Cream Trip on the Bay of Islands (Feb 7th)

The girls and I had stayed on in Pahia an additional day, in hopes that the forecast for gloriously clear weather would manifest, and we were not disappointed. Noelle and Franca decided to spend the day at the beach, while I opted for a day cruise of the Bay, figuring that since it was called the Bay of Islands, I ought to get out there and see some of them.

When I first arrived at the dock, I became worried, seeing only middle-aged and senior citizens about me. Fortunately, a few younger folks soon joined the line, and I quickly made friends with a Swiss girl named Karen and a Canadian named Kirsten. We sat on the top deck as our affable captain steered us into the bay. Just half an hour in, dolphins had been spotted by another ship. We arrived in time to see a whole pod cavorting in the deep. I had paid $30 extra for the opportunity to swim along with them, so after snapping two hurried photos, I donned a mask and flippers and jumped into the frigid water with twenty or so other passengers


From aboard the boat, the remaining passengers stood at the rails, pointing and shouting at us when the dolphins came near. Swimmers shifted and dove manically to catch glimpses of them under the water. The first time one passed by mean, I felt an unexpected jolt of fear. For one thing, no matter how different you know they are from sharks, your first instinct tells you that they look a hell of a lot alike. Secondly, these were not the same breed I had seen in the National Aquarium back in Baltimore; they were much bigger than I'd expected, far more wild, and not the standard sleek grey, but a mottled black and white. But all of these aspects only added to the excitement.

A few meters from me, two of the dolphins put on quite a show, flipping in the air over and over, at one point doing so in perfect synchronicity in opposing directions. Sadly, I couldn't photograph any of this, as I watched from in the water, but what happened next made being in the water so very worth it. No one seemed to notice three of the pod heading toward me. I dove under, ignoring my snorkel, and began flipping around beneath the surface. My poor attempt at dolphin entertainment worked, and they stayed. For somewhere between a minute and 90 seconds, I spun around and contorted myself as bizarrely as possible while the three of them swam above, below, and around me, singing and spinning as well. I darted to the surface twice for air, and the second time, they lost interest at my return and moved along.


Emerging from the water invigorated, I changed out of my damp suit immediately and declined the offer to buy pictures of our frolic for an additional exorbitant fee. I sat back on the top deck with Karen and Kirsten, giddily praising each teal-colored cove into which the boat ducked, made all the more sensational by my lingering high.


The captain provided ample information on the Maori history of the islands, as well as of the Kiwi settlement, and entertained us with goofy stories. At one point, explaining how possums had been introduced for the sake of the fur trade but had proven more troublesome than valuable, eating all of the local plant life and breeding like their rabbit cousins, he informed us of the nationally-accepted solution to dealing with the now rampant pests: "Basically, if you see one on the road, run the bugger down!"


Halfway through our day, we pulled into a picturesque port on a small farming island for lunch.


I munched on the sandwich and fruit Franca has sweetly prepared for me that morning and snapped photos of the many birds about the shore.


At the last possible moment, I decided to use the last half an hour of our lunch to hike up to the lookout point in the center of the island. Karen decided to join me, and we practically jogged up the hill in our effort to reach and descend from the summit before our boat departed.


The view at the top merited the effort, but we could only enjoy it for a moment. We literally ran down the first, blessedly smooth, 50 meters, hopped the fence of a local sheep farm, and reached the boat just as the captain sounded the 5-minute departure warning.


Only one major site remained: the Hole in the Rock, a sometimes traversable tunnel naturally cut into the base of very large freestanding monolith at the top of the bay. We arrived to find the water churning furiously and refusing admittance, but we got close enough for photos. Unfortunately, one particularly violent swell sent water flying up onto the decks, and my camera got soaked as a result. I laid it out in the sun to dry and hoped for the best.


The route back took us past more lovely vistas and afforded the opportunity for "boom-netting" to those who wanted to try it. I declined, having gotten my fill of the decidedly chilly water during my dolphin swim, but I greatly enjoyed the spectacle of watching people being swept back and forth across the net, willy-nilly.


By 4pm, we had returned to Pahia, and I rejoined Franca and Noelle at the hostel. They had loaded up the car and made us some snacks, so we shortly piled in and got on the road. We spent the journey laughing and chatting and enjoying the gorgeous scenery, illuminated brilliantly by the setting sun.


Upon our return to Auckland, I dropped off the girls, parked the car, and met Thomas, my previous CS host, and Kiwi James for dinner and a drink. Afterward, James and I headed back to his house, where I passed out almost immediately upon entering.

The following morning, James and I hung out with his brother's pug, George, and visited his grandma-- James's, not George's.


On the way back, George made himself quite at home in my lap.


And the ride provided a fantastic view of Auckland.


That night, James went out to the weekly CS meet-up for a few drinks, but I didn't feel well, so I stayed behind and watched one of the most stunning sunsets I had ever seen from his balcony.


And I needed little else to put me into a sound sleep that night.


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Pahia and Auckland, New Zealand

Bay of Islands (Feb 4-6th)

Getting off to a later start than intended, I picked up Noelle and Franca, and Cesar, who had decided to come along as well. Kiwi James had invited us for coffee before we headed North, and since I hadn't gotten to see him since either of us had arrived in Auckland and his place was on the way, we accepted. Unfortunately, Cesar had difficulty with the directions, and we lost our way. Another hour and a half had passed before we had visited with James, thanked him for treating us, and gotten back on track, with Franca having taken over as navigator.


