one of which was preceded by Abu sprinting along the touchline, Mourinho-like, thinking a fifth goal was about to be scored. Tombo struck the bar once more, but the game, and the spectacle, was completed by John Obey adding a fifth goal on the break; everyone under the height of four feet (and Abu) mounted a delirious pitch invasion in celebration, mini Jan-Aage Fjortoft's circling, arms outstretched, all around the ground.
Since that historic victory, John Obey have been inundated with offers of matches from teams desperate to pit themselves against the emphatic vanquishers of Tombo. As I left Tribewanted for the last time, farewells completed, the back of Mr. Alie's pick-up was filled with the John Obey football team, catching a lift to Waterloo for their first test since the Tombo game.
Waterloo is about twice as big, and even further up the footballing ladder!

Lastly And, By All Means, Most
I want to sign off this edition by saying tenki to everyone I met in the community of John Obey. You all made me feel most welcome and I'm proud to call you all friends.
The Tribewanted team: Mark, Fatorma, Mr. Alie, Daniel
The chop house: Elijah, Coco, Aminata, Bale, Yenken
Permaculture: Pa Braima, Momoh, Samuel
Construction: Abass, Abu, Alphonso, Hassan, Sullie, Mahmoud, Mohamad, MJ, Samuel, John
Security: Alusine, Junior, Saidu
The fishermen: Perfectman, Alie, Mohamed, Michael Siseh, Figoman and everyone else
Miss Mary
From the village: Chief Assan, Sieh Siseh and all the football boys
And, of course, the kids: Momoh, Usman, Mohamad, Christoph, the other Momoh's!

Thank you all for making my stay such a wonderful and unforgettable time. I truly hope to see you all again soon.

#051: How to spend a handful of hours in Bangkok

Every now and again you bump into someone you know somewhere totally random and out of the blue. I once inadvertently sat opposite a record-label-owning acquaintance in a tube train, for instance. And there are a fair number of tubes going around at any one moment in time. Still, I know quite a few people who live in London so, sooner or later, I was bound to see one of them amongst the 7,000,000 I don't know. This sort of occurrence wasn't something I was expecting to happen on the other side of the world, though.
Walking down the main street in Auckland, I felt a tap on my shoulder, and turned to be face-to-face with an old school colleague, Matt Travell. He had emigrated a year before and I happened to walk by his office as he was heading in. It's a small world and all that. Except it's not. It's even smaller. You only need to get sixteen people in a room together until you are more likely than not to have two with the same birthday. Try to work that out.
Someone else tapped me on the shoulder in Auckland. I hadn't ever met this person before though. They asked if I was going to the Roger Walters gig, without even the slightest attempt at an introduction. I said no, because I wasn't, and they left. Never to be seen or heard of again. I didn't know them from Adam, nor they me, and I was oblivious to the fact Roger Waters was even in the city. So I guess I've developed a Pink Floydy (Floydish?) hue over the past few months. At least from the rear.
One of the folk I shared a room with in Auckland this time around was a chap called Nobu, on a week-long holiday from Japan. He told me he had lots of English friends, but that I was the first Englishman he had met who wasn't stupid. I didn't argue. I found him to be a very perceptive chap, our Nobu.

Enough of that. My next task was to get myself to the coast of West Africa, and it was going to take two-and-a-half days. Flying out of Auckland, for twelve hours, would bring me to Bangkok. Quite perfectly, the flight was very mildly booked, so I had a three-seater to myself which would serve me well for the intended body-clock reset. I'd be crossing six timezones on the half-a-day flight.
After a few weird sleeps I arrived in Thailand, six hours earlier than four in the morning. And seven hours later than 3PM. Unfortunately, the way things worked out there, I had time to do little more than while away a few hours near to my Bangkok hotel. I say Bangkok, but I was actually about 25 miles from Bangkok. Like spending a night in Maidenhead.
Luckily, google earth showed me to be positioned just a few blocks from a park. I headed there and picked out a spot shaded by the fronds of a palm tree, alongside a small lake, where I made my acquaintance with some local wildlife. The spiders were keen jumpers - one little translucent chap religiously scaling me throughout the afternoon, no matter how many times I ushered him away. I shared the bank with a two-foot long lizardy fellow for a very short while, until he made his way into a pipe feeding the fountain at the lake's centre - too quick for me to capture a holiday snap of the two of us. I considered following him in there but could barely get my nose in the opening, let alone a whole head and a pair of shoulders.
Now, many's the time when I've found myself startled by wildlife. Even living all my years in the UK. There's the two obvious childhood spider incidents (scorched into my memory) and that time when a squirrel flung itself from a hedge, face-first, into my chest. There may have once been a riverside battle with a gibbon, but my memory is hazy on the matter. However, none of these quite compares to being startled by three five-foot long dragons arrowing forth at me from beneath a bush. Just look at the silly Englishman getting scared by harmless park lizards...
All I'll say is, Japan only needs to make them 25% bigger, and Matthew Broderick has a sequel in the bag.
Making the short walk back to the hotel, I was confronted with a huge pop-up market, transformed - in the space of a couple of hours - from seemingly run-down collection of hardboard constructions into a bustling and vibrant place to buy, sell and barter; stalls stretched away as far as the eye could see. As with all things, hindsight once more proved its' decisive mastery, leaving me wishing for even a single extra day on the fringes of this South East Asian metropolis.
From there it was the little matter of flying another seven time zones into the west: nine hours to Nairobi, four hour sit (in terminal limbo), six hours to Accra, one hour sit (in plane), two hours to Freetown...

