(* I recommend you deselect ‘Embiggen small things’ from the Options menu in the top right for best quality)

I daydream a little. Surely grabbing the service weapon of the military-fatigued, ultra-stern, permanently frowning, Ukrainian Border Guard at the outer edge of the Chernobyl Nuclear Exclusion Zone would not end well. I contemplate the likely sequence of events and conclude that making a grab for the gun would almost certainly result in me getting riddled with bullets and having my bleeding corpse tossed in to the pristine snow like a bag of old rubbish. I decide against it.

While I’m pondering this, there is a torrent of Russian going on between our tour driver and the border guard. Neither of them speak a word of English, nor can we converse in their native tongue, so Nathan, Ben and I are having a hard time keeping up with the unfolding situation. They’ve pulled the three of us off our tour bus and the guard is comparing our passports to a piece of paper scrawled with Cyrillic letters and symbols we can’t even begin to decipher.

After some deliberation, “Nyet!” barks the guard, “Hotel. Kiev.” He waves his hand and abruptly walks back to the small building, slamming the door closed loudly behind him. We’re mystified: what’s happening here? Do they want to speak to our hostel? Were we supposed to follow him? While we’re scratching our heads, our tour bus suddenly also departs and disappears off down the road leaving the three of us standing alone and confused in the snow and ice thirty kilometres from the site of the worst nuclear disaster in history and a million miles from anywhere else. It starts snowing again; we look at each other. Fuck.

Abandoned at the Border

The weekend had started well; upon arriving at our hostel they’d immediately given us a beer and a large glass of vodka served from a bottle with a pump-nozzle attached (Note: this is one of my favourite ways to be welcomed). We confirmed our Chernobyl tour for the following day, paid our money, and set out for a night on the town.

Walking the streets of Kiev is like stumbling in to a city-wide fashion show; some combination of Soviet genetics, nuclear fallout, and the second-world scarcity of Kentucky Fried Chicken has resulted in a nation of supermodels. Not only that, there seems to be a serious shortage of men; everywhere we went it seemed to just be us and a room full of stunning women stealing glances in our direction. Regretfully, through some cruel twist of fate, none of them spoke even the tiniest amount of English, so our attempts to start conversations were met only with big smiles and general confusion. So much for the language of love being universal.

After many pints of Ukrainian beer, several shots of Nemiroff vodka, and some ice-cream we’d found while on a drunken midnight mission for cream doughnuts, we found ourselves sharing a table with two Russian girls visiting from Moscow who seemed delighted to be talking to three strapping young men. After several more unnecessary vodka shots with the womenfolk, a paper dart throwing competition, and a brusque telling off from bar staff for flinging airborne projectiles in every direction, we staggered back to our hostel and set an early alarm for our tour in the morning.

I awaken sweating, with a thumping headache, and the urge to vomit; bad things happen when you start doing vodka shots in the mid-afternoon. I open the window and let the cold air blast against my face, but I already know it’s not going to be enough to stave off the forthcoming rebellion of my body. I dash to the bathroom. After purging my stomach of the remainder of last nights efforts the three of us go and stand outside and wait to be picked up for our tour. All I want to do on the bus is sleep or die, but the driver plays terrible pumping euro-pop at maximum volume for the whole three hour journey to the Chernobyl border which makes any kind of rest an impossible goal.

Now on top of what already a rather unpleasant journey, we’ve been abandoned in the middle of a frozen wasteland without any real idea of why or what to do now. I hope the woman at the hostel might be able to act as an interpreter and find some resolution to our predicament, so we rap on the window of the guard booth and make a phone gesture to the guards sitting inside. They look at us with unmasked loathing. One of the men reluctantly opens the window and I hand them a small piece of paper containing the hostel’s number. He fondles the paper for a moment then says something to his colleagues which causes an outbreak of raucous laughter, then he hands the scrap back and slams the window closed.

Warning: Radiation

We’re now a little panicked: it was -9°C in Kiev and is markedly colder out here, plus a biting wind has picked up which only serves to rob us of what little warmth our bodies are generating. We’re all shivering, the guards are openly hostile towards us, and none of us have mobile phone reception; we’re genuinely starting to fret about the unpleasant four or five hours that lie ahead until our tour bus comes back in the other direction and I’m already quietly thinking about hypothermia. We’re about as isolated from civilisation as it’s possible to be and the only living creature that wants anything to do with us is a lone Alsatian guard dog who is looking to get her belly rubbed. We oblige.

With few other options, we make our way to a small shelter half a mile down the road. It has an open face and contains only a small broken bench, which hardly makes it an improvement over standing on the open road, but at least we’re away from the menacing stares of Border Patrol and it does provide a little protection from the icy winds.

Nathan starts sprinting up and down the road to warm up. Ben is noticeably shaken and starts using language that is not typical of himself and far too profane to quote here. I get out my mp3 player and a small speaker and chuck on some Pearl Jam; if we’re going to freeze to death I figure we might as well die with a soundtrack.

We’re at a loss for what to do. Ben thinks he might have had a single bar of mobile reception back toward the border, so he starts patrolling back and forth trying to capture an elusive signal. Nathan tries to wave down the occasional passing car with little success. I get out all my camera gear and start screwing around in the snow. Hell, there is nothing else to do.

Nathan finally has some success waving down a car; a beaten up old Lada with silver tinted windows rolls to a stop. The driver winds down the window letting a great cloud of thick smoke escape in to the frigid air. The man is wearing full camouflage gear, has greasy slicked back hair, and all gold teeth. “Americans?” he asks with a sinister smirk. We all look uneasily at each other, from the vibe he’s giving off he might as well have said “Would you like to get robbed and beaten?” We wave him on. He sneers at us and pulls away.

Meanwhile, Ben has finally had some success getting some mobile signal and manages to get through to the girl at the front desk of the hostel. “Oh, we’ll send someone to pick you up.” she says nonchalantly, “Wait where you are.” Um, sure. Where else would we go?

The Road to Chernobyl and the Radioactive Forest

After a very chilly couple of hours waiting by the roadside and having each done numerous star-jumps, press-ups and furious sessions of jogging on the spot, a car finally rolls up and out pops what I can only describe as a Russian version of Bruce Willis. He looks all business: big leather boots, an animal skin jacket, a chest the size of a barrel, plus a few gold teeth of his own. “Come my friends!” he exclaims with a wide grin and shepherds us in to his car. The warmth makes us all a little giddy.

Our saviour puts Nathan on the phone with the owner of the tour company who apologises profusely for screwing up our entry permits and by way of making amends, offers to put us up in a hotel an hour or so from Chernobyl and will organise for us to have our own private tour the following morning. Furthermore, he says he will personally collect our belongings from our original hostel and then collect us from the Chernobyl border after our tour and will deliver us to the airport that afternoon. From seeming like an complete failure not a half-hour before, our visit to the Ukraine suddenly looks like it might work out all right after all.

Our accommodation is what appears to be some kind of hunting lodge set alone alongside a barren stretch of snow-covered road. The interior is all stone and wood and lined with all manner of taxidermied critters in an assortment of staged positions. Ginormous antlers hang from every wall and comprise the legs of most of the tables; a large stuffed beaver stares blankly at us next to fake pond of stagnant green water; a giant eagle hangs from the ceiling; a wild boar stands outside the window.

We retire to our quarters for an afternoon nap only to find more dead animal decorations scattered around the rooms. It’s beyond me how anyone would come to the conclusion that a mounted weasel would make a nice ornament, but evidently it’s all the rage in these parts.

We return to the main restaurant area later that evening to find it transformed. Now the display of death is accompanied by a furious laser show, a smoke machine and a device occasionally spurting out a cloud of bubbles. Two skinny Ukrainian men in shiny shirts are belting out power ballads to a circle of bopping women. Once again, we are practically the only men in the place.

Ukrainian Chic: Hotel Room Deluxe

The English dinner menus of Kiev are long gone, so Nathan resorts to making mooing noises and drawing a picture of a cow much to the amusement of the bar staff. Unfortunately they don’t have beef, but somehow we convince them to order on our behalf as we cannot even begin to understand the Russian text on the laminated pages in front of us. We eat a kind of deep-fried chicken schnitzel; it’s not great, but we’re thankful at least that it’s not beaver or weasel.

The following morning, as promised, we are collected by our own personal tour guide. He has a serious facial tic; his chin seems to move completely of it’s own accord. He tells us he lives in Chernobyl, well inside the exclusion zone, and suddenly the tic makes perfect sense. We collect a Geiger counter for measuring radiation levels and head towards the power plant.

The Chernobyl nuclear power facility was built in the wooded marshlands of northern Ukraine, approximately 80 miles north of Kiev. It’s first reactor went online in 1977, the second in 1978, third in 1981, and fourth in 1983; two more were under construction. A small town, Pripyat, was also built near the Chernobyl nuclear power plant to house the workers and their families.

On April 25th 1986 Reactor Four was shut down for routine maintenance. During the shut down, technicians were also going to run a series of tests to determine whether in the event of a power outage the turbines could produce enough energy to keep the cooling system running until the backup generators came online.

Pripyat

To get accurate results from the test, the operators turned off several of the key safety systems which turned out to be a disastrous decision. Just after 1am on April 26th the reactor’s power dropped suddenly, resulting in a critical situation. The operators tried to compensate for the low power condition, but they lost control of the core and at 1:23am the plant suffered a catastrophic explosion which destroyed the reactor housing, tore the roof off the building, blew out the walls, and sent a mile high column of debris and nuclear material in to the atmosphere.