Our route remained a straight shot almost throughout but proved longer than any of us had anticipated. We soon had to reassess our plan of going all the way up to Cape Reinga, the northernmost point of NZ. Three hours into our journey spending an inordinate amount of time in a supermarket, we debated our options while eating sandwiches made on the trunk of the car.


The decision: to skip Cape Reinga and 90-mile Beach and head directly to Pahia, the largest shore town of the Bay of Islands just south of the latter, and make the most of our three days there, rather than spend even more time in the car. After three more hours of suffering through the abominable selection afforded by NZ radio, we arrived. Opting to conserve our funds, we found a hostel with a campground and parking lot, and decided to take turns sleeping two in Cesar's tent and two in the car. We immediately uncorked a bottle of wine and set up camp.


We made yet another supermarket run, bought supplies for dinner, and settled in. Franca and I worked as sous chefs for Noelle, who it turns out had been educated at one of the foremost cooking schools in France. That night we enjoyed a delicious meal while watching the hilarious antics of the hostel dog, whom I nicknamed Sid Vicious, due to his crazy-eyed ability to cow other dogs twice his size.


A little tipsy and exhausted from our drive, I was the first one to bed. As I fell asleep to the light patter of rain on the tent canvas, Noelle and Franca prepared their night in the car, hanging patterned sarongs and skirts over the windows to keep any light out. I laughed heartily when I woke them in the morning; it looked as though Aerosmith's roadies had decked out the car.


After breakfast, Cesar went for a run and the girls and I hung out in the hostel for a bit. Later, we drove up to KeriKeri to hike to a local waterfall. We started off at the lovely river basin, where Cesar and I had the first of many ridiculous debates that day over whether or not a flock of birds waddling around consisted of geese or unusually large ducks. Never in my life did I think I would get to non-metaphorically use the phrase, "If it looks like a duck and it quacks like a duck, it's probably a duck."


Our light trek took us past meadows lush with wild flowers and a forest of beeches and giant conifers with roots as large as small trees themselves. The sibling-like taunting between Cesar and I continued. He took a picture for me, and when I saw it, I stated that the angle he took it from made me look heavy. The ANGLE. He patted my stomach and replied, in all seriousness, "I know, but I did TRY not to get this in the photo." I scowled. "Don't worry," he continued. "It doesn't look that bad." My eyes became slits. I retaliated by scaring the pants off of him on the trail shortly thereafter.


We one waterfall and Cesar took a swim, despite the many treacherous rocks about. Only then did we learn that the main falls still waited another kilometer away. We hiked there, unaccountably tired and discussing the body's strange acquiescence to long hikes when prepared for such and its objections to pushing onward once you thought you were already done.

When we reached the larger falls, the girls stayed at the lookout point, while Cesar and I balance-beamed our way across to the other side, 20 meters upstream from the top.


We stood at the top, lamenting the rocks below and our subsequent inability to jump, but truthfully, it would have been a pretty treacherous leap anyway.


That night, we feasted, this time on Noelle's expertly prepared seafood pasta and salad, and went to bed early again. The girls had slept so comfortably in the car that they asked to stay there again, so after fraught episode in which Noelle thought she had lost the keys, they retired there and Cesar and I each climbed into our sleeping bags in the tent.


The following day marked the Kiwi national holiday of Waitangi Day, which we would fortunately be celebrating in Waitangi itself, only 2 miles above Pahia. Noelle, having a particularly affinity for seeing the dawn, roused us at 4am to start the day at the prayer ceremony held at the Waitangi marae. Sadly, the proceedings turned out largely to be a procession of politicians perfomring a fairly standard Christian litany rather than a Maori ceremony.


Disappointed, we returned to the hostel for breakfast, only to find that it hadn't been set out because some of the hostel guests hadn't done their dishes the night before. I complained loudly that we had done ours and paid for breakfast and that it was ridiculous to punish everyone for the negligence of a few. But the hostel owner remained willfully oblivious, so we left before I got my gander up any further.

On our second outing of the day, we were rewarded with the site of the Maori longboats cutting across the bay.


We walked back to Waitangi, marveling at the overcast skies that covered the entire area except for one solid circle of blue sky, hovering resolutely above the Maori sacred lands. Hoping this mysterious Maori mojo would hold, we wandered the fairgrounds and settled in to watch an intermural game of Maori rugby. The girls fell asleep on the grass, and I woke Franca to tell her that Cesar and I wanted to go into the Treaty Grounds and for the two of them to meet us at 2pm by the flagpole.

Gaining free admission, due to the holiday, Ceasr and I toured the Grounds, stopping at vendor stands, watching the launch of a longboat into the water, examining the intricate carvings inside the marae, and finally watching a performance of traditional Maori singing and dance...


... culminating in a haka.


The tongue-heavy Maori war chant and dance, once used to intimidate enemies on the battlefield, is now famously used by the national rugby team, the All Blacks, to psych out their opponents before a game.


2pm had come and gone, and I wondered where the girls had gotten to. We remained at the flagpole, then looked around a bit, and finally returned to the rugby field to find them sitting right where we had left them. Franca had no memory of me waking her, and they hadn't known where we'd gone.