#050: Leaving New Zealand

Previously I was just leaving New Plymouth. My night there was the last in a week-long series of single nights in towns between the south of the south island and (almost) the north of the north island.
I chose next to stop at Raglan, a town famous in New Zealand and beyond for its' surf. The hostel there was in a choice location, on top of a hill overlooking the gorgeous bay, and the heavy, heavy rain that had followed me for the preceding 36 hours thankfully drew to a stop as I ascended. Many hostels in New Zealand purport to come 'with a difference' - something to set them apart from the norm. Raglan used this claim justifiably. Dorms here were housed in reclaimed railway carriages, all waste was vetted for recycling and stone ovens were promoted as an alternative to the gas hobs. I spent a couple of nights there, and explored the local bays, spending a chunk of time sat on my behind watching the sun arc across the sky.
I was now into my final week in New Zealand, so headed northeast to the Coromandel Peninsula, home to - reputedly - the best beaches in the country. My stay there didn't disappoint.
On the way, the ipod threw up another (un)happy coincidence as the clear skies of the past three days gave way to an instantaneous downpour, at the same minute as Sudden Weather Change - an Icelandic rock band - rolled around.
I stayed in the town of Whitianga, at my final new hostel of the sabbatical, at what proved to be quite possibly the best hostel of the sabbatical. The dorms were more like a series of small apartments. Mine had a double room and a shared room for three (a single and a bunk) but, for two of my three nights, I was the only person in it. The dorm was completed with an obligatory bathroom, a kitchen/diner/ lounge, and a rather splendid balcony with views over the bay on the other side of the road. Thirteen pounds a night an' all. Very Highly Recommended.
I dedicated my time in Whitianga to the amazing local beaches and to some swimming in the south Pacific, stopping first in Hahei where I walked along the coast to Cathedral Cove, a much-lauded bay half an hour on foot from any public roads. It features a great arched rock tunnel (as big as a hall), and some rather massive rock formations, giving it its' name. The weather - for the two days I was in the area - was unbelievably good, and the skies remained clear overnight, when the vast array of the night sky appeared; the milky way a great band of white, halving the visible universe.
I also spent a day further north, at Otama and Opito bays - accessible only via a dirt track - doing little more than reading, eating and lying down, with a smidgen of dipping my toes. Despite it being a Sunday in Summer, I had about a mile of bay entirely to myself - a most indulgent afternoon to underline a most indulgent five weeks.

Below you can find my photographic attempts from round New Zealand. As ever, I'll stick 'em on The Facebook as well, as I don't fully trust the orientation of photobucket.

So now to the final leg of this year of journeying: Sierra Leone. As I walked away from dropping the car off, the excitement levels ratcheted up a notch. I have a day and a bit in Auckland to complete my preparations for a month living and working with a tribe on a beach in West Africa. I'm not expecting to have much, if anything, in the way of internet whilst I am there, so this might be the last update for a while. However, for those of you who are interested in what I've gotten myself in to, or what community tourism actually is, I'd recommend having a browse of the website here: http://sierraleone.TribeWanted.com/

Right then. I'm off to start a course of anti-malarials before psyching myself up for 48 hours of flying, via Bangkok and Nairobi.

I'll leave you with this exciting little snippet, lifted from the intro pack the guys in Sierra Leone sent me: "We suggest swimming at your own risk in the lagoon, at night it’s home to some crocodiles, but we rarely see them during the day..."

#049: A gusty hut

The recent theme continues apace or, rather, quite slowly, and with utmost leisure.

As the year draws to its' conclusion - have 46 weeks really already elapsed? - the question of 'what next' poses itself to me with some regularity. Frequent visitors may recall I had been listing potential future endeavours in the blog. Although that feature fell from the postings on this page, I have still recorded ideas as I have gone about my way. There are a handful of items on the list which I need to investigate more fully, and a couple of wee written projects to pull together as a result of the ample me-time afforded these past four or five months.
The prospect of returning to sit behind a desk is daunting after all this time, but the fates have been kind in moving my Tribewanted experience to the end of the year; a degree of effort in amongst the beach-sitting, the shallows-snorkeling, the lagoon-swimming and the hammock-swinging to prepare me again for the world of work.

But, of course, that is still a week away, and I have been continuing my journey around New Zealand.

From Te Anau I turned east and zig-zagged my way back up the south island. The town of Dunedin lies at the mainland-end of the Otago Peninsula, a quite beautiful stretch of land jutting out into the south Pacific at the southern end of the south island. It is home to some great wildlife, and I took myself to Sandfly Bay to see if I could spot any. The wind was ferocious, sandblasting all who ventured along the wide beach. Seals and sea lions were dotted along the sand as I made my way to the far end of the bay and the viewing hide ensconced there. What I witnessed next was worthy of an A Question Of Sport 'What Happened Next?' poser. Except without the sport. And I just so happened to have the video recording at the time. Click here to have a look.
Take note Attenborough, D.
Of course, seals and sea lions are nothing special. What I really hoped to spot was...penguins. And, after three hours sitting in a gusty hut, they started to come ashore. Not in any great numbers, mind (some rather disrespectful fellow tourists thought it permissible to venture down the dunes and onto the shore, despite plenty of signs pleading visitors to keep off the beach, as it could easily scare the penguins off), and too far away to clearly commit to digital film, but I've now seen Yellow-eyed Penguins in the wild!
Next day I headed back inland, to the eastern edge of the Southern Alps, and the village of Lake Tekapo. Another settlement in a glorious location, the country's highest peak, Mount Cook, in view across the cool waters; New Zealand really does have magical locations in spades. The whole way around the south island has featured wondrous vistas and spectacular views.
I spend an evening in Christchurch next. The whole of the centre of the city is closed off, like a set from some apocalyptic film. There were still cars, with roofs and bonnets smashed by falling masonry, behind the line of fencing. The traffic lights around the perimeter blinked amber incessantly.
Up the coast for my final night on the south island, I stay in the coastal town of Kaikoura. It sits on a bay and is ringed by tall mountains, reportedly snow-capped at cooler times of the year. The misty morning view out my window is befitting of my month touring the country.