Had the safety systems had have remained on, the explosion would not have occurred and the problem easily rectified, but unfortunately they were not and the Chernobyl Nuclear Power facility was now on fire and spewing huge quantities of radioactive material in to the sky. In a last ditch attempt to contain the situation, the panicked engineers rushed to flood the lower levels of the plant with water; this would prove to be a another terrible mistake.

The loud explosion rattled the houses of nearby Pripyat and the following day the billowing cloud of radioactive material coloured the morning light. Soviet officials downplayed the situation and told the citizens of Pripyat there had only been a small accident, that everything was fine and they should carry on with life as usual, leaving their own citizens blissfully unaware that radiation levels many thousands of times their usual levels enveloped the city.

As the core continued to burn in the open air over the following days it released massive amounts of radioactive particles in to the atmosphere which formed an immense cloud which spread with the winds up over the rest of the Ukraine, Belarus, Poland and eventually two days later on April 28th, operators of the Swedish Forsmark nuclear power plant in Stockholm registered unusually high radiation levels near their own plant. When other plants around Europe began to register similarly high radiation levels, it became apparent a major nuclear disaster had occurred somewhere on the continent.

Pripyat Amusement Park

Initially the Soviets denied any knowledge of the situation, but due to the mounting evidence they eventually had no choice to concede there had been an incident at Chernobyl. Despite knowing there was a major disaster on their hands, the USSR reported only to the world that one of the reactors had been “damaged.” American spy satellites showed otherwise.

Scientists from all over the USSR flew in to the Ukraine to try and find a resolution to the problem and extinguish the inferno. The discovery that the lower levels had been flooded with water made it apparent they were dealing with a very serious situation: if the burning core breached the reactor floor and hit the water it would trigger a nuclear explosion many, many times bigger than the world and ever seen and the resulting radiation would render much of the European continent uninhabitable for centuries.

Something had to be done fast; there was no way of telling if or when the core would burn through to the lower floors, but if it did the results would apocalyptic. The only way to clear the water would be to send divers in to the lower levels of the facility and open the purge valves. The extreme levels of radiation would make this a death sentence, but there was simply no other choice.

Two soldiers bravely volunteered and swam down in to the murky depths. The temperatures were boiling and the visibility practically non-existent, but they managed to open the valves and release the water. In the years that followed it was discovered that the core had managed to burn it’s way through the concrete floor and indeed the actions of these two valiant men saved the world from death on a scale unseen since the extinction of the dinosaurs.

Ben at Pripyat

It took them two weeks to finally extinguish the blaze, but the area was still heavily radioactive. A team of workers set about building a concrete and metal ’sarcophagus’ to entomb the core, but by the time the disaster had been contained 56 people had already died and more than 4,000 of the workers died shortly after.

Another 70,000 have since been “disabled” by radiation and about 3.4 million people, or 7% of the Ukraine’s population, are considered “affected” by Chernobyl; thyroid cancer, for instance, has become remarkably common. Most of the deaths remain without official acknowledgement.

Our old beat-up car scrapes against the ice as we drive around the Chernobyl plant; evidently these roads are not well used. We stop a short distance from Reactor 4, but we’re not allowed to walk about too much due to lingering pockets of high radiation. Our Geiger counter is beeping already and we’re only too happy to obey. There is now some new construction surrounding the original sarcophagus as it started leaking again several years ago. We stay for only a short while.

Pripyat, the town built to house workers and their families of the Chernobyl Nuclear Plant, was once a gleaming jewel in the communist crown, but is now eerily silent, overgrown and destroyed. Nature long ago started reclaiming the land and trees and plants are slowly taking over the concrete and metal. We walk through an abandoned theatre; props and sets still lying all around. We walk on through an amusement park with bumper cars and Ferris wheel; you can easily imagine what the city would have been like when people lived here in the days before it became a nuclear wasteland.

It’s hard to compare a holiday like this to visiting the beaches of Thailand or travelling through Africa, but a part of me feels it’s important to see the less glamorous side of human existence, as well as the good. I feel drawn to see Auschwitz in much the same way as I felt compelled to visit Chernobyl. As human endeavours progress at an ever faster rate, I think on some level we assume all technological progress to be inherently positive, but disasters like Chernobyl make us step back and re-examine the way us and our societies live.

Pripyat

Albert Einstein, who’s General Theory of Relativity ultimately lead to atomic power and the atomic bomb, never forgave himself for his part in the eventual bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in World War II and no doubt would have been equally horrified by the events of April 1986.

With the populations expanding and the demand for energy ever increasing, nuclear energy is the most common choice to meet these needs. Anti-nuclear advocates claim reactors are a prime terrorist target and complain about nuclear waste which remains radioactive for thousands of years, but really, do we have any other option? Compared to burning fossil fuels like coal and natural gas, nuclear is really a much more ecologically sound option. It is my hope that one day soon sustainable technologies such as wind and solar power will become viable on massive scale, but for the foreseeable future, nuclear power is not going anywhere. Let’s hope that we’ve learnt our lessons from the past and disasters like Chernobyl never happen again.

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1. If you’re over 25, what was the best thing you did when you were 25 or what one thing do you wish you had done (or done differently) when you were 25?
2. If you are 25 or younger, what’s one thing you hope you’ll do or do better when you’re 25?

Below are a collection of some of my favourite answers in roughly the order they were received.

(Be warned: there is some profanity, I’ve decided to leave the answers more or less as they were supplied except for a few spelling or grammatical touch-ups.)

The best thing I did when I was 25 or one thing I wish I’d done differently:

Marie:
The best thing I did when I was 25 was probably go to New Zealand lol. Man I don’t know. Everything I did last year was a good idea. I just wish I hadn’t got wasted on a worknight, puked on the platform at Clapham North and gone to work with the biggest headache known to man. If I absolutely have to pick something, then I’ll go with my trip to America to see the X-Files movie. Best pilgrimage ever.

Karl:
I first ventured out flatting with randoms, previously only ever lived with people I knew, but I made the decision to head out and do something new, and it really was the best thing I ever did.

Nathan:
Age 25 was when we were living at Ironmongers Place. I guess best thing that year for me was the random trip to Iran after getting pissed on Friday night.

Worst thing well…. no regrets really. A lot of stupid things obviously, but no regrets. Happy to laugh about all my fuck-ups.

Remember bro, you never regret what you did. You regret what you didn’t.

Nigel:
Best thing I did at 25 was Graduate from University with a Bachelor of Engineering. Set me up with the self-confidence that I could do any job, any where in the world.

Roy:
25 was fantastic for me. I drove in the Formula Three race at the British Grand prix, Brands Hatch. Never had a better year and no regrets. Done lots of dumb things since then though.

Anonymous:
So my greatest thing I did was come to London. I feel like It has helped me come out of my shell. Become a better person in general. More decisive, more in control of my life, and now much happier with who I am. So my advice to you, is enjoy being 25, you are in a fantastic position. Dont worry about the smalls things, and be confident in what you do, small shit can bring you down, but look past it all and try to aim for the bigger picture and you cant do wrong. I just wish I had the confidence I have now back then. There isnt anything I would do differently when I was 25, as I felt like I did the best job I could at the time with what I was given. And I’m glad for the experiences I have been through because its made me a better person in general.

Matt:
Turn 26.

Christina:
I gave birth to my gorgeous son and went to live in the UK for a year.

Jess:
I turned 25 last august and the best thing i hve done is come over here to south america.

Rae:
Best thing I did at 25 was to start my university degree while stuck at home with a 2 year old and a 4 year old. One thing I really really wished I had done at 25 was get divorced instead of waiting till 39 to do that! Also wish I had taken up flying and got my Private Pilots License then instead of waiting till I was 40!

Stephen:
I had travelled half the world, been married to Christina for a couple of years and we had bought our first house at the age of 25 – I guess times were different then but making the sacrifices to get into a property set us up financially for life, sounds a bit boring, but on reflection probably the best thing I did was marrying Christina and getting on the property ladder!

Beej:
I was in Africa at the time I turned 25. Was out there working, based in Nairobi, also travelling around on work, had been there for a year or two and missed the comforts of friends and the lifestyle back home in London. It was selfish and arrogant of me not to see the wider picture, that I was being given an opportunity at such a young age to work, live and see Africa….kenya, Uganda, Tanzania, Burundi, Nigeria, Zambia… I finally realised this and in my final year in Kenya I changed attitude. Really made the most of it…so glad I did, those 2.5 years were actually amazing for me… I grew up, took stock and learned about myself and others.

Steve:
I am a (youthful) 31 year old and for my 25th, based in NZ at the time, I got to go away with all my best mates (ladies too) for a feel good surf trip. What I liked most about it was being removed from our day-to-day environment and its’ inherent social & financial pressures. I remember this type of thing fondly because with the increase in babies about the place now it is no longer possible… Things inevitably change so enjoy the moment.

John:
25 was turbulent times when I thought I found true love but it wasn’t to be, devastated, didn’t know who my friends where, turns out there wasn’t really anyone, even my parents offered no support, I can’t say I blame anyone but I don’t never forget and I refuse to forgive easily, even now I am still plagued by the decisions I made at that time, do I regret it? no. I tried a lot of things I always wanted to do, and found out what I am truly capable of when things are toughest, I dug myself out of massive holes only to find myself on top but not happy and sabotaging myself again.

Martha:
I turned 25 in July… now I’ve reached old age, I want to make sure I do two things: see the world and write a book. Admittedly both of these activities may take some time.

Shakespeare:
MATE, i can’t even remember what i did on my 25th!!! I’d like to think i was at punk, getting absolutely s**t faced!!