At this point, Cesar headed back to town to catch a bus back to Auckland for a job interview. The girls and I had decided to stay on for one more day, in hopes of getting one day of unadulterated sun on which to enjoy the Bay. Just as Cesar left, I heard another performance beginning, and I goaded the girls into running over to see it, regardless of their sleepy state. They thanked me later.


As the last chords of the final song rang out, a downpour began and we ran for cover. We walked home through intermittent rain, laughing and enjoying some serious girl time. We stopped at the supermarket for what felt like the tenth time and that night, Noelle cooked for us once again. After dinner, we settled in to the hostel couches to watch "Silence of the Lambs", which Noelle and I had never seen and which Franca knew by heart, but only in German. I soon regretted the decision upon remembering that I would be sleeping alone in the tent, which Cesar had kindly lent us for another night. I'm not sure I had felt such an adolescent fear of the dark in all my life. Fortunately, two of our strapping young German hostel mates assured me that they would be in the tent right next to mine if I got too freaked out. No need, however. We turned on "Whale Rider," which put me in a decidedly mellower mood, and once I was out, I was out.

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Location:Paihia, New Zealand

Waitomo Caves (Feb 3rd)

The next morning, the incessant alarm of a phone that was left in the living room woke me just before my own was set to go off. I hurriedly got my things together and followed Thomas's directions to the bus stop. Two transfers later, I arrived at the rental car agency and picked up my "Super-Cheapie" car. Literally, that's the name of the class of my rental.

I sat in the car for a moment, reacquainting myself with the arrangement of the dash and gearshift of a right-driver's-side car and pulled out onto the highway. One road would take me all the way to Waitomo, providing plenty of time in which to simply reacclimate to driving on the left side of the road.

Three hours later, I turned off onto the street where I would find the office of Waitomo Cave Black Water Rafting Company. Unfortunately, the bizarre Kiwi tendency to sometimes put signs after a turn off rather than before caused me to miss the driveway and pull into the next. Realizing my error and attempting to remedy it, I went to pull back onto the main road and, in doing so, made my first and one of the last driving mistakes: I looked left to check for oncoming traffic rather than right. I missed colliding with another vehicle by mere inches and sat in the car for a moment calming my nerves.

I had smooth sailing from there on. I checked in, signed the waiver indemnifying the operator from pretty much any responsibility, and piled into the van with the rest of my group, whose names I sadly no longer remember. I do know they included a very young couple from Wales, a 19 year-old with triple citizenship from the US, the UK, and NZ, and a pair of American girls.

We drove 20 minutes to their base, where we donned a wetsuit over our swimmers (to use the Kiwi/Aussie parlance), and a wet jacket, boots, and a pair of ridiculous pink sweatpants over the wetsuit. We then drove another 5 minutes to the cave entrance, which lay completely invisible to the eye amongst a beautiful landscape of rolling hills, where scenes from "The Hobbit" would be filmed only 5 days later, according to our feisty guide, Marcos.

Marcos gave us helmets, harnesses, and a brief lesson in abseiling (essentially sliding down a rope into a cave). My teenage buddy went first and then it was my turn.


Halfway down Marcos shouted my name and when I looked up, he squirted me with water from a hose. I reached the bottom quickly, but I regret not going after those who had abseiled before, because if I had, I would have followed their example and gone down much more quickly.


Water stood knee high on the floor of the cave, the entrances to its two darkened halves looming impressively, with the light falling between them from the meadow above.


When everyone had reached the bottom safely, Marcos shimmied down after us, armed us each with a rubber inner tube to sling over our shoulders, and marched us into one of the two openings to the cave. After five minutes, we reached the first of a series of tight spaces to crawl through. It involved climbing downward, face first, so in I went....


... and out I came.


As we ventured deeper into the cave, Marcos told us the history of its discovery and interesting facts about its ecosystem including the glowworms and eels. Upon hearing mention of the latter, I laughed, having told him on the ride over that my only fear was of eels. At the time he had replied, "Tons of them in the caves." I had thought he was joking. He wasn't. I averted my eyes whenever someone mentioned seeing one, which was often. But at the end of the traversable section tunnel, Marcos called our attention to one particularly friendly eel named Jesse, made famous by her tendency to linger in the same spot and allow herself to be petted in exchange for food. At the goading of the group, I swallowed my fear and touched her. Not so bad. But I'm still terrified of salt-water dwelling moray eels.


We then turned around and headed back into the light. When we reached the other entrance, Marcos directed us to plop ourselves into our tubes and float downstream. As we did this, he thumped the heel of his hand onto his own tube causing the ceiling of the cave to illuminate with thousands of glowworms reacting to the sound. We lay in our tubes, drifting silently looking up at the brilliant pseudo-celestial spectacle above.


Having floated downstream, we had to trek back upstream. We stopped for several more crawling challenges along the way, as well as for the opportunity to launch ourselves backwards from a particularly high ridge, holding our tubes against our rear ends.

All that remained was to climb our way back out, which we did strapped back into our harnesses. The climb proved tricky, as I couldn't feel my toes after splashing through so much cold water, but it was also short, so I quickly made it up.