Now is probably as good a time as any to ask if a week-long diet of vegetable curry is a good idea or not?

And so, up the remainder of the coast to the town of Picton, back amongst the sounds, to catch the ferry. The crossing is at a much more respectable hour, and I arrive at the city centre hostel in the late afternoon, in good time to check out the arthouse cinema over the road. The listings, as with much of the world, are somewhat behind the US so, having treated myself to what felt like exclusive screenings back in LA, I have to make do with a repeat viewing. I plumb for the Tomas Alfredson British ensemble of Tinker, Tailor, ... and, with some determination, keep track of events right the way through this time. I can reveal it does actually make sense. And the cinema wasn't to be sniffed at either: plush armchairs and sofas, and food and drinks delivered to your seat in the auditorium.
I spend the next couple of days traversing the west coast of the north island; first to Wanganui, where the hostel is in a grand old town house, not unlike those in the American south, and then on to New Plymouth, in some of the heaviest rain I have experienced all year.
Less than a week remains before I jet onwards once more. Time really is going quickly. By all reports I will be lacking in the internet upon the beach in Sierra Leone, certainly against the comparative luxury of wifi in the US and New Zealand, so I hope to publish one more installment, a precursor, before I am cast adrift...

#048: Into the S's

So I've gone from thinking I've been being plain lazy to thinking of this jaunt around New Zealand as something of a holiday - a holiday within a holiday. Insufferable am I not.
I've continued the recent theme by spending a day here, a couple there, and generally feeling in absolutely no rush. Nigh on five months since taking off from Gatwick, the moving around, looking at the scenery and hanging out with some dinner now feels normal. Just normal. I fear the second day of April this year will be something of a rude awakening. For now, though, think of me as quite contented. As if I could be anything else.

A couple of nights in the village of Franz Josef Glacier. Any guesses what I saw there? The walk up to the ice was straight up the middle of the valley formed by the glacier many years before, only mildly disconcerting at this time of year, and no unexpected downpours occurred to wash me away. The same day I checked out Fox Glacier as well, slightly smaller but no less impressive. The route to the lookout point crossed a number of streams which involved some creative rock-hopping to avoid getting wet feet or worse - these glacial runoffs don't half move quick.
The drive south, despite being through the Southern Alps, at times reminded me of the southern States of the US, swamp-like copses lining the road. I stayed a night in Wanaka, a beautiful little town on the shores of its' namesake lake, with the mountains encircling - somewhere I could well imagine returning to.
Queenstown came next - the Adventure Capital of the World. You want to jump off something, you name it, as long as you've got a few hundred bucks in your back pocket. The most extreme I got was a small trek around the town of Glenorchy where I sat admiring the views offered by the lagoon there. The majority of patrons in the Queenstown hostel seemed to like to keep themselves to themselves, but I hooked up with David and Jenny, an ex-pat (based in Perth) and a teacher-on-a-break respectively, for a thoroughly English night out with a pub and with some pints.

Some three and a half months ago now, in San Francisco, I decided to press [play all] on my ipod, and am still only two-thirds of the way through, having soundtracked every journey portion of the trip with the device. I've now hit the somewhat bulbous 's' section. Fortunately, for the whole world I'm sure, fate decided I should listen to my sizable Saturday Looks Good To Me collection on a Saturday.

It is in Te Anau, my next stop, far from the confines of heavy industry and populous, in the remotest corner of this staunchly antinuclear country - a spot that couldn't feel fresher if it tried - that I find a couple of tourists wearing surgical-style face masks. What a world we live in where individual paranoia, driven by a fear of the pollutants of the developed world coupled with media scaremongering, leads people to feel at risk, here.
Unless, of course, I've missed news of the latest pandemic sweeping Southland. In which case, wish me luck.
I'm here for three nights - a relative rest at the southern apex of the trip. I head to the much vaunted Milford Sound, on the drive to which the road emerges onto Egilton valley, what looks to be an ancient glacial valley with a sweeping flat plain at its' centre, flanked by steep-rising mountains on each side. Further investigation at Mirror Lakes reveals this is a river valley, wide and flat, the lakes those staples of GCSE geography: ox-bows.
Milford Sound, it transpires, is actually a fjord out onto the sea, the water-filled valleys resulting from ice age glaciers, whereas sounds occur from weathering and erosion. I find myself an affordable cruise and take to the waters where I am treated to some wind and cliffs, a number of seals and a couple of waterfalls. The weather that day was gorgeous. Apparently if you are lucky enough to be there on a rainy day the floodgates open and hundreds of temporary waterfalls appear an hour either side of the rainfall. It's a beautiful place and well worth a visit, if only for the optical illusions generated by the sheer scales on view (one mountain rises a whole mile vertically straight out of the sea).
It's the middle of the working week (and kids are back in school after their summer holidays) so I spend the next day driving around on the edge of fjordland. I find a side-road with views of the Dead Marshes (good spot for lunch) and fill my afternoon by walking to a deserted shore at the southern end of Lake Te Anau, the opposite banks lined with mountains. It's another scorcher so I treat myself to a cheeky swim.