Emma:
I was 25 in 2006-2007, I worked in Tauranga (my first job as a vet) which was cool, and headed to the UK to locum and travel – also cool, but the best thing i did was get married! – awesome party!

John:
Looking back the fondest memory is taking my small children sailing.

Shelley:
I wish I had stopped compromising.
I wish I had asked myself if I was truly happy.
I wish that I had seen that I wasn’t actually fat.
I wish I had found my way into a church.

Meriel:
The best thing I did was get married, although I wish Matt and I had travelled more before I was 25 because I can’t fly now and it will stop him from travelling which I know he wanted to do.

Valerie:
I had my 25th birthday in January 1954. I was married to Clive and had a daughter, Stella, who was 2 years old in August of that year. Clive was in the army doing his two years National Service and was demobbed in November. Our son, Stephen, was born in the December.

We lived in a semi-detached house in Golders Green, north-west London and Clive’s father lived with us.

England was still recovering from the 1939-45 war and lots of things were still in short supply, although food rationing had ended a couple of years earlier. We had an Electrolux washing machine which had been Clive’s mother’s and was a pre-war model (we saw an identical one in a museum in New Zealand on our first visit there in 1977!). We had no refrigerator and so had to shop for food nearly every day, but had bottled milk delivered each morning. We had our first motor-car, a pre-war Austin 8 saloon which Clive bought whilst in the army, but then sold when demobbed. We really felt special owning a motor-car and being able to travel where we wanted, when you wanted and not to have to rely on buses and trains.

I don’t think I was ambitious for material possessions, at least I hope not, I was quite content with my little family and so pleased to have Clive home again and not just at weekends. I would not say we had exciting lives, but neither did we have the pressures or competitiveness that todays 25 year olds have to live with. I was fortunate that I did not have to juggle running the home and looking after the children with a full time job. I don’t know that I could have coped with that. I do so admire the young of today who do, but wonder which of us are the lucky ones!

Clive:
My 25th birthday was in October 1954, just a matter of weeks before I was demobbed. When released, I rejoined the firm of chartered accountants with which I had served articles and qualified before being called up for National Service. While in the army I had seriously considered signing on as a regular, but the thing which decided me most strongly against doing so was having a wife with no service background – it was not a world to which I fancied introducing my Valerie.

Back in the professional world, one immediately took stock of what the future might hold. It was apparent that for success in that area one needed one of two things, either a father already in that walk of life or a father with the money to buy one into a partnership and I had neither. It was not long before I took the step of entering the world of commerce and I never regretted doing so.

On the domestic front, I soon became again a content member of the domestic structure that had been fostered in my absence by my wife and daughter together with my father and there our number was soon added to safely and happily by our son Stephen.

Darryl:
I think the best thing I did was manage the stage at a concert venue which came with perks such as entry to after parties, VIP guest lists and back stage tickets for friends etc. Always interesting when Prodigy were playing. Not sure how you’d pull this one off though………

Oliver:
When I was 25 the best thing I did was split up with my girlfriend and find my independence! It sounds horrible but It’s true! I think independence when you are young is essential to becoming a ‘whole’ person.

If I could have done anything differently it would be to grab opportunities and make things happen. With regards to work I waited too long for my company to do the right/fair thing, respected the conventions too much – it never happened which is why I now spend late nights and weekends pushing to get to the next level. My single piece of advice is to get to where you want to be as quickly as possible. Time takes it’s toll and it gets harder the longer you take.

Tommy:
I’m pass that point where I can’t remember what the best thing I done when I was 25. The worst thing that happened was that I thumped two policemen and spent the night in a cell after a school party event.

Jo:
So… as i am over 25 the thing i wish i had done.. (seeing as i have been 25 for only 6 months and have done stuff all in that time) is that i wish i had learnt a different language.. maybe Italian… or Spanish… yep. Not very exciting im afraid.. but thats it, so add it to your list.

What’s one thing you hope you’ll do or do better when you’re 25?

Olivia:
When I’m 25 I hope I find the time to make my bed on a regular basis at least haha.

Simon:
I want to have a threesome with two strippers!

Laurel:
By the time I’m 25, I hope to have gained the courage to follow my true passions with all of my heart, so that by the time I’m 50 I won’t ask “what if?” or tell myself “if only…”.

Lisa:
At the ages of 25 I want to living in London, while a job based in advertising and travelling to Europe at whatever chance I get :D

Again, a big thanks to everyone. Hope you all have an awesome Christmas and New Years!

Much love,

Mark

This post is part of a series:
http://marksteele.co.nz/the-2008-trip/

Go-Kart Racing At Fontana Speedway - Rancho Cucamonga, California

A few years ago I found myself one hot, sticky night sitting alone outside a crowded Bangkok (Read more…) bar sipping on a cold beer and watching the throng of Thais making their way home from their daily exertions.

The pungent smell of spices hung heavily in the air, masking the humid funk of the city streets, thanks to an elderly noodle vendor by the roadside trying to hock his wares to the passers-by. I gazed idly at the old man going about his work when another equally aged gentleman of Western origin tapped me on the shoulder and asked if he could join me at my table.

“Sure.” I said, “Go ahead”, I’d been hankering for some English conversation all day. As we spoke, the septuagenarian started to tell me the story of how he had found himself this night sitting at my table.

Chris and I On The Hollywood Hot Rod Tour - Los Angeles, California

“I met my wife when I was eighteen years old,” he told me. “We were both young and naïve, but very much in love. Shortly after, we were married. I never remember having being been so happy. Neither of us had much money; we’d both come from poor farming families, but somehow we made ends meet.”

He sipped his beer and stared vacantly out towards the bustling streets, his thoughts obviously weighing on his mind. “A little over a year after we married, our son Charles arrived and then in the following years my two daughters, Sally and Margaret joined us on this earth.”

“My wife and I always wanted to travel. Since we were newly weds we spent hours talking about the fantastic journey that we were going to take. It was going to be incredible. As time went on, one by one our children grew older, left home and got married themselves and then finally the day for my wife and I to embark drew near.”

He paused; I could see tears starting to well in his eyes. “Two months before my wife was due to retire and we were to start the adventure we had spent a lifetime planning, she was diagnosed cancer and within six months she was dead, having never even stepped foot outside the United States.” I smiled sympathetically, unsure how to respond to his woeful tale.

Sunset Boulevard

“Now,” he continued in a sombre tone, “I travel alone the journey she and I were to take together, and I do this for her, in her memory.” He turned to look at me squarely in the eyes. “Son, don’t postpone the things you want to do in your life, get out there and seize the world with two hands – if you delay, you might lose your chance forever.“

His words were like a spark to the gasoline fumes of my thoughts. Suddenly my lifestyle seemed vindicated; no longer was I merely a bum coasting along, enjoying an extended holiday in South East Asia. I had found myself on a higher path.

The old man and I shortly thereafter parted ways, but his words have stayed with me ever since. Why should we postpone what we desire in life? I’m not talking about reckless hedonistic abandonment, but consciously planning to enrich and savour our lives on a day by day basis. It is with this in mind that I now try and live my life.

2008 was an incredible year. My travels took me right around the world; from the Arctic Circle through to Western Europe and onward to the Middle East, Africa, Asia, Australia, New Zealand and the US.

Solitude - Forrest Hill Park, Auckland, New Zealand

During my nine months of travel, I hiked up a volcano in Rwanda and saw a family of gorillas in the wild; I dived a World War II shipwreck in the Red Sea and spent five months in my motherland; finally getting the opportunity to be a tourist in my own country and catch up with my friends and family who have had to endure my absence for so long.

Coming home felt peculiar, it forced me to acknowledge the gulf between the person I was when I left and the person I am now. It feels like I’ve grown a lot in the years since I was the confused, angst-ridden teenager that left New Zealand in 2004 and it made me realise how satisfied I am with the direction my life is moving in, albeit it perhaps being a different direction from many.

Franz Josef Glacier - Westland National Park, New Zealand

Coming home also reminded me of the love that I feel for my family, my friends and the natural beauty of the Land Of The Long White Cloud. Many of my memories of home had faded over the past four years. I’d forgotten how much I actually loved New Zealand. Ironically I’d arrived thinking I’d want to leave almost immediately, but when it came to it, I almost couldn’t bring myself to go.

That said, my time at home has confirmed my suspicions that I am not ready to return to New Zealand permanently, now or in the short term. There is still so much of the world I want to see, so much I want to do and living in New Zealand just doesn’t seem compatible with these goals (sorry Mum).

I always find travelling an enlightening experience. I believe there is much to be learnt by the curious mind. Witnessing the culture and customs of a foreign land illuminates the parallels and contrasts to one’s own society, forcing a new perspective upon the attentive traveller. From this new vantage point of thought I feel that I can see what was transparent before; I can appreciate how much of my own mental make-up is blindly inherited from my home land. I think that it is this new awareness of self that can prove such a catalyst for introspection and growth.

Routeburn Track - Glenorchy, New Zealand

The Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius said “If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself but to your own estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment.”

This sentiment is also echoed in the words of Holocaust survivor Viktor Frankl, “Between stimulus and response, there is a space. In that space lies our freedom and power to choose our response. In our response lies our growth and freedom.”

This seems to be a common thread of thought amongst those of philosophical disposition. Witnessing the serene happiness of poverty stricken Africans despite the constant threat of hunger, thirst and death seems to confirm for me that the joy we derive from life comes more from inside us than from our external surroundings or circumstances.