At the top, one of our group attempted to take a picture of a bunch of sheep grazing nearby, but they kept scampering off at our every approach. I joked that they knew we liked lamb chops. The obnoxious American girl scoffed, "That's barbaric," and proceeded to rant about how barbarians like me eat meat totally unnecessarily, how she could never live in New Zealand because of the "lack of biodiversity," and how everyone was picking on her for her beliefs, despite the fact that most of us just stared at her in bewilderment at her selfishness in getting up on a soapbox to bitch at us during a tour we had each paid good money for. Ugh. Some people.

Back at the ranch, we peeled off our many layers, showered, and parted. The 3-hour drive back to Auckland left me exhausted, so I simply parked the car, confirmed my plans for the weekend, and passed out cold immediately upon arriving at the hostel.

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Location:Waitomo, New Zealand

Auckland (Feb 1st-2nd)

Tuesday morning, after breakfast, I decided to walk out to Auckland Domain, the city's Central Park, and explore the botanical garden and the Auckland museum within.


The garden, to my mind, was positively Edenic.


Wildflowers and carefully fostered breeds alike tumbled over one another, tendrils brimming over the edges of their plots and reaching down from pots hanging above.


The technicolor blooms, set against vivid green blades, saturated the air with their heady perfumes and sent me back into the park awake and rejuvenated.


The Auckland Museum sat on the hill just above the Garden, and it did not disappoint.


Fascinating, well-curated exhibits on Maori and other Pacific Islander cultures featured weaving works, tools, canoes, and even a full-sized long-boat and Marae (a Maori meeting place and house of worship).


I took in a Maori cultural performance within the museum's theater and delighted in the singing and dancing of the native performers.


I did not,however, take much pleasure in the inconceivably rude behavior of my fellow audience members, who felt perfectly at home chatting away throughout the whole show. At one point, I had no choice but to shush the pair beside me, who immediately shut up, looking rather abashed and somewhat scared. I meant business.

My actions endeared me to the girl on my other side, Christine, who I chatted with after the show only to discover that she would also be attending the Auckland CouchSurfing cocktail event that evening. We agreed to meet there, and she went off for a tour, while I wandered off to further explore the museum. I left an hour later and decided to make my way back through the center of the Domain and, doing so, stumbled upon even more stunning displays of floriculture, with the city's skyline as the backdrop.


As I continued on, I reached what I thought to be a solid stretch of forest, until I saw another pedestrian emerge from a trail I hadn't even noticed. Figuring I had nothing to lose, I proceeded down the path myself. Five minutes in, faced with a seriously brush covered path, my city-girl instincts kicked in and I wondered what I was doing, wandering alone down an unfamiliar, dark path, having no idea where it led.


Then I remembered I wasn't exactly in a major crime capital. Pressing on, I emerged onto the city streets unscathed shortly thereafter, walked down to the water's edge, and back through the CBD to my hostel for some lunch.

That evening, I went around the block to the weekly Auckland CS Spanish-speakers' meeting. About fifteen people attended, and the party began in the apartment of the organizer, but the number of people and the lack of air conditioning in they stuffy, top-floor flat forced us to move downstairs to the landlord's bar, which he allowed us to use despite its being closed that night.

I spent the next hour or so chatting in Spanish and, after the wine had set in, English, with a lively group including Jordan, a lovely girl and good friend of my friend James (henceforward referenced as Kiwi James) who had surfed my couch in back in NYC, and Cesar, from Buenos AIres. I also got chatting with the owner of the bar, who informed me that he rented the back rooms to prostitutes to ply their recently-legalized trade. When I balked, he even showed me the rooms, decked out as they were with red satin sheets and salacious artwork!

As the night wore on, I became anxious to move on to the CS weekly drinks session, where I had intended to meet a few people. Cesar, two of his friends, and I drove over and found that a good forty or so attendees still remained. Christine from the museum had already left, along with Thomas, another friend of Kiwi James who I was scheduled to CouchSurf with the following day, Fortunately, the person I had most come to see still lingered.

Noelle, from Barcelona, had posted on the CS boards looking for a travel buddy to explore the North Island with for the next ten days or so, and we had arranged to meet to see if we made a good fit. We hit it off and decided to give it a trial run, taking a trip up to the Bay of Islands that weekend.

In the meantime, I had two days to kill. On the first, I went twice into the bohemian neighborhood of Ponsonby, once for lunch and once for a yoga class. Besides finding myself somewhat out of shape, I also discovered the fascinating penchant of sculptor John Radford for putting parts of buildings in parks, so that they look like they have just emerged from beneath the ground.


When I returned to my hostel, my roomie offered me a bag of toiletries and clothes that she intended to leave behind. She had worked in New Zealand for six months and had accumulated more than she could tote back with her to France. Knowing that I would soon have a car trunk to store and port as much stuff as I needed, I gladly accepted about half of what she had discarded, including a bounty of sunblock-- of which I can always use more-- and a adorable pair of boots and jeans that would prove particularly handy considering that New Zealand was having its chilliest summer in years and I was sorely under-packed for such weather. Over the next 5 weeks, I wore those two articles of clothing more than any I had brought myself. Thank you, kind French girl.