I'm compelled to close this edition talking about a film, seeing as awards season is in full swing. A film I watched this week.
The film is Tyrannosaur, and is by a guy called Paddy Considine. He is more recognisable as the person in front of the camera (Tyrannosaur is his first feature). He was one of the two 'Andies' in Hot Fuzz and played the lead in Shane Meadows' desperately exceptional Dead Man's Shoes (these days you might more readily know of Shane Meadows as the man behind the This Is England TV series', rather than his features).
Not for the faint of heart, Tyrannosaur is a remarkable film, featuring a starring turn from another familiar face: Olivia Colman. Previously noted for roles in popular comedy series (see Sophie in Peep Show or the Mrs. to Tom Hollander's Mr. Rev), she gives a towering performance, a straight performance, in a wholly uncompromising film: Oscar-worthy without a shadow of a doubt. She is exceptional.
If only Oscars were awarded for brilliant performances and brilliant films...

#047: Lackadaisical

Back to the matter at hand: me moving around New Zealand.
I've come over all lackadaisical. For some reason, up to now, this trip once (and a bit more) around the world has felt like it holds some purpose. Like I am doing it for a reason. Like I am in pursuit of something. Straining.
Yes, I am visiting places that I set out to visit and am loving doing so. But in New Zealand I've dropped a gear or two and am quite content to merely amble around the countryside, travelling a short distance every day or two, taking life at an incredibly slow pace. Which is kind of ace. No need to chalk up another 300 miles on any one day. The antithesis of hard work.

I headed to Napier next, a town on the east coast of the north island with a long stoney beach on the doorstep of the hostel there. Before the waves I was met by an incessant sun and, with relish, set about the task of trialling the malaria pills I had been prescribed. These daily tablets may intensify my susceptibility to sunlight and this thinned-ozone region of the world is as good a place as any to test just how much I fry under their influence.
A night in Wellington came next, a short stopover ahead of the sail across Cook Strait to the south island.
The final hour of the crossing sees the ferry navigate Queen Charlotte Sound, a long fjord created during the last ice age. This northeast corner of the south island is dominated by similar waterways, and I spend the next couple of nights in the small town of Havelock, upon the banks of one of them. The first thing that strikes me about the south island is quite how lush everything is. I know it is the height of summer down here, but the flora looks positively satiated; thick bush jammed with bright greens cover every inch of the hills which punctuate the intersecting waters. It looks almost tropical such is the volume of plant-life and, upon leaving the car to explore on foot, I am met by a crescendo of chirruping and chattering; crickets and their ilk sounding off from every direction.
Next destination is the town of Takaka, in the region known as Golden Bay. I stay at an associate hostel - I guess you could call it a franchise, a privately run hostel affiliated to HI (Hostel International) - run by Allen and Miyuki. The place is buzzing with people, from the dorms in the house to the tents on the lawn to the summer house rooms at the bottom of the garden. The weather has remained gorgeous and, on Miyuki's recommendation, I visit Pupu Springs (reportedly the clearest spring-water on the planet) and Tata beach - a thin strip of sand lining an impressive bay on the edge of Abel Tasman national park: a Saturday afternoon (I think it was a Saturday) in the sunshine watching the gathered locals with their private motor boats and their varying levels of water-skiing competence.
Onwards to a night in Westport as I head south along the west coast. En route I swing past Cape Foulwind with its' resident seal colony. Pups somehow clamber over the boulders at the edge of the sea, defying the crashing waves and their own tiny forms, overachieving paddle-hands.
Another short hop, this one to the town of Greymouth, along another of these so-called "Top 10 drives in the world". The highway sticks close to the shoreline the whole way, passing 'penguin' warning road signs - a first for me for sure. I keep a keen eye out but don't see any on my way, but there is still time - the east coast, which I will reach in a week or so, reputedly houses more. The drive is impressive, but I have indulged this year and SH6 fails to make my own personal top 3 lengths of tarmac from the last four months.
The drive south from Greymouth sees the weather match the river there, thick and damp greys coating the landscape from the seas to the skies. The Southern (Misty) Alps (Mountains) are mysteriously shrouded on my journey to Franz Josef. Looming; dark shapes in the gathered gloom. The call of Gondor would surely have failed had Pippen chosen this day to ignite the beacons.