'Guitar Hero' Shenanigans

So once again I find myself sitting in a cold London flat. I’m sleeping on an air bed in a mate’s lounge and I’m practically penniless, but I have many fond memories of an epic year behind me. Shortly I will rejoin responsible society – I’ll find a job, start paying taxes and attempt to get out of bed before 9 AM.

This trip has allowed me a lot of time to reflect on what I’ve been doing, where I’m going and ultimately what I want from life. The next few years are a mystery, I have vague inclinations of where they might lead, but it’s really completely unknown – to be honest, I have no idea where 2009, (let alone the rest of my life), will take me. I feel there is strength in tolerating the uncertainty, casting free the shackles of life sustained by fear, familiarity and the expectations of others. I believe it’s about being open to alternate paths and seeing where life may lead you.

Before I sign off, I want to extend a special thanks to my faithful travel companions Tony, Wendy and Mike – Thanks for everything. Here’s to many more adventures together! - and also to the other faces I met along the way that played such a huge part in making this trip so very memorable (you know who you are.)

Kensal Green Cemetery - London, England

I hope you’ve all enjoyed reading about my adventures as much as I have enjoyed having them and writing about them. I’d love to hear any thoughts or feedback you might have.

With love, until next time,

Mark

This post is part of a series:
http://marksteele.co.nz/the-2008-trip/

“You like girls?” asked Chris, an affable, middle-aged Asian chap who’d volunteered to drive us around Singapore in the middle of the night on a drunken mission to find cigars. “Sure” we enthused, interpreting this to be a mere nugget of man chatter before continuing to assault our new found friend with questions about where to go and what to do in the city.

As we cruised the dark, muggy streets, watching the people of the night gliding past, I started to become increasingly aware of growing number of scantily clad young women loitering on the side walk. As Mike and I were about to find out, our driver had other things on his mind for us that night than just finding us tobacco products – and for a country that prides itself on having rules for everything, they sure have a lot of prostitutes.

The car slowed to a crawl and Chris leaned back, a mischievous grin wide on his face, “like any of these girls?” he pressed.

“Ah… sure, they’re lovely” I replied lamely, “but really… we’re just after some cigars tonight…”

“Oh…” said Chris, the disappointment dripping from his voice; his shoulders sagging in his seat.

The BMW rolled on through the night, Chris answering our questions with noticeably less enthusiasm than before. We found our cigars shortly after, some drastically overpriced Cubans, then our driver graciously offered to drop us home, but only after a cursory return trip through the red light district (“just in case!” he assured us).

After a fruitless mission through the seedy back streets we finally arrived back at the hostel but before we could spring from the vehicle, Chris, with a trace of annoyance in his voice, thrust a business card in to each of our hands and said “OK, OK, no girls tonight. You call me tomorrow and we go get girls then. I get best price!” His credentials claimed membership to the liquor industry, but my suspicions tell me our guide for the evening also made a nice sideline pimping Asian women to “rich” white tourists like us.

Mike and I arrived in Singapore feeling apathetic. We’d been roughing it through Africa for nine weeks and the urge for consistency, stability and comfort had kicked in strong. The thought of going outside and exploring yet another city suddenly felt more like a chore than a pleasure, so encouraged by the total lack of tourist attractions and the oppressive heat and humidity outside we hijacked the hostel dining table with our laptops, basked in the icy cold air conditioning and blatantly flouted the hostel’s no alcohol policy by drinking scotch whiskey everyday from the early afternoon, cleverly concealing the bottle under table when the manager came in and vehemently denying her accusations that we were drunk (although the giggling probably didn’t help our case.)

After an unrewarding and expensive week in the Malaysian outpost we set forth to Australia, where we spent another useless week achieving very little. We made it out once to walk through Sydney and down to the Opera House, the otherwise torrential rain kept us from the beaches and the streets and left us instead inside positioned by the pool table at the downstairs bar.

Finally, two weeks after departing the African continent, Mike and I arrived in New Zealand, dressed in tailored, hand-made, silk and cashmere blend Italian cut suits we’d picked up during one of our few excursions in Singapore, hoping to surprise our families with the exact opposite of the stained, scraggly, bearded travellers they were expecting to receive. Unfortunately, our moment of splendour was sadly ruined by the New Zealand Customs and Excise Service who after finding a a collection of knives, including a 24 inch machete, in the neatly suited Michael’s backpack decided they needed to inspect my cousin somewhat closer, although, despite his 45 minute absence he has assured me repeatedly since then that they didn’t once require the use of a latex glove. (I only half believe him).

This November marks the four year anniversary of me originally leaving New Zealand and moving to the UK and Michael is only a few months shy of being able to claim the same. In such a long absence, my memories of life in New Zealand had long ago been eclipsed by those of my new life on British shores, so, it was with some surprise to arrive home and fall back in love with the motherland so quickly, in fact, so much so that I’ve decided to stay – until the end of summer at least.

It’s been great being tourists in our own country. One of my biggest gripes about living in England was constantly being bombarded by Brits professing their love for New Zealand. “Oh! Don’t you love the South Island!” they’d squeal, then exclaim “Isn’t the Milford Sounds is the most beautiful place on earth!?” usually followed by them staring at me blankly awaiting my endorsement, forcing me to admit that despite having travelled all over the world I’d actually seen very little of my own country. In fact, my memories of the South Island were largely confined to a singular incident which happened on a family trip almost two decades ago; my Dad accidentally spraying his pristine white shirt in ketchup and actually commenting at the time “I bet this is the only thing you’ll remember about this trip…” (and, of course, it is).

Memories involving condiments aside, a tour of New Zealand has been due for a long time, so it was with great relish (sorry, couldn’t resist) we purloined my Aunt’s car and set off on our noble journey, starting with the northernmost tip of the country that myth claims fisherman ?Maui pulled from the sea. Our first port of call was a holiday house in the Bay of Islands, a picture-postcard perfect part of NZ where we were joined by some friends for an intense week of cultural activities, featuring such quintessential Kiwi pastimes as fishing, beer drinking and barbecue.

Following such a successful week getting reacquainted with New Zealand’s timeless traditions, Mike and I opted to sign up for a day trip of Northland, promising an array of attractions from body boarding on sand dunes, to visiting an ancient Kauri forest and more. We had no way of knowing then that we’d end up spending most the day being stalked by the Eastern European paparazzi.

To start with, she seemed normal enough. Mid-to-late fifties; homely attire; thick Soviet-bloc accent. Armed with a video camera snuggly affixed to her right hand at all times, she recorded in minute detail every aspect of our trip from the seemingly endless Ninety Mile Beach, to the driver’s riveting dialogue regarding bus evacuation procedures in the event of fire.

“Can I take your picture?” she enquired in brusque Russian tones as Mike and I sat atop a hill at Cape Reinga, surveying the meeting point of the Tasman and Pacific Oceans. “Uh, sure” we replied, wanting her to go away more than anything else. With that, she aimed her camera, snapped our picture and then meandered off to find her friend, leaving the two of us to resume the serious business of watching the waves crashing on the rocks below.

A few hours, several tourist attractions and countless photographs later Mike groaned, “She’s taking our picture again!” I glanced over to see again a familiar lens aimed in our direction. Mike wheeled his camera across and quickly snapped a shot of our paparazzo-in-training, balancing out the us-to-her photograph ratio at about 50:1. I can only imagine her intentions were for so many pictures of our hunky New Zealander selves; I can only speculate that she must have sold our likeness to popular Yugoslavian media and unbeknownst to ourselves, Mike and I are now probably huge celebrities in the former USSR.

From the northern tip we travelled right the way down the length of the country to Slope Point, the southernmost outreach of the South Island; only the tiny Stewart Island extending New Zealand’s claim further in to the cold, subarctic ocean below. Since leaving Auckland we’ve driven over 5,000 kilometres, passing through dozens of towns and cities on the way; Michael never failing to seize the opportunity to dangle his arm out the window and glare menacingly at anyone who happens to appear in his field of vision. Regretfully, as sinister as his thug impression is, I suspect our gangsta street cred is somewhat lessened by the fact our pimp-mobile is actually a 1995 burgundy red Peugeot hatchback we borrowed from his Mum.

So, in short, it’s good to be back. It’s been an immense pleasure to catch up with all my friends and family I’ve neglected for so long with my European antics, and to finally get out and explore the number one tourist destination in the world (well, according to a recent poll I saw anyway). There have, of course, been changes in my four year absence. Notably, my high school chums and I now meet for lunch and have adult conversations about global politics and the financial markets instead of lounging around at the beach smoking joints after school, and people continuously ask me where I’m from and seem genuinely surprised when I reveal my New Zealand origins – my accent is obviously a twisted wreck; perhaps a few more months at home is just what I need…?

New Zealand – roll on summer!

England – see you in Spring!

(and as always, we loving hearing what you’re all up to, keep the emails coming!)

Photoset: http://flickr.com/photos/markandmikeabroad/sets/72157608321817375/

Ka kite ano,

Mark
Web: http://marksteele.co.nz
Photos: http://flickr.com/photos/markandmikeabroad/sets/

]]> http://marksteele.co.nz/2008/10/28/2008-part-6/feed/ 3 Mark Mt Cook National Park Rangitoto - Auckland, New Zealand Mike On The Routeburn Track Napping on the Routeburn Track Mark On The Routeburn Track http://marksteele.co.nz/2008/08/23/africa-part-5/ http://marksteele.co.nz/2008/08/23/africa-part-5/#comments Sat, 23 Aug 2008 16:41:13 +0000 Mark http://marksteele.wordpress.com/?p=66 ]]>

This post is part of a series:
http://marksteele.co.nz/the-2008-trip/

I could never be a hunter. I don’t have much of a stomach for blood, guts and gore. My father, eldest son in a farming family that spanned back generations, spent his childhood on a large dairy farm in rural New Zealand, surrounded by animals, bailing hay and milking cows – good honest blokes stuff. Decades later, no doubt eager to share the joys of country living with my eight year old self, he took it upon himself to take me to see a calf being born.