That night, Thomas for CS picked me up and took me to a dinner party hosted by a friend of his. We had a delicious Spanish omelette while discussing our travels and then moved on to another CS party out in the suburbs. Then it was back to his house where I had my first night of couch surfing, sleeping on two mattresses on his living room floor. Thomas made for a great first host: sweet, accommodating, informative, laid-back, and Kiwi to the core. Mostly Maori, in fact. Oh, and very spontaneous. As I fell asleep, he headed out to the gym at 2am!

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Location:Auckland, New Zealand

The Flight Delays and Fiji, or Trying to Get to New Zealand (Jan 28th-31st)

I climbed off the shuttle to LAX and walked to the Air Pacific counter, only to find the line abuzz with news of a cancelled flight. Everyone in line received a typed apology and vouchers for one night's stay, breakfast, and dinner at the LAX Hilton, along with the assurance that our flight would leave at 9am the next morning. I took it in stride, seeing as how I didn't exactly mind a night at the Hilton and I figured a 12-hour delay made little difference.

Once at the hotel, I ate dinner with a philanthropic consultant in the same situation, who informed me that the flight had been delayed another 8 hours, according to someone at the front desk. I went to the desk to ask why we all hadn't been informed, and they said that was the airline's responsibility. Stellar customer service all around.

I fell asleep early, woke up in time for breakfast and a late check-out, and spent the early afternoon on the computer in the hotel lobby. Imagine my disappointment in discovering that, despite the availability of free wifi in just about every $8-a-night hostel in South America, the Hilton charges for wifi within their rooms. On top of that, I had to print out a boarding pass for my next flight and had to pay to use the business center in order to do so. Ridiculous.

At the airport I discovered that I wouldn't arrive for my layover in Fiji until 1am and that I wouldn't know anything about my connecting flight until my arrival there. Once on the plane, the fun continued, as my movie monitor malfunctioned and the person in the seat next to mine spilled orange juice all over me.

Upon our arrival in Fiji, those of us proceeding on to other destinations were herded onto buses to spend the night-- or six hours of it-- in a dinky motel 20 minutes away before returning for our connecting flights the following morning.



It wasn't exactly the Hilton this time.


In fact, they didn't even have bottled water available when we first arrived, even though Fijian tap water isn't potable. When I asked the barman when the porter who had been sent to fetch water would return, he simply shrugged and said, "Island time."

The next morning, our bus ran late in leaving the motel, as the motel staff had told half of the passengers the incorrect time for the morning pickup. As I viewed the rain-soaked Fijian landscape passing by in the windows, I thought how lucky I was not to have planned an extended stopover there during such torrential storms.

The flight to Auckland was blessedly uneventful, and by midday, I had made the bus journey to my hostel in the city center. I had passed over the international dateline during my first flight and skipped over a whole day, so it was by now January 31st. Jet-lagged, exhausted, and not exactly tempted to exploration by the drab weather outside, I picked up some groceries and cheap sushi from across the way, grabbed a bunch of flyers from the hostel information desk, burrowed into my bed, and began planning my next 5 weeks in the country.

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Location:Los Angeles, Nadi (Fiji), and Auckland (New Zealand)

LA, USA (Jan 23rd-28th)

I knew when I awoke that my day would be a long one: 3 flights, 2 layovers. I slept through most of the bus ride to the Salvador airport, as well as the flight to Rio. Then I had ten hours to kill with no free internet, so I spent the entire time working on my blog and reading. Thank heavens for the page-turning goodness of the "Game of Thrones" sequels.

In Miami, I had to get my backpack and recheck it in order to go through customs. When the female half of the Jersey couple I'd been chatting with saw how small it was, she nearly fainted. "Turn away!" she said, as her own set of large suitcases came off the conveyor belt. "I'm embarrassed! I only traveled for 2 weeks!" I laughed, and we said our goodbyes. I spent my 5-hour layover stretching and lying on the floor with my feet on a chair to counteract the effects of prolonged sitting and compression. Sure, I got some funny looks, but I had long since gotten over being stared at for my anti-DVT measures.

My flight to LA was largely uneventful, but it did solidify my belief in the need for pacifiers on airplanes. See, pacifiers used to be de rigueur, but they've fallen out of fashion. Fine. Who am I to contradict the latest childcare studies? But when the kid is under two years old and on a plane, give them a damn pacifier or something else to chew on. For one thing, no one on the plane wants to hear your kid scream and wail all through the flight, particularly on a red-eye. And more importantly, the poor child's ears are popping, and the scream results from the pain and from not understanding WHY they feel it. So give the poor kid some relief, for crying out loud!

But I digress. When I got into LAX, I picked up my rental car and headed for the Burbank airport, where my mom's flight would touch down in a few hours. I used the meantime to run a few errands and reveled in the ready availability of my favorite brands of toiletries. When the time came, I had to circle the airport six times before I finally saw my mom's fiery red hair and Cheshire cat grin.

After a curbside reunion of long hugs, we heeded the requests of the airport guard to move along and headed out to the nearby Outback Steakhouse, as few other options presented themselves and we were both ravenous. After catching up over a lunch that reacquainted me with the ridiculous size of American portions, I drove us to our hotel in Marina del Rey.


We spent the evening chatting, laughing, and going through the trip supplies I had set aside before I had left for South America for her to bring to me in LA. (I know. I'm ridiculously anal retentive and over-prepared. Big ol' type A personality.) Mom fell asleep before midnight, but, despite my own exhaustion, I couldn't settle down. I stayed up late into the night rearranging my things, setting aside clothes and supplies from my pack for my mom to take back with her, and picking what I would take from what she had brought me.