#046: Marksism

Upon leaving the National Park I gave Katia, from Finland, a lift to the next town to keep her from hitch-hiking into the clutches of evil motorists. She is on a similar period of time out to me, and works in the Finnish banking sector. She was interested to hear if I had kept abreast of the state of the Euro, and the UK's 'choice' to opt-out of discussions. Finland, it seems, hasn't fared too badly in the current crisis and sought insurance from Greece (in the form of islands, according to Katia) over its' loans. Her suggestion was Greece sell off some of its' historic sites to private buyers. She was oblivious that the very same had been a genuine headline not 24 hours previous.
Our conversation prompted me to run my eye over financial affairs back in the UK. Whilst in the States, and seeing a large number of Occupy occupations first-hand (indeed, the Boston and DC protests were 'moved on' while I was in those actual cities...coincidence), I read around what the movement was about quite a lot. As far as I am concerned Occupy feels a little disparate - too many minor gripes being collated under the one banner such that little meaningful traction will result. To my mind, if Occupy is to succeed, it needs to focus its' aims, and more needs to be made of how Iceland coped with the financial crisis (remember where it all started?). The West is governed by politics whether you like it or not. Iceland has shown politics and, perhaps more importantly, 'politicians' can work for the greater good.
In UK politics, two stories piqued my interest this week: the welfare cap and executive pay.
The UK government has seen the opportunity to save £51m from the benefits budget over the three years to 2015, by placing a cap on the maximum amount a household can claim annually in benefits. It is a move supported by opposition politicians. However, the Lords has rejected the bill on the grounds that it includes child benefit, and will affect 220,000 children regardless of situation. 67,000 households will be worse off as a result of the measures, only 40,000 without the inclusion of child benefits. The Government is determined that the bill goes through in full, and looks to be digging its' heals in on the issue.
In the same Commons session, the government announced its plans regarding executive pay.
There is no doubting this is a contentious issue. The banking sector has, justifiably, come under immense scrutiny for its' outlandish rewards in the aftermath of global financial meltdown. Even this week, the chief exec of RBS stands to receive a bonus of £1.3m. £1.3m of taxpayers money. And that's on top of a salary of over £1m. Here, then, it seems, was an opportunity for the government to make a real statement. More than happy to point out the shortcomings of the previous government (chief exec pay was 40 times that of their employees when Labour came to power in 1997, rising to 120 times by 2007), might they even seek to cap salaries to a maximum, mirroring the minimum wage?
The answer is, sadly, no. All they could come up with was the need for "more transparency" and adoption of "best practice". In layman's terms, what they have done is nothing. Apart from guarantee the pockets of the wealthiest remain cosily lined for the foreseeable future whilst the disparity between the wealthiest and middle classes widens (certain chief execs now earn 1000 times the national median wage - British Gas, Barclays), not to mention those larger families living on the benefits breadline who will see their income slashed from 2013. In 1979, the top 0.1% of earners took home 1.3% of the national income. By 2007 this had risen to 6.5%. Certain individuals will tell you this increase is justified because the execs at the top are the 'risk-takers', the ones whose decisions ultimately determine the fate of a company. The truth is that an exec is 13 times less likely to be sacked than the lowest paid worker. Thirteen times. Hardly seems the position of a risk-taker to me.
"Best practice" is a term I am acutely familiar with, because it has defined my professional life for the past few years. The sad thing is, in reality "best practice" is virtually impossible to achieve. People will say they aspire to follow "best practice" processes but, when push really comes to shove, the comfort of existing procedures, the cosiness of familiarity, will result in little or no change. It takes a very strong personality at the head of an organisation, a project, a company, a country, to genuinely implement anything approaching "best practice". The UK government has just shown it is not up to the task.
For best practice to take and hold and work, you need one of two things: a workforce that is completely on song, 100%, with what you are trying to achieve; or, an accepted dictatorial approach from those in charge. It might be just me, my cynical view of the world from which I have taken this break, but I struggle to see a situation where chief execs, en masse, decide to reform the pay structures of their companies without legislation from government.

At time of going to press, the news is that the Liberal Democrats will tomorrow outline their countenance to the 'coalition' budget, calling for quicker reform of income tax to aid middle income families. All these different aspects represent a most delicate balancing act, of that there is no doubt. But balance is impossible when the scales are weighted so favourably in one direction.

Umm, yeah. Will try and talk about the trip in the next installment!

#045: Let us be rid of it

One of the clear perks of spending an extended amount of time in these new and unfamiliar countries is I get to, over the course of a stay, learn the layouts of their supermarkets. In New Zealand they've got it all worked out: Fruit; Booze. Bosh, done!

New Zealand roadtrip destination number one was Rotorua, a few hours southeast of Auckland. Rotorua is slap in the middle of New Zealand's most geothermically active region and houses steam vents and geysers and mud pools, some features in Kuirau Park in the centre of the city even unprotected, allowing you to walk right up to them. I spent a day in Rotorua and visitied Whakarewarewa (fa-ka-ree-wa-ree-wa) Thermal Village. Whakarewarewa is a living and working Maori village, built right on top of the hot springs and bubbling mud pots, with 60 to 65 people permanently resident at the moment. The natural phenomenon upon the doorsteps are utilised for cooking and bathing but, for the sake of their longevity, are not over-used. Current residents describe diminished activity and disappearing geysers following the introduction of geothermal power plants in the region, which came as something of a surprise as I hadn't heard of anything similar on my visits to Iceland. However, the NZ authorities are reportedly working to reverse the affect they have had.
I move a short way south, towards Taupo and the great lake there. On the way I stop off at Wai-o-tapu, another site filled with activity resulting from super-heated water under the Earth's thin crust. The centrepiece is Lady Knox geyser, which spouts on command at 10:15am every day. Watching this spectacle has the effect of making me feel rather cheap. (Or should that be cheaper?) Hoards of people are gathered to witness it and the event is supplemented by a voiceover commentary. Tourism is by far the largest source of income in the region, granted, but it gnawed at me that the geyser couldn't just be left to erupt as and when the pressures below ground dictated, rather than being triggered by the introduction of some foreign agent. To me, having visited two other famously geothermic regions of the world, it felt like unnecessary exploitation.