When we arrived, there was evidently a complication with the birth which required some human intervention to resolve. While the others were milling around deciding on a course of action my Dad handed me a transparent, shoulder-length glove and casually suggested I stick my arm inside the cow and feel the unborn calf within. So revolted by the mere thought of this I chose instead to flee back to the car, leaving my Dad standing there – plastic glove in hand and a puzzled look upon on his face (and yes, I’ll admit it, I’m a total chicken.)

If you’ve ever been unfortunate enough to have seen footage from industrial farms and slaughterhouses, you’ll be all too aware the horrendous conditions in which animals are raised and killed before finding their way to our dinner tables. A few years back, after having seen one of these videos myself I was sufficiently repulsed to experiment with being a vegetarian. I lasted only about five weeks before one fateful night at a Chinese restaurant Sweet and Sour Pork became my downfall – and I’ve never looked back. As much as I hate to say it, I just love meat too much to seriously consider life without it.

My thoughts on hunting and animal welfare aside, I can actually understand why the original explorers to Africa would take to big game hunting. If you’d grown up in England or the Americas, your experience of wildlife limited to livestock, domestic animals and perhaps the occasional fox ; coming across an animal as preposterous as a giraffe or elephant must have been completely unfathomable. I also suspect that without the evidence to back up your claims, very few people back home would believe your tales of yellow, long necked herbivores roaming the African continent.

We saw all the famed ‘Big 5′, originally a term used to refer to the five animals said to be most dangerous to hunt in Africa – Lion, Elephant, Leopard, Rhino and Buffalo. Lions are remarkably lazy, I’m not sure how they made the top 5, I could have easily killed a dozen lions if I had so desired. Every one that we saw was asleep in the sunshine, their most strenuous efforts amounting to nothing more than the occasional flick of the tail – far from the active, predatory animals I had imagined.

Despite being an eager zoo visitor as a kid, it turns out I knew very little about the animals which I’d admired in their enclosures so many times. Hippopotamus, who I’d once considered rather boring and docile, are actually responsible for the most human fatalities in Africa every year. Fiercely territorial, they will charge at up to thirty miles per hour to protect their domain and something as small as getting in between a hippo and the water is enough to provoke this aggression – almost always with dire consequences. Tito, our guide with Absolute Africa, told us he’d seen with his very eyes a hippopotamus attacking an Australian girl by the side of Lake Naivasha where we were staying. Ignoring thrown stones and shouts from aghast onlookers, they had to resort to ramming the large mammal with a truck to get it to shift back to the water, but sadly, it was already too late for the Aussie. Needless to say, none of us took a stroll around the lake that night.

The following day we took a boat ride around the lake to see the hippos up close and personal. When our small boat was a few metres away from a group, the skipper would kill the engines and we’d bob up and down in silence, watching with nervous fascination. With a sharp snort, one by one they’d drop beneath the waves, no doubt planning some sort of terrible revenge on the boatload of humans invading their turf. We waited with bated breath as the captain yanked again and again on the starter cord, trying to get our stubborn outboards to spring back to life. Thankfully, the engines would always eventually roar back in to life and we would escape the fearsome hippopotami and continue on our way.

After leaving Tanzania we spent a few nights in Lilongwe, the capital of Malawi. Mike and I decided we’d had enough activity for a few days, so we found some nice, comfy couches at our campground and proceeded to spend the remainder of our time in the city reclining in comfort, savouring the free wireless internet and close proximity of the bar. On our third day of sitting around on the same sofas, the bartender brought us out two beers telling us they’d been purchased for us by another customer. Mystified, Mike and I looked around the bar trying to catch the eye of the shy lass who’d obviously been so taken by our handsome good looks, yet was just too timid to introduce herself. After much observation of our fellow patrons, our anonymous beauty had still failed to make herself known, so I approached the bartender and asked after her identity so that I might do the gallant thing and introduce myself. Unfortunately, it turns out that our secret admirer wasn’t an admirer at all, but a Japanese business man who had just abandoned his surplus currency behind the bar before heading to the airport. He’d advised the bar staff to buy drinks for their best customers. So sadly, not only were we not being eyed up by the lady folk of the campground, but being classed as “best customers” could also be a construed as being a vague accusation of being alcoholics. (Damn…)

From Lilongwe we travelled to Caroline Bay on the shores of the immense Lake Malawi. Miles from anywhere, we’d failed to realise that they might not accept credit cards and we found ourselves in something of a financial predicament. After counting every last Kwacha we had, we worked out that our daily budget encompassed two options: three regular sized meals plus water, or two cheese-and-tomato toasted sandwiches plus half a dozen lagers each in the evening. (Errr, we chose the beer.)

Between, shall we say, ‘intestinal troubles’ (must have been those toasted sandwiches…) and Frank Herbert’s novel Dune, I was in little mood for conversation for most of the time we were in Caroline Bay. Mike having finished his book was left desperate for reading material and after scouring the resort for something new, he returned with the only text he could find – the Gideon’s Bible.

With the Good Book in hand, Mike took great delight in spending the majority of the day quoting to me from the scriptures and otherwise informing me of the error of my sinning ways. Michael’s conversion from Atheist to Christian Extremist seemed to come to an appropriate climax when after snaffling some fireworks from the resort later that evening, we let them off on the lake shore only to find out that the building behind us was in fact a mosque, resulting in us being chased down the dark beach by an irate Muslim for interrupting his evening prayers with explosives.

From Malawi we had three options on how to make our way down to South Africa: six full days in a cramped, thousand degree minivan; an overnight coach that ran through Zimbabwe, stopping off in Harare; or to fly. Option one seemed way too sadistic and option two would almost certainly result in being mugged, stabbed or beaten so we took option three and booked flights from the southern city of Blantyre down to Johannesburg.

Blantyre is an industrial town, named after the Scottish birth place of famed explorer, David Livingstone. There isn’t really much to see in Blantyre, the only real attraction being the Carlsberg Brewery – Mecca for African beer drinkers. With our flights early the following morning Mike, Tony and I decided we’d use our spare afternoon and go see where the magic happens.

Far from the Willy Wonka experience we might have imagined, the brewery turned out to be sterile, foul smelling and decidedly yawn inducing. After an hour of plodding around feigning interest at vats and loud machinery we got to the eagerly anticipated sampling session. We’d been forewarned by a fellow camper that sampling time would last a mere 45 minutes, so we took advantage of this knowledge and necked as many free lagers as we could – mostly the potent Elephant brand clocking in at a respectable 7.4%.

Three quarters of an hour later we found our inebriated selves ejected from the brewery, so we did the only sensible thing one can do in the these situations and along with some others from the tour, we staggered back to our campground bar in search of another cold drink. Some hours later, after an relaxed afternoon of sitting in the sunshine, chatting up fellow campers and drinking yet more beer I finally decided to leave Mike at the bar and go climb in to my sleeping bag – mindful of our flight in the early hours and the hangover that was sure to ensue.

Woken by my alarm at 5am the following morning I reached across the tent over to poke Mike in the forehead – (his least favourite way to be roused from slumber) – only to find my errant cousin missing. I strapped on my headtorch and went looking for his comatose body in every chair, hedge and any other place I thought might seem a promising option for a drunkard to pass out; yet after walking around repeatedly shouting out his name – no doubt waking everyone else in the campground – I had still failed to find any sign of him. With dawn breaking and the clock ticking down, I gave up the search and went to start pulling down the tent, hoping he would show up of his own accord.

An hour later, our taxi arrived and Mike was still no where to be seen. Not willing to forfeit our US$500 plane tickets for his stupidity, I scrawled a quick note calling my cousin a retard, wished him luck and told him to meet us in Cape Town. Stuffing the note in his bag, Tony, Wendy and I climbed in to the cab and set off for the airport.

About the time Tony, Wendy and I were finishing our airport check-in Mike awoke dazed and confused in a room with one of the girls from the night before wrapped around him. Noticing the sunlight creeping in through the curtains he suddenly remembered the flight and in a panic, pulled on his trousers and dashed out the door with barely a word to his half-asleep lady friend. Sprinting out to the tents, he found the spot bare and proceeded to leg it down to reception to find his pack already sitting there waiting for him, “Please get me cab,” he pleaded with the reception staff, “AS FAST AS YOU CAN!”

After a leisurely Full English breakfast and few cups of mediocre coffee Tony, Wendy and I strolled down to the departure lounge and prepared to board our plane. As we stood queuing, a dishevelled Mike burst through the door, complete with bed hair, bleary eyes and the pungent smell of alcohol oozing from his pores – and only minutes to spare.

Arriving in Johannesburg was a welcome reunion with civilisation, after two months in mainland Africa I had almost forgotten that there were such things as smooth roads, broadband internet and white people. Celebrating our return to the first world, the four of us found it fitting to order delivery pizza and spend the afternoon crashed out on the sofa watching trashy celebrity documentaries on TV.

We only spent one night in Jo’burg, the tales of gun violence and car jacking was enough to convince us that there was no reason to delay getting to Cape Town. We made a quick stop at the Apartheid Museum before we departed, a stark reminder of South Africa’s troubled history. Apartheid may officially be over, but it seems to live on in the hearts and minds of the people. So many South Africans we have met spout venomous abuse towards the blacks, blaming equal rights and black politicians for what they perceive as the decline of their country. In my outsiders opinion, there is still a long, long way to go before South Africa becomes a truly racially equal nation.