The next day, I slept quite late and only roused myself for the lunch I had arranged with my childhood best friend, Rhea, who now lives in LA.


After a lovely meal, during which my mom flirted hysterically with the waiter, the three of us piled into my rental car, and we headed to Hollywood to see the sights. LA's infamous traffic delayed us for nearly an hour, and when we finally reached Hollywood Boulevard, I grumbled unhappily to find that everything looked rather small and unimpressive in real life. Mom, however, couldn't resist getting a picture with one of the many costumed street performers-- I use the term performer loosely here-- since her beloved pseudo-grandchild Cole loves Spiderman so much.


My disappointment in our sight-seeing venture ended abruptly when we arrived for an exquisitely kaleidoscopic sunset at Griffith Observatory. One of the staff astronomers on hand said it ranked as the most beautiful he'd seen in his 23 years working there.


We took in a showing of the excellent and educational "Centered on the Universe" projection program in the planetarium and headed to the observatory deck to view the city by night.


Rhea and I viewed Jupiter through one of the massive telescopes, and then the three of us headed back into the city for a scrumptious meal at diner Fred 62....


... where our waiter sported my favorite message T-shirt of all time.


My mom and I spent the next two days mostly just enjoying each other's company and hanging out. We swam in the hotel pool, got pedicures and a haircut for me, had dinner with a friend from home--the lovely and bitingly funny Erin Drew-- one night and with two of my friends from my company's LA office another. On our last morning, I rented a bike from the hotel and rode up the beach to Santa Monica.


Around noon, I took my mom back to Burbank where we said a tearful goodbye. I then spent the day running errands and buying more sundresses, which I had found to be the most practical articles of clothing for my trip. I returned my car rental and hopped the shuttle to LAX. If only getting on the plane had proven simpler.

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Location:Los Angeles, California, USA

Reflections on South America

NOTE: This ranks as the most diary-like entry of my blog so far, so be warned: it's long, it's ponderous, and there aren't many pictures. Okay. You've been warned. Proceed, if you dare.

Strangely enough, I have gotten so very behind on writing this blog, that I write this not as I leave South America or catch up in Los Angeles, as I had originally intended, but as I leave New Zealand, on the other side of the world. I believe, however, that the time that has passed, has only deepened my understanding and appreciation of my time in South America, and so perhaps it was meant to be this way.

It's funny what stands out to me most now. My awe at Machu Picchu and Iguazu Falls, of course... the tangy taste of my first ceviche and the succulent flavor of the finest steak I have ever had... the indignation at realizing I had been scammed for the first, but certainly not the last, time... the relief of discovering that I could get first-rate health care in Peru and at a shockingly lower price than in the U.S... the thrill of becoming unexpectedly smitten while on the road... all of these things loom large in my memory.

But the little things stand out just as prominently. Silly, tiny instances stick in my mind, like trying to repair my accidentally-decapitated good-luck buddha with Bolivian superglue and burning my hands and staining my jeans instead. And frustrations like finally starting to remember to throw the toilet paper into the waste basket instead of the bowl, just in time to leave the continent. Or simple observances like the extraordinary ubiquity of stray dogs in Peru and Bolivia. Seriously, they are everywhere in those countries! They wander into restaurants and check for dropped food; they hang out on futbol fields even as games are being played.


And they just loaf and lay around the streets. Perros! Perros everywhere!


Then I think also of what I missed, what I didn't get to do, what I'd never even heard of before arriving in South America and now ache to see! I already have an idea of how I would like to tackle SA on my second trip: visiting my friends in Buenos Aires and northern Argentina, working my way to the wine country of Mendoza and down into Patagonia, crossing into Chile, heading up through Santiago and Valparaiso, all the way to San Pedro de Atacama, then into Peru again to see Ica, Nazca, Lima (again), Iquitos, and Mancora, boating over to Ecuador and flying out to the Galapagos, and finally ending in Colombia, which apparently is most travelers' favorite SA destination, despite what we Americans have heard.

But despite the seeming specificity of those plans for 'Lin en America del Sur, Parte Dos', my primary goal would be to simply follow events as they unfold and do what seems right at the time. Because that lesson was the greatest and most hard-won of my time below the equator. Were I to do it all again, I would have only bought the ticket to Lima and let everything else come as it would, planning only a few days in advance at every turn. I spent quite a bit of money rearranging the plans I had made for the end of my South American sojourn so that I could follow my gut and stay certain places longer and go to others I had never intended to visit. It was money well spent, but had I not made those plans in the first place, it's money that could have kept me traveling longer. Sure, it's risky, just letting the adventure unfold as it happens, but I would rather take the chance and live to regret it. And I have rarely regretted it. Because even the harsh experiences prove enlightening in unexpected ways.