Around the third day out of Auckland, as predicted, the live Yellow Fever virus - introduced to my body on my last day in the city - started to bare its teeth. Fortunately those teeth were akin to baby milk ones rather than a full set of vicious pointy gnashers, and I suffered nothing more than a case of man flu as glands enlarged and white blood cells set about the task of sacrificing themselves in the name of immunisation.
After Taupo I made my way into Tongariro National Park. You could say I was a little excited about this part of the trip. Tongariro is home to three volcanoes and numerous other craters and is probably quite familiar to a great many of you, especially by its fictional name: Mordor. This is where Peter Jackson located Sauron's domain for his Lord of the Rings trilogy, Mt. Ngauruhoe doubling for the famous Mount Doom. There are a number of popular hikes in the region, with pathways punctuated by incredibly well-equipped huts for people to shelter in overnight.
Despite the yellow fever keeping me somewhat edgeless, I wanted to get close enough to Ngauruhoe to get a reasonable feel for it so, having fuelled myself, I struck out with the intention of walking the Tongariro Crossing trail as far as Soda Spring - reportedly ninety minutes from the car park. I got there in under an hour and found myself compelled to tackle the next section as well, given I still felt fresh and had made good time. This brought me upon South Crater, a remnant of a previous eruption of Mt. Tongariro, situated, quite tantalisingly, at the foot of the track up 'Mount Doom'.
It was only midday and I had reached South Crater in an hour and a half, a whole hour less than the signs suggested was par for the course. Get me. And the signs also suggested the round-trip to the top of Doom would be another three hours...it didn't take long to decide to give it a go. I mean, it's not every day you get to overthrow an evil dictator by dropping a ring into a volcano. Needless to say, the slog up the ashen incline was totally worth it. And I've got a whole new respect for Samwise Gamgee, no matter how light his malnourished companion might have been.

See a pan from the top by clicking here.

#044: Unger Oveur Oveur Dunn

Eleven hours across the Pacific first of all, inside the veal crate of the central section of a 747. A matter of minutes after devouring the evening meal and I start to get hayfeverish. Runny eyes. Most strange, given it is gone 10pm and I'm over 30,000ft in the sky. Grasping for an explanation, my internal monologue hypothesises the on-board conditioning system is comprised of Fijian air samples and, with it being summer there, is pollenated. Which is ludicrous, obviously. Then parts of my tongue start to tingle too. Odd pollen, I think. And what's this? A mildly swollen throat? Well, in 30 years of hayfever suffering that's never happened before. Anaphylwhatctic? I don't know how to say this, I mean, I know I don't really know you, but I've never been with a man before. Surely I can't be serious. I am serious, etc.
Headphones on, hoodie up, eyes shut, the condition and its' associated concern relent after half an hour.
The flight is largely overnight, and I arrive into Nadi in Fiji at 5am local time, serenaded by a local gent playing guitar and singing songs about sunshine. I managed a small amount of 'sleep' on the way. The international date line has been crossed. The 12th January 2012 never existed. Three hours become four waiting in the departure lounge for the transfer onwards to New Zealand. It is a relatively short hop -- two-and-a-half hours -- to Auckland, near the north end of the North Island.
Because of my change of itinerary (see #017 pt.4), I require some inoculations over and above those administered before leaving the UK and have arranged to attend a travel clinic in Auckland, so will be here a few days at least. The stay is welcomed - I'm fairly exhausted from the journey here and will probably take a few nights to stop automatically waking at four in the morning. I also still need to decide where it is I wish to go while I am here in New Zealand.

A couple of days in to my stay and I'm still not quite with it; I achieve little more than eating and sleeping, a general malaise preventing anything mildly adventurous. This state gets me thinking: even the smallest fluctuations in diet or sleep or daylight can have a massively detrimental effect on ones mood. On my last day in the States I was really excited at moving on and discovering somewhere new, but that feeling has disappeared completely. Following consideration, I've also become aware of how I can reflect this mood onto others, no matter how subconsciously. Choice of words or tone of voice, or a gesture, however minor or seemingly inconsequential, has the power to bring others down with me. And this is quite apart from all the world-shattering events that can befall us, on both a global and - just as importantly - an individual level. So I've decided that the 'negative' emotions are rubbish. Groundbreaking stuff.
I turned to visual entertainment to distract myself and watched Project Nim - a documentary about a 1970's experiment to teach a chimpanzee, Nim, to communicate. [Possible spoilers] At times even the most well-meaning carers were totally disastrous at meeting the needs of the primate protagonist. As if it wasn't bad enough that he was ripped from the hands of his mother aged two days. "But the mother won't mind because we did it with her five other children before this one, so she's used to it." [End spoilers] I think to myself how this experiment would work better the other way round, if it is necessary at all. Place a single human in a cartload of chimps (that is the actual collective noun, awesome hey) and try communicating then. À la Dian Fossey. As I watch Nim the thought of living with chimp cousins for a time is actually quite appealing. I hope my adjustment to New Zealand summer time happens soon!

So, yeah, New Zealand. A day or so of internet research and opinion gathering leads me to the conclusion that a hire car and five weeks touring round the hostels of the country would be the best option for me. The dirt cheap cars work out to about £18 a day to hire, which is much more appealing to me than a busload of 18 year olds. I think.
As I take my seat behind the wheel, it feels like I'm in a race car, so low to the ground I am sat. The bonnet stretches away out in front of me and half the vehicle off to my left. Three months in the van has conditioned me somewhat; this might take some getting used to. Good, then, that my charge for the journey is something of a living legend. Road trip royalty, no less. A Top Gear presenters wet dream. For the next five weeks I shall be piloting a king of the road: the iconic Nissan Sunny Super Saloon.
That's Super Saloon.

#043: Interlude

Four months down. Two an' an 'alf to go. Actually, it's nine an' an 'alf down. Wow.
Last hour in the States right now. Off to LAX and a seventeen hour journey to Auckland.
I spent my last few nights on the road exploring a bit of Nevada. A cruise down the strip, a look at Hoover Dam, and other small towns and villages familiar to me thanks to my computer games interest. Primm, in the Mojave desert, presented me with a bona fide sandstorm as I pulled up to gawp at the roller coaster which adorns the casino Buffalo Bills, whilst Nipton turned out to be no more than a tiny oasis surrounded by trees and a few ramshackle huts right in the middle of a flat. No harrowing crucifixions on this visit thankfully. I had my virtual visit to thank for that.
So the roadtrip is ended. 12,001 miles on the money. And I'm a very happy and a very proud boy with my adventure. I got tips aplenty if anyone wants, and, I think, will always be open to the suggestion of returning to do it all over again.
Take care y'all - I'll see you on the other side of the Pacific.