We’ve now been in Cape Town for five nights, only a few more days until Mike and I depart for Asia. After a lethargic couple of weeks, we decided a few days ago that some exercise was a good idea so we set out to climb Table Mountain, the immense stone ridge that provides the backdrop to the city. We arrived at the beginning of the trail early afternoon, the hot South African sun high in the sky, and started climbing the steep path. Not long after we began our ascent we found ourselves drenched in sweat and struggling for air; falling against a rock we huffed and puffed trying to regain our composure, only to be put to shame by a passing pre-adolescent girl who didn’t even seem to notice the incline. Suddenly we were regretting our decision not to take the cable car.

After a slow arduous climb we arrived at the top, all too aware how unfit the two of us have gotten since being in Africa. Finding a rocky overhang we sat down, exhausted. Drinking in the view of Cape Town miles below, Mike and I sat with out feet dangling over the edge of the precipice and made a pledge to alter our hedonistic ways and start living healthier lifestyles – (although thus far we have yet to follow through…)

The following day, departing from the small town of Gansbaai on the southern coast, we set out by boat to find the largest predatory fish in the ocean: the Great White Shark. Using a slab of tuna attached to a buoy and “Gladys”, a floating seal decoy, the boats crew lured the aquatic death machines up to the boat. Shortly the waters were writhing with sharks, eleven in total, all about five metres (16 ft) in length – their fins slicing through the surface, radiating eternal malice.

With the boat now completely surrounded, we set about donning wetsuits and masks and dropped in to a metal cage suspended in the cold sea off the side of the boat. Completely submerged, the seven of us in the water would make a quick check to make sure none of our limbs were protruding in to shark territory and then through the steel lattice we’d watch the sharks savagely attacking the bait and decoy – their cold, dark, lifeless eyes watching us from just inches away.

In a burst of aggression, one of the male sharks surged at the side of the cage, latching on with his teeth and shaking us all around violently. Thankfully, as quickly as he came, he released us and vanished back off in to the depths, giving us a mighty whack with his tail as he left.

The African leg of this trip is now coming rapidly to a close, Mike and I depart Cape Town in only a few days from now. It’s been a fascinating nine weeks on the continent, needless to say that life here often takes a markedly different form than that of us in the Western world. The people have been great, from the locals we have talked to on the streets and met in stores, restaurants and bars, to the traditional Masai warriors in Kenya and the poverty stricken blacks in the vast slum cities skirting Cape Town; Africans may carry out their lives differently from you or me, but it seems to me that ultimately they want the same things as all of us – health, love, comfort, respect.

I’m sure my travelling companions would agree that the highlight of this trip has definitely been the wildlife. Words can’t adequately describe how it feels to climb through dense jungle on the side of a volcano in Rwanda and found yourself surrounded by screaming, chest-beating Silverback gorillas existing in their natural habitat, the way they have for eons. Diving with Great Whites and sleeping in a national park, our tents surrounded by Baboons, are also experiences I am unlikely to forget any time soon.

Usually I’m not prone to homesickness, but with my first return trip to New Zealand in years now only a couple of weeks away, I suddenly can’t wait to get out of Africa and start working my way homeward. With just over a fortnight to go I can almost taste Pineapple Lumps, L&P and the steak-and-cheese pies!

Bring it on.

NEXT STOP: Singapore

Mark
http://marksteele.co.nz

This post is part of a series:
http://marksteele.co.nz/the-2008-trip/

African Village

I seem to have reverted to the sleeping patterns of a 4 year old. As the sun sets, I finish my evening meal and fatigue overwhelms me. I stumble back to my tent in the dark and promptly fall asleep, the time being no later than about half past seven. In the morning, I awake with the sun and am dressed and have eaten breakfast before its even 6 o’clock, then mid-afternoon I crash again, joyfully drifting off in to my now almost daily afternoon nap.

You may just think I am lazy – and perhaps you are right – but it’s not just me operating on the same schedule as the sun. As soon as the first rays of light penetrate the darkness there is a cacophony of birds, dogs and people all up and about starting their new day.

We’ve now been in Malawi for a few days; the temperature has dropped as we’ve gone south (I’m not even sweating right now!), Wendy has Malaria and I’ve discovered after a lifetime of not liking peanut butter, it’s actually not that revolting after all.

Trouser Socks: Sexy.

Transport has always been an interesting adventure since arriving on the African continent. Our trip to the Malawi border, like so many other journeys since we’ve been here, was bursting with people. Our 14 seater bus was crammed full with 25 sweaty people plus luggage, babies and sacks of god-knows-what filling every square inch of interior space, bouncing over the uneven, potholed roads providing us all with the teeth chattering, bone shuddering experience known affectionately as an ‘African massage’. Time estimates are, shall we say, relaxed. Supposedly two hour journeys take five and departure times are likewise irrelevant: we waited 17 hours in Dar Es Salaam for our train to Mbeya to arrive.

Africa is a continent of walking. The roads, littered with bicycles and pedestrians, leave little room for the few automobiles trying to traverse the tarmac. Drivers of the smokey, rusty, broken down clap-traps drive with one hand rested on the horn, honking incessantly to clear a path through the mêlée of human traffic.

Like their roading system, Africa is a land of differences. Obviously, there are the big things such as poverty, civil unrest and superstitious tribal culture, but there a little differences also. For example, all soft drinks are sold in glass bottles which you have to pay a deposit for. After one has enjoyed their carbonated beverage and returned the bottle, your deposit is refunded, then the bottles are sent back to Coca-Cola HQ to be sterilized and reused again and again.

Misty Roads

Africa is also a land of contrast. The people we have encountered have been ubiquitously friendly, although like anywhere, some of them are out to make a few shillings profit, but most are just happy to say Jambo (hello) and find out about the strange muzungo (whiteys) that happens to be passing through their towns. I find the warmth and civility of these people makes it all the more difficult to believe the atrocities which have, and continue to, occur in this part of the world.

A few weeks back we visited the Genocide Memorial Museum in Rwanda, our sombre visit made all the more poignant by the tears and moans of sorrow erupting from one poor Rwandan woman overwhelmed by the experience; only 14 years on, this is still a fresh and painful memory for many.

Before colonial rule, Rwanda was inhabited by two tribes, the Hutu and the Tutsi. Unlike the vast majority of African tribes, the Hutu and Tutsi lived peacefully as one. They married one another, lived in the same towns and had happy lives together.

Setting Up Camp (Again…)

Then the Belgians arrived. With superior firepower they seized control of the small country and after putting the locals through a degrading process of testing and experimentation they decided that genetically, the Tutsi were the superior people and elevated them to ruling class; for the first time creating a disparity between the Hutu and Tutsi tribes. From then on, between the people that had once lived as brothers, a gulf of hatred grew.

This aggression finally came to a head when in 1994 Belgium withdrew from Rwanda, removing the power from Tutsi and handing it to the Hutu who had by then been treated unfairly for so long. This reversal of power led promptly to a backlash against the Tutsi which rapidly spiraled in to mass killing; the Hutu openly slaughtering Tutsi on the streets. Laws were then passed revoking the citizenship and all rights of the Tutsi, effectively sentencing all every Tutsi man, woman and child to death.

People killed Tutsi members of their own family, and along with their parents, children were macheted to death to prevent another generation of Tutsi from arising. With little support from the rest of the world, the violence quickly spiraled out of control. Bill Clinton later stated that not sending support to Rwanda was one of the biggest regrets of his career.

Tough Times In Lilongwe

If the experience of the museum wasn’t painful enough, there was a separate wing dedicated to the children of the conflict. Below large pictures of smiling children, often the only remaining pictures the families had, were plaques stating information like:

.

It was truly heartbreaking. I still find it hard to digest that a land full of such kind people – or for that matter, human beings in general – are capable of such horrific acts. Surprisingly though, Rwandans seems to have well and truly left their history in the past and have again come together to be a comparatively prosperous, successful country. Perhaps in the face of such ghastly events, one has no choice but to bury the hatchet and move on. Still, I found it surprising to see their smiles.

We’ve recently starting seeking out local markets in search of produce for our meals. My cousin Michael is a chef, so we haggle over the price of fruits and vege then return to the campground for him to work his culinary magic while I play sous chef, slicing and dicing and trying to learn the tricks of the trade. The markets are an experience in themselves; loud, boisterous men trying to hock their various wares, just today I purchased a cheap watch which instead of a second hand flashes the words “I love you” sixty times a minute. Classy. Africa seems to inherit the world’s hand-me-downs – tatty old clothes, worn-out shoes, and toys I remember from my early childhood are proudly displayed as modern technology (Tetris! Sweet!).

Elephants Of The Serengeti

It’s been an odd transition coming to Africa, in many ways it feels like stepping back in time, but at the same time there are a lot of parallels to life in the West. Everyone has cellphones, even those living in mud huts, and a huge proportion of the young men here are dressed in British football team jerseys. Primitive shacks are adorned with huge satellite dishes, yet piped hot water is practically unheard of. Similarly to my experiences in South East Asia a few years back, I find it striking how joyous the people are in these impoverished places; perhaps there is some truth to the old adage that money doesn’t buy happiness. That said, I’m so looking forward to a hot shower, not sleeping in a tent and having regular, fast internet access.

Man I’m a nerd, I miss my internet … bad.