Other lessons were smaller, but no less valuable. For instance, there is no such thing as too much sunblock. Or too big a hat. Not when you're a redhead. Also, I've learned to have more confidence in my appearance without makeup. Much to my surprise, men on the travel trail sometimes still find me attractive! Even with my practically colorless eyebrows and lashes! And far more importantly, I've begun to see myself that way as well. I've also apparently been misspelling the words 'traveling' and 'traveler' for years. There's only one 'l' in each. Who knew? I've also developed a rather passionate belief that people who litter in the beautiful places to which they have traveled (one 'l') deserve to be culled from the human race. Oh, and I can tan! Barely, and completely imperceptibly when viewed beside Brazilians and Argentinians, but noticeably to those who saw me in LA. Finally-- not really, but it's the last point that jumps to mind, at the moment-- I learned that I prefer to stay in the moment and enjoy it rather than take a picture, even though the memory may not last. Is it worth it? I think so. And I still end up with plenty of photos anyway.

Not to say that each and every part of my trip either uplifted or educated me. Some aspects just plain wore on my nerves. I desperately missed doing my own laundry, rather than handing it over to a stranger to receive it back smelling only mildly fresh. I missed the availability of potable tap water and the consequent freedom from the guilt involved in throwing away who knows how many plastic bottles. I missed the guarantee of a hot shower, although I must say that I have remained quite lucky in that regard.

And I didn't only notice what I lacked but what I had had far too much of: bread and jam for breakfast, for example. And although, one day, I am sure I will hear "Ai se eu te pego" and "Danza kuduro" and be taken back to the many, many times on my trip when one of these two songs played in the background, at the moment I feel I would be happy never to hear either one ever again. I also must admit that I did become a bit bored with having the same conversation over and over again across the tables at hostels. Largely, I credit hostels with being my social salvation and the best possible places to stay on the travel trail. I can't imagine having forgone them for the unfriendliness of hotels. But after a time, anyone will become frustrated with telling people where they're from, where they've been, where they're going, and what they do. Fortunately, finding a travel buddy exempts one from this to an extent, at least.

I also grew tired of the coy hostel-goer age game. Someone would dance around the topic and eventually one or the other of us would ask, "So how old are you?" This might be considered rude in most circles, but in hostels, where most people get to know each other from scratch anyway and in which the age range can be quite broad, the question comes up constantly. Without fail, if I were the one to ask, regardless of having given my age already or not, the other person would reply, "How old do you think I am?" And therein lay the danger. Fortunately, I excelled at this and rarely missed by much, but if my aim was off and the person took umbrage with my answer, I told them they shouldn't have made me guess if they didn't want to risk an answer they wouldn't like. For my part, I refused to play this little game and astounded many a questioner with my open willingness to confess to being 31. But once again, fortune smiled because few people believed me anyway. The response typically sounded something like, "No way! You do NOT look 31. I would have thought 26. (This number varied from 23 [yeah, right] to 29)." No one in the U.S. seems to think I look particularly young for my age, but I have basked happily in the surprise of my fellow travelers at discovering my approaching decrepitude. So of course, I didn't get sick of that part of the age game. ;)

I also, quite vainly, never tired of the standard responses to my name, which means "lovely" in both Spanish and Portugese. "Si, Linda. Tu eres linda. (Yes, Linda. You are pretty.)" Or "Yes, you are, but what's your name?" Cheesy? Yes. Fake? Almost certainly. But I'm not above saying that it made me smile every one of the ten dozen times it happened during my time in Peru, Bolivia and Argentina.

Unfortunately, this backfired in Brazil. Allow me to explain why: I consider myself a very friendly person, and I know I am far more touchy-feely than most North Americans, but Brazilian men-- not as a rule, but in general-- are a bit too handsy for my tastes. Peruvian and Argentinian men make catcalls, obviously, and Argentinian men are downright comical about it. (Working, for instance, would seem no reason to miss a good opportunity to proffer a pick-up line. I had porteno bus drivers shout at me while driving, waiters ask their tables to excuse them while they whistled, and my baggage inspector at the airport say, "Oh my God" and look at me rather than my bag during the whole search.) But they keep their hands to themselves. In Brazil, however, touching remains a large part of the culture, and some men take this too far for my comfort, going in to kiss you or running their hands down your body after only a two-minute acquaintance. Still others push the generally wonderful personable nature of the Brazilian lifestyle past limits accepted even within their own communities, reaching out to stroke women's hair as they walk past and cooing, "liiiiiinda", which is just downright confusing when your name actually IS Linda! Unsurprisingly, I had had quite enough of that by the time I left.

Far more surprising, indeed, is the fact that I didn't get sick of my clothes. I have one 46-litre backpack and one messenger bag. That's it. As you might imagine, this allows for a rather small wardrobe. But I truly didn't become sick of much of any of it. On the contrary, I found that I had brought rather too much. When I met with my mom in LA, I gave her numerous items to take back with her that I no longer required. Granted, I also acquired a few new sundresses, but not because of being tired of what I had, but rather of realizing what best suited my needs and needing more of them.

I am infinitely grateful to the travel guides that advise to pack less, not more. How right they are! Many of my fellow travelers have looked wonderingly and enviously at my little bag and lamented the jammed state of their own massive packs. Others, like James, who manage with even less, boast of the ease and convenience of bearing so little weight.

That being said, certain items I brought, which others viewed with skepticism, have proven invaluable on the road, or at least well worth having. My travel pillow ranks first and foremost. It is soft and firm and inflatable, and I have counted myself lucky to have it on many an occasion: in airports, on buses, in the huts on the Kepler Track, and in many a hostel with subpar pillows of their own, to say nothing of those weeks when I needed the extra pillow to elevate my legs while I recovered from my hospital stay in Cuzco.