#042: Snake, Rattle & Ow!

Top tip for 2012: Don't step on a rattlesnake - makes them kinda bitey!

I spend the night after Meteor Crater in Homo Lovi (don't) State Park, a site with millennia old shards of Native pottery littering the high desert. The following days' drive takes me into the heart of nearby reservations - first the Hopi tribe, and then the Navajo. There are Hopi settlements high atop the rugged Mesa's that shape the landscape, as the road winds up and down the hills.
The following morning I start out in a small canyon, the mouth of which opens onto Monument Valley: it is just dreamy. My campsite was part of a small settlement called Goulding's Trading Post - they show John Wayne films (which feature the valley) each night. The view out my window in the morning alone makes me think the next week or so is going to rival Yellowstone and the Canadian Rockies.
I drive out through the valley, beneath and between the monoliths. This is quiet season, it seems, with only a small fraction of the roadside stalls set-up for business. The scenery is totally spectacular - it makes so much sense that Hollywood chose to locate in this region. The approach to the small town of Mexican Hat is perhaps the most impressive - twenty or so houses squeezed along a cliff edge above the river gorge that flows through the town.
As I think I mentioned, this next week is to be given to visiting the National Parks of southern Utah. First up is a couple of nights in Arches. I hike into the canyons there, along great fins of rock. Coincidence of timing sees me accompanied by a gang of fellow tourists, from Japan. They are rather loud fellow tourists. All eight of them. Being loud. In a massive echoey canyon. I daydream they are all ducks, and this is a different arch - Brunel's Sounding Arch in my hometown of Maidenhead. Ducks cannot quack under the sounding arch. An absurdity of acoustics. Alas, my daydreaming is to no avail.
Lunchtime, and I am treated to an arguing couple, their voices resounding around the landscape. It wasn't so much an argument, to be fair. More a bitter man, chastening his wife because their water was too cold. It is a fraction above freezing in the sunshine. He is, clearly, a twit.
I'll do my best to avoid the reportage of a fireworks display - all oohs and aahs. Suffice to say, the scenery - Partition Arch, a rock window on a cliff edge with views onto the canyon below, in particular - more than made up for the less peaceful visitors to the park.

These Americans don't mess around when it comes to naming stuff. Arches National Park is, well, loads of big (and not-so-big) rock arches, formed by the passage of water and the forming and melting of ice in cracks, and the action of the winds and the pull of gravity and of time. Canyonlands, as if you couldn't guess, is a devastatingly spectacular array of gorges and valleys and, er, canyons, where the Colorado and the Green rivers converge. Don't tell anyone but, in my opinion, it puts the Grand one to shame.
I could easily spend weeks working my way through these parks and wandering their trails. Unfortunately I have just the one remaining before my travel visa is up and I have to move on. Next up on my Grand Circle tour is Goblin Valley State Park.
I had to wonder whether 'goblin' is a euphemism on this side of the pond. This particular state park is probably not the place to go if you are in any way a sufferer of Freud's phallic fixation. 'Envy' doesn't quite do it, here. Goblin Valley is a veritable sea of bulbous rock columns (don't say that too quick) with pointed mushroom caps. It is as if the state punishes the textbook graffiti of its teenage boys by forcing them to recreate their illicit art in this desert, in clay. It is an amazing sight. Be prepared to find yourself agape.

Capitol Reef National Park comes next. It is so named because early explorers found the feature - where rock seams millions of years old have been pushed up and through the Earth's crust - virtually impassable, much like trying to sail through an oceanic reef. There are massive sandstone cliffs there, weathered into bizarre curves and monoliths. With a lot of nipples. Despite these, it is not in the same league as Canyonlands and Arches so, after a short but necessary walk up Miners (sic) Mountain, I move on.
Upon exiting I am confronted by cliffs with scores of strange buttresses - like the Assyrian Kings of old, seated side-by-side upon their sandstone thrones, surveying their lands before them. My route the rest of today takes me down Utah Route 12 and is a contender for drive of the year. The road peaks out at 9600ft and affords an extraordinary vista - land mass melting into the horizons in a gray haze, the foreground puckered by cliffs and canyons. Back down into a valley before rearing up again, the road leads along the proverbial knife-edge, with hundreds of feet between leaving the road and meeting the planet again, should one veer off the tarmac to either side.

Having experienced a drive like no other, and wound up alongside a frozen reservoir, virtually skipping for joy as the sun bestowed its' setting magnificence upon the ice and the trees and the world, I awoke the next day thoroughly in a mood; a quite marked swing in emotion. I don't think I have ever experienced mood swings this wild in my life. As I move through these epic landscapes I am regularly hit with almost overwhelming euphoria, only to find myself totting up the number of nights left in the US each evening. The solitude is taking its' toll - I've a really strong yearning to be back in the UK. I can't stress enough how important friendships and human interaction are to ones sanity.
And, so, Bryce Canyon, which I visited next, felt like just another pile of weathered rocks, just another ridiculously gobsmacking panorama. I'm now in Zion, which is equally incredible, and intend to stay here for two nights so I can take it all in. Perhaps the rest will do me good. I do feel rather fatigued. A day without a long drive to set me up for my last three nights on the road.