Mark
http://marksteele.co.nz

This post is part of a series:
http://marksteele.co.nz/the-2008-trip/

Cobra The Monkey

Things are definitely turning more Islamic as we head south. The vans emblazoned with Christian messages are gone and we are now treated to Islamic prayers five times a day, thundered across the city from loud speakers high upon the mosques. Both on the island of Zanzibar and the port city of Dar es Salaam the majority of the locals are dressed in Islamic garb and much to our distress, the area is practically dry, it took my cousin Michael and I three hours of walking in the blistering heat to find somewhere to buy a single bottle of whiskey!

Zanzibar is truly paradise. White sand beaches, warm clear water, beach bars with thatched roofs, great diving and scorching sunshine; the affluence and luxury quite a contrast to the Africa we have experienced so far. We spent a week on the island; five nights on the picturesque Kendwa beach in the north of the island, then an additional two in Stone Town, the biggest town on the island. Kendwa was all about the beach. I alternated between the hammock, beach chair and a towel on the sand, and after a stressful day of this to and fro, I’d get a massage right on the beach, listening to the waves roll in while a dark skinned woman kneaded away at my muscles.

Kendwa Beach, Zanzibar

After a very enjoyable, but largely uneventful five nights in Kendwa we went south to Stone Town, which perhaps would be more aptly named ‘Stoner Town’. During our few nights there we were constantly approached by muscular black men trying to flog football shirts, crappy CDs of naff African music and then in hushed tones “marijuana, mary-jane, hashish?”

While strolling around Stone Town, Michael and I met three guys, one of which had a monkey perched nonchalantly on his shoulder. We sat down on a concrete wall overlooking the sparkling blue ocean and talked with the men about their lives on the idyllic paradise that is Zanzibar. It turned out the three were brothers and amongst other things, highly skilled martial artists. They went on to give us a demonstration of the Brazilian martial art Capoeira, while their monkey named Cobra, climbed all over me grooming my body hair with his delicate fingers seemingly in the hopes of finding some tasty lice to eat (unfortunately for him I am totally bug free!).

Tony and I Diving In Zanzibar

I asked the three Tanzanians how they came to know Capoeira and they told us they’d seen two Americans who were visiting Zanzibar practicing on the beach and asked them to show them some moves. After the Americans left there was no one on the small island who could teach them, so they obtained some instructional books and self-taught themselves to the high grade we were seeing now. Having spent so long mastering the art, they have since taken it upon themselves to share the knowledge and enthusiastically give free lessons to the enthralled local children.

As the afternoon drew on, increasingly more and more people showed up until there was a circle of about twenty smiling young men taking turns to do back flips, handstands and to jostle with one another. It was impressive to watch, these guys knew what they were doing and I think it’s remarkable they’ve gone to such effort to learn what they have. Their joy for life was palpable and I can’t help but admire their dedication and persistence to learn, despite being subject to such hardship and poverty.

Stone Town Wanderer

As much as I was enjoying the martial arts show, I have to confess I only stayed as long as I did because I was totally in love with the monkey. He was awesome. Totally awesome. Incredibly awesome. We asked how long they’d had Cobra; three weeks they told us, they’d gone in to the forest one night and stolen him while he was sleeping. While I’m not sure I approve of this practice, after messing around with him all afternoon I can at least understand why they’d go to such lengths. We were so taken in fact, that later that evening while we were puffing away on a shisha pipe at a rooftop bar, Mike and I weighed up the pros and cons of one day escaping to a tropical island ourselves, setting up a beach side bar / dive shop and acquiring some pint-sized primates of our own.

Our mate Tony celebrated his 30th birthday while we were in Stone Town (although ‘celebrated’ is probably the wrong word, ‘lamented’ is probably more accurate). We dined at an outdoor restaurant, feasted on jumbo sized prawns and smoked foreign cigars with imported whiskey. Afterwards, Tony, feeling his advancing years, decided to take his wife and retire for the evening, while Mike and I decided to combine forces with some random Norwegian medical students we met on the street.

One Night In Dar Es Salaam

I’m not sure of the exact statistics, but I would guess that if you are white, under 30 and in Tanzania there is something like a 93.59% chance that you are a medical student – we found them everywhere. So with our new found Doctor-to-be friends, we set up shop in a dark, smoky bar and discussed our reflections on Africa, life, and our thoughts on which is the superior African beer well in to the early hours of the morning (FYI: it’s the Tanzanian Safari and Ugandan Nile Special). Swallowing the dregs of my now-warm beer I announced I was done for the night and left an inebriated Mike to fend for himself whilst I stumbled merrily back to our hotel.

Upon getting back to the hotel, alcohol consumption and exhaustion overwhelmed me and I collapsed in a heap on my bed and promptly fell asleep. Some hours later, I heard a quiet knock on the door. “Hello?”, I inquired, only to find a bereft Mike standing on the other side. Turns out he’d returned to the room a little after me and banged on the door for me to let him in, but got no response. He then banged a little louder, then louder still, then loud enough to wake up the manager upstairs, all the people in the surrounding rooms, Tony and Wendy down the hall – seemingly everyone except for me.

Spiders In Stone Town

The manager then banged the door, Michael banged some more, everyone was shouting trying to rouse me from my slumber, but the long day of drinking had taken its toll and I was well and truly comatose. Accepting defeat, Mike lay down on the tiled corridor floor and tried to fall asleep. After several uncomfortable hours on the hard slate he decided to give the door one last try and it was this time I heard him. Despite my apologies, Michael was fairly unimpressed and to make things worse, I may have inadvertently inflamed the situation when I told him to “stop being such a whinging pussy – just harden up and deal with it.” I always seem to know just the right thing to say.

I once heard someone refer to the Tanzanian city Dar Es Salaam as ‘Dar is a Slum‘. I personally am not sure it’s honestly much different from any of the larger African cities we’ve visited, but our hotel definitely was a dump. Mike and I, each armed with a piece of footwear set about assassinating the legion of cockroaches crawling around inside our room. Big ones, little ones, anything that moved got a wallop with our sandals of doom. Our �window� was actually just a series of CD sized holes leading directly outside to the street and located right above our beds, so any new roaches would drop straight down on to us, one of them literally landing on Mike’s head. Too cheap and too lazy to move hotels, we instead had a midnight rearrange of the furniture in our small room enabling us to hook up our mosquito nets and after tucking them in under the mattress we climbed inside and took happy refuge in our impenetrable, insect proof cocoons.

Camp Cooking With Michael Jones

Now, if we may, let us briefly move on to some more serious topics. Namely, coffee. I won’t claim to be a coffee aficionado, but I definitely enjoy a good cup and along with Michael and Tony we were eagerly awaiting some superior blends from the continent that grows some of the finest beans in all the world. Instead we found they all proudly drink Africafe, a rancid instant coffee which they blend with powdered milk to make a vile, lumpy concoction which admittedly, we chugged back anyway for the sake of caffeine.

So where is all the good coffee? They must export it all to the West I guess. We were in a supermarket back in Nairobi when a girl dressed in Nescafe attire tried to flog us some Nescafe Instant. I shook my head and told her “We’re looking for real coffee”, “Oh, but this is real coffee” she replied. No, my dear. It really isn’t.

We’ve had a rather drastic itinerary change in the last few days, we were going to go to Botswana and Zambia, only Botswana is expensive and Zambian visas were proving inconvenient to obtain, so we’ve now decided to simply abandon the West coast all together. We’re now en route to Malawi and Mozambique before dropping down in to South Africa. Unfortunately, this route change will mean we don’t make it to Victoria Falls, and as much as I was looking forward to seeing the biggest waterfall in the world, I had previously consented to all sorts of foolish nonsense like bungy jumping and gorge swinging while we were there, which I was more than happy to wriggle out of. To further sweeten the deal, Mozambique holds the promise of diving with Whale Sharks, Hump Backs and giant Manta Rays – all of which sound like a much more agreeable way to spend my time.

Eastern White-Bearded Wildebeest

So onwards we go, a little over halfway through the African leg of this trip we now with just under four weeks to go before we depart the continent.

Stay tuned.

Mark
http://marksteele.co.nz

This post is part of a series:
http://marksteele.co.nz/the-2008-trip/

Quad-Biking in Jinja: The Aftermath

I smell. My clothes are covered in dirt. I haven’t shaved in over a month and my beard is caked in grime and dust. Life in Africa is a dirty business. Tony, Wendy, Michael and I, have been on tour with Absolute Africa for the past 25 days, the last week of which we spent on safari in the Masai Mara in Kenya and the Serengeti in Tanzania.

In the day we’ve been cruising around in an open top 4×4, the boys hanging out the roof with cameras and binoculars, the humid wind whipping past our faces, while the girls sit politely below talking about whatever it is that girls talk about. At night we’ve been camping miles from civilization, our tents pitched deep inside the park, a few thin sheets of canvas the only thing protecting us from the creatures lurking in the darkness.

Elephants, lions, rhinos and scores of other animals roam freely over hundreds of square kilometres of open terrain, our guide warning us severely against leaving our tents in the night in case we encounter a hungry predator lurking amongst the tents – this message compounded by the scuffling and grunting we heard outside while curled up warm in our sleeping bags.

African Buffalo

We’ve just arrived in Arusha, Tanzania this morning and it’s here that Tony, Wendy, Michael and I leave our overland tour with Absolute Africa and resume independent travel for the remainder of the African leg of this trip. Our tour with Absolute was terrific, our yellow monster of a truck handled the jarring, potholed roads with ease – although not always to the comfort of its passengers clinging on for dear life inside. The food was delicious; curries, meat and stews – a far cry from the baked beans on toast I was expecting and the guides were knowledgeable, helpful and everything else you would want in a guide. The other people on the truck were great and we spent many happy days and drunken nights exploring and enjoying the continent together. It was with some definite sadness we said our farewells this morning, although not quite ready to say goodbye for good we’ve arranged to rendezvous with the group a few more times over the next few weeks.