My giant first aid pack sits right up there as well. I have been teased quite a bit for the amount of meds and supplies I brought, but knowing my own tendency toward illness, I chose to be safe rather than sorry. And although I have blessedly remained healthy for the majority of my trip-- barring that notable bout of DVT in Peru, of course-- I have made use of much of it, as has every single one of my travel buddies. I buffed, bettered, and bandaged James's feet, gave Franca (NZ) ginger candies for her motion sickness, gave Ben a compazine for his, and provided cold sore patches to a friend in need, among many other instances. I have been able to serve as a walking dispensary and have been glad to do so, teasing notwithstanding. As Franca said, "That's Lin, always prepared." Damn straight. And even with all that, I've still had to buy medication at times!

My Ipad has proved likewise invaluable, allowing me to backup all of my photos on its storage space and the internet, to video-Skype with my family and friends privately and easily, to read books along the way without the added weight, to watch rental movies from Itunes when I needed a break, to access all of my contacts and information from home easily, and to write and format this blog. On top of which, here in New Zealand, my Ipad has served as my GPS, saving me hundreds of dollars in fees and getting me back on track numerous times. And this with Wi-fi only! Could I have done all of this on a small, cheap laptop? Possibly, excepting the GPS capability. Could I have gone days without charging said laptop, or inserted pictures so easily into my blog, or interfaced so smoothly between programs? Absolutely not. Once you go Mac, you never go back.

On the other hand, there are items I brought against advice, which may have been a bit over-indulgent, like my travel yoga mat and my one pair of heels. The former remains the biggest hinderance and weight of all my belongings, but I can't help but feel that it motivates me to practice when I might not otherwise do so, and it has come in handy as a back pillow, a camping cushion, and even a blanket on one particularly cold bus ride, so I kept it with me, even when I had the opportunity to send it back with my mom. My heels, however, I do not regret in the slightest. I was very happy to have them for nights out in Lima, Cuzco, Buenos Aires, and Rio; I can't dance in flip-flops, and every now and then a girl just wants to feel like a girl. Particularly after she's been sweaty and mud-caked and wearing travel pants and a pony tail for a week in some canyon or on a trail somewhere.

Speaking of which, despite my earlier tirade concerning being felt up a few times too many by some Brazilian men, I must say that I felt very safe for the majority of my time in South America. Part of this comes from the fact that I had male travel buddies a fair amount of the time, but I also made sure to be aware of my surroundings and myself, to stick to secure areas, to respect the traditions of the places to which I travelled, to avoid waving my camera, money, or phone about, and to blend in as much as possible or at least appear as a hardened traveler. This might sound pretty straightforward, but you'd be shocked at how often women neglect these basic principles. And even I was confronted with unpleasant situations occasionally and the consequent attitude of, "Well, you're kind of asking for that, traveling alone as a woman." And I'm not saying that I would advise every girl to go to SA on her own right out of high school or college, before they've had a chance to develop some street smarts. But I loved my time there so much and was able to avoid the dangers so wholly, that I can confidently encourage my mature friends to travel there despite its unsafe reputation.

Strike that. I don't merely feel confident. I feel eager. Inspired. Exultant! Go! Visit South America! Marvel at the ruins of Peru. Savor the cuisine of Argentina. Languor on the beaches of Brazil. Mingle with people's whose lives differ so greatly from your own and others whose differ very little but who share a desire to see the world. Don't remain among the 85% of U.S. citizens who don't have an active passport. The world is wide and waiting, and you need far less money than you think to explore it. Go. Go. Go!

Okay, before I get any more Dr. Seuss, I must wrap up. I have practically written a novel with these blogs, and for my money, this looks like the longest one yet. I will leave you with a quick trip tally:

Countries traveled to: Peru, Bolivia, Argentina, Brazil
Books read: Howard's End, Away, Game of Thrones, the Hunger Games Trilogy, South America on a Shoestring
Things lost: camera coozie, phone, hat, bathing suit, water bottle, NZ book, eye mask, and who knows how many other items
Friends met: too many to name, but particular love to James, Janni, Kasia, Rachel, Ryan, Julie, Francisco, Santi, Ana, Maria, Ben, Pato, Flor, Laura, Vanni, Emmanuel, Damian, and Alejandro (I know I'm leaving someone out, so please forgive me!)
Money spent: much more than I had intended, but some of that was medical bills!
Heights ascended (and descended): 3960 feet down, then up (Colca Canyon)
Sites seen: Read the blog if you want to know that!
Blog entries written: 52 Wow! If you've actually read all these, you are seriously dedicated!

Random political footnote:
Whatever your political stance or your opinion of Obama, I can assure you of one indisputable fact: the world thinks far better of us with him at the helm. I have not met a single non-American with a single positive thing to say about our last president and their thoughts on Obama, while not universally positive, do at least seem to run along a similar path to my own: that he is sometimes getting his ass kicked, but at least he is making a concerted effort, particularly as far as foreign affairs are concerned. Oh, and that he is essentially the sole serious figure in the farce our government has become, in which the players seem to have no goal except to subvert the efforts of those around them, with little or no regard for the people they supposedly serve. I can't really argue with that.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Location:Christchurch Airport, New Zealand