I conquer three different hikes in one afternoon in Zion - I think I must be getting used to the altitude or something, because the suggested hike times in the trail guide were wildly conservative. And so to my last stop on the desert canyons tour: Valley of Fire in Nevada. There are so many furry scuttley things running about - jackrabbits and cute little desert rats - it's like I've found the real-life inspiration for Sylvanian Families. The scene reminds me of the pristine dreamworld of Tubbyland, except it is parched and arid and has killer bees and poisonous scorpions thrown in. The desert rats are so plentiful I'm convinced they must have taken some bedroom pointers from the jackrabbits. They are everywhere I look.
Not content with the menagerie of cutesy death upon my doorstep, I decide to hike into the Nevada desert for the afternoon. I fill both my internal and my external bladders with a couple of litres of water and head out into the scorched wilderness. Death Valley notwithstanding, I am undecided whether my choice for 'first ever desert to hike across' - Valley of Fire - is wise or not. My intended destination is the park visitor centre, 3 or 4 miles away. I get there without incident, drinking another 2 litres of water en route. Inside I discover there are tarantulas native to these parts, just to compliment the poisonous snakes and scorpions. Also, daytime temperatures can reach as high as 82C out there - spectacularly high. Fortunately for me, it is the first week of January or something, so the worst I can expect is about 25C. Still, that doesn't mean the tarantulas won't be about foraging come sundown. I'd best get a move-on back to the campground if I am to avoid them. It's funny how I only notice the many strands of spider-web hanging between the desert plants on the return leg.

That night, out of the blue, I had a quite vivid dream. It was set in a future-place: a community tourism project of sorts, the likes of which I will be visiting in February. But the cast of characters were people from my past: university housemates; the ones I haven't kept in contact with. The dream compelled me to do some 'mystalking', or whatever the facebook equivalent is called.
I may have known this anyway, but I learnt that people's lives move forward at different rates. And I feel there is no right or wrong speed for this progression. Yet the very fact that these differences are possible triggers thoughts of 'what ifs'. Thoughts on the fringes of regret. Which must be down to jealousy on some level. Envy. And perhaps the fact these feelings exist points the way forward, the direction to next take.

I didn't step on a rattlesnake, by the way. The National Parks here are usually quite good at telling you when not to step on things, so I figured I should pass on the advice. It seems sound enough to me. If you do ever step on a rattlesnake, make sure you possess the reflexes of a better rattlesnake than the one you choose to step on.

Just a few nights left in the US...

#041: How long is too long to spend looking at a big hole?

So I awoke on Christmas Eve in the shadow of Superstition Mountain, surrounded by 14ft tall cactus, on the very edge of the enormous sprawl of Phoenix, Arizona. I had one more drive to undertake before Christmas; north, and upwards, into the mountains and the town of Williams, which sits on the famous old route 66.
The drive was as breath-taking as the rest of Arizona; through deserts filled with impressive cactus forests, gaining elevation until they thinned and disappeared completely, onto a huge plateau with amazing views of the valley below, and then through different kinds of forests until they became alpine and the road was lined with firs.
I chose to treat myself to a motel for the few nights of Christmas, so stocked up on treats and settled in. Christmas morning brought an early rise. Arizona is 7 hours behind the UK and I had conspired with my sister to surprise the folks with a video call at 4pm their time. We managed five or ten minutes before the motel wifi gave up, so switched to Skype. Still, I got to show off my homemade Christmas cracker hat, repleat with three-tone (I only have blue, black and red pens) Christmas tree and snowmen.
Apart from sitting on Route 66, Williams has the added bonus of being just an hours drive from the Grand Canyon, so that is how I spent my Christmas day. Along with everyone else in northern Arizona. It is a very impressive hole-in-the-ground, it has to be said. But I'd wager it is even more impressive from the bottom. As it stands, I'd rate Badlands (which I saw in South Dakota) as the better of the two, though perhaps my choice is swayed by the fact I got to walk through and clamber over the canyons in Badlands.
After a couple of hours wander along the canyon rim, and looking at progressively older and older pieces of rock, I headed back to Williams and a rendezvous with a very cheap bottle of champagne and three different HBO channels. My Christmas night was completed by the discovery that they don't shirk with their Christmas film programming on this side of the Atlantic: Forrest Gump, Spider-man, War of the Worlds (Spielberg), Inception, (Peter Jackson's) King Kong, What A Girl Wants and, of course, Independence Day. Welcome to Earth!
Boxing Day has tended to be a 'visit the relatives' affair down the years and, despite being thousands of miles from mine, I did get to spend some time with a family. This one was a family of mechanics. The van had been making a noise the past week or so, and emails with the rental company revealed they were friendly with a garage in Williams. So I spent the day wandering around the quiet town while the mechanic family ordered in parts and fixed up the Nimbus, ready for the next leg of the journey.
I'm going to embark on a trip around the 'Grand Circle' - a well-worn roadtrip stopping off at all the great canyons in southern Utah and northern Arizona. Before I get to that, though, I decide to detour east slightly, and check out Meteor Crater - a 50,000 year old hole-in-the-ground measuring three-quarters of a mile across.
On our way around the rim our tour guide asks everyone where they have come from. He is noticably disappointed at the family who have travelled just six miles to be there, but relishes telling everyone he had some visitors from Austria a few days back - even further away than the London I offer him, he points out. Ah, I say, but did the Austrians drive over 10,000 miles across 32 States to get there? No? Ha! My oneupmanship is better than your oneupmanship.

I've got a lot of photo catching up to do...here's everything from DC to the Grand Canyon (I hope).