It’s been fascinating meeting the people of Africa. I think one of my fellow travellers summed it up best when she said “It’s arrogant to come here and pity their way of life”, which made me realize that’s exactly what I was expecting to do. It’s true that the Africans largely live a basic existence – there are still many tribes that live in their traditional ways and in the cities the public infrastructure definitely isn’t at the same standard as us in the West but this doesn’t seem to affect their quality of life much. All the people I have talked with are friendly, happy and seem optimistic about their future.

In Kenya we visited with a Masai tribe who still live in the same way they have for centuries, their homes are small, dark primitive huts made from sticks, animal dung and reeds. The huts take the whole tribe two months to build and last six years in the harsh desert sun, the dung and reeds fusing together to make a basic waterproof ceiling for the wet season.

Masai Warriors

A Masai chief can take up to seven wives, (which they normally do), and single families swell to up to 70 people and fill an entire settlement which is surrounded by a rudimentary fence to keep lions and hyenas from attacking them and their livestock at night. To find a bride, a young Masai warrior must leave his tribe and walk huge distances to other communities in search of a suitable girl. Upon finding a potential wife the young warrior must offer her family a dowry, traditionally a lion which he has killed, but in modern times with the rise of tourism the government have outlawed the hunting of big cats so the Masai trade goats or cows instead. If I was a young Masai warrior I think I’d be quite pleased with this development, I’m not sure I would fare so well against an angry lion with nothing but a spear to protect me.

Interestingly, Masai children don’t belong to their parents, but to the community as a whole so everyone in the tribe actively participates in raising the young. To enter adulthood the Masai must complete a rite of passage, for the young men this involves being held down and circumcised by the elders of the group, if they move or make a single sound during the ceremony they are deemed unworthy of being Masai men and are cast from the tribe. As delightful as this sounds, I have to confess to being pretty pleased not to be a Masai myself.

Lioness With Her Kill

Tomorrow night we will be leaving Arusha en route to the island of Zanzibar via Dar Es Salaam. Zanzibar is renowned for some of the best scuba diving in the world, so I see a lot days underwater ahead and mojitos on the beach front in the evening.

Anyway, I’m back in the city now so I have no excuse for being so gross. Time to find a shower and put on some clean clothes.

Mark
http://marksteele.co.nz

This post is part of a series:
http://marksteele.co.nz/the-2008-trip/

Mark and Mike At The Ugandan Equator

I’ve never felt so white in all my life. My friends Tony and Wendy, and my cousin Michael and I have now spent roughly a fortnight on African soil and its impossible not to notice how severely our pale flesh stands out amongst the sea of black faces, I feel like a neon sign glowing in the night.

We’ve already adjusted to ‘Africa time’, the ambling pace of life here. Never order food if you have less than an hour to spare and don’t expect your taxi driver to be putting the pedal to the metal any time soon – it’s a little annoying at first but soon enough the warm, humid hours seem to expand and a lethargic relaxation kicks in.

The four of us spent a few nights in the Kenyan capital city Nairobi before venturing to Entebbe, Uganda to join a tour with the company Absolute Africa for three weeks. Nairobi is charmingly nicknamed ‘Nai-robbery’ after the huge amount of street crime that goes on there. After reading dire warnings in the Lonely Planet which were then compounded by the unfortunate tales shared by hostel staff, we nervously made our way in to the city, eyeing suspiciously every thing that moved en route.

Perhaps threatened by our fearsome New Zealand strength, apart from one solitary chap trying to flog a budget safari, we were left completely alone as we hunted the streets for the Ugandan embassy. After a confusing hour looking for the government building we finally found it down an unmarked alley and up a winding staircase where we handed over fifty American dollars, collected our visas and were on our way.

Chimpanzee Grooming

That night, we made our way to the bus station and jumped on a rickety old bus, full of fat African women in bright colours eating and talking at full volume. Within minutes of departing the bus decided to die, prompting some emergency roadside repair by the driver. Finally, after an hour sitting in the darkness the bus rumbled back in to life and we started our bone shuddering overnight bus ride over the horrendous potholed dirt roads to Uganda.

We were thrown violently thrown side to side, up and down in our seats, the air seemingly as often dust as it was oxygen. Tired, grumpy and with a film of sweat and dirt caking my face, it was with great pleasure that after six torturous hours, the road thankfully smoothed out and the heat dropped to a non-sweat inducing temperature allowing us all to get some much needed shut-eye. Having donned my ever fashionable eye mask, bright yellow ear plugs and inflatable neck pillow I drifted off in to an uncomfortable sleep only to be roused sometime after by an angry militant sporting a Russian machine gun. After kicking us all of the bus, bleary eyed at 4 o’clock in the morning, we were given not one, but two rough friskings on the road side by the Ugandan police, before being allowed to return to our seats and resume our restless slumber.

After nearly sixteen hours on the bus we arrived the following morning in the Ugandan capital Kampala. After waiting an age for them to release our packs from customs we jumped on a crammed mini-van which then took us another couple of hours to the small town of Entebbe, where we met our huge yellow Absolute truck and thankfully completed our current adventures on public transport.

The following morning, after an evening of getting acquainted with out fellow passengers (coincidentally almost half of which are Kiwi) we took a two hour boat ride across the choppy Lake Victoria to visit a chimpanzee sanctuary. Encompassing an entire island, the refuge now provides a safe home for sick or at risk chimps which are rescued from the jungle and brought here before eventually being re-released back in to the wild. Chimps, being 99% similar to humans in DNA are susceptible to many human diseases so the remote location of the island protects the chimpanzees from our illnesses, but also from people who are out to kidnap them for zoos and private collections around the world.

Baby Gorilla

The chimps are fed by sanctuary staff five times a day, one of these feedings we were fortunate to be able to watch. We were led to a wooden viewing platform perched high above a wire fence which surrounds the dense jungle. With loud squeals and much stomping the chimps made their way down to feast on the fruits lobbed towards them by their keepers, squabbling and fighting which each other the whole time. From their physical appearance to their behaviour and interactions with each another it’s easy to see the genetic similarities with us homo sapiens – it’s kind of creepy to be honest.

It’s now been a few weeks since we met our big yellow truck and we’ve since driven countless bumpy miles, visited three African countries, seen chimpanzees, monkeys, gorillas, lions and scores of tiny black children in ragged clothes bouncing up and down, waving excitedly at us perched high up in our vehicle as we thunder through their small villages.

Christianity undoubtedly has a very strong foothold here, people merrily walk around toting Bibles in hats proclaiming their love for the Lord and vehicles everywhere are sign-written sporting Bible verses and slogans like “No Jesus, No Life – Know Jesus, Know Life”. Preachers enthusiastically evangelise on public buses, working themselves in to a frenzy of excitement, their arms flailing and their voice booming with the power of the Lord – much to the mirth of my heathen self.

Absolute Africa Crew

We spent a few nights in Ruhengeri, a small Rwandan town, which is evidently a little off the usual tourist track – both adults and children alike stared openly at our alien pink skin as we wandered around buying groceries. I waved at one little girl on the street side which sent her scurrying frightfully to hide behind her mother, one cautious eye peeping out at me from behind her protectors leg.

The highlight of the trip thus far was easily the visit to the Volcanos National Park in Rwanda. After hiking through the dense forest with our trousers fashionably tucked in to our socks to protect us from the vicious fire ants, we visited a family of 27 gorillas living wild on the side of a volcano. I was expecting to view the primates from afar, but we soon found ourselves right in the middle of them all.

The gorilla family was composed of mainly adolescent and adult gorillas plus two babies and four super size Silverback gorillas, all of which seemed completely unperturbed by our presence. Standing off to the side of a narrow path in the muggy forest, we watched in awe as the gorillas climbed trees and then stormed past us in a cacophony of screams and chest beating. Once, with me at the rear of our group, we were following the gorillas up a narrow path through the heavy growth when I turned slightly and out of the corner of my eye caught a glimpse of something black behind me. I turned around to find just a metre behind me a quarter-ton Silverback idly watching me amble up the path.

Gorilla

Our guide had reassuringly warned us earlier on that running from a gorilla will only cause it to chase and beat you, so with my heart suddenly beating at a thousand beats a second I tried to slide slowly out of the way, my foot creeping back inch by inch. Suddenly the monstrous beast howled and charged forward sending me careening backward in to a bush as he crashed his way up the path, leaving the ground shaking in his wake.

Having left Rwanda we’re now camped out in Jinja, a small Ugandan town where I’m presently sitting with my laptop overlooking the river Nile, sipping a cold beer. We’re less than two weeks through the nine we are spending on the continent, so there is still plenty of time ahead. We part ways with the tour group in a little over a week, but not before doing two safaris through both the Serengeti and Masai Mara where we’ve already been warned about leaving our tents during the night in case we encounter Hippos or Elephants while doing our business.

After resuming independent travel, the four of us are going to slow the pace right down and spend a week or two diving off the coast of Tanzania and Zanzibar before continuing our journey south.

Stay tuned.

Mark
http://marksteele.co.nz

Snow Storm at the Perlan Musuem - Reykjavik , Iceland

Particles of ice and snow stung my face. Shivering, I drew the drawstring tight on my hoodie and sneered in to the cold night.

Iceland – the land of murderous Vikings, ferocious geysers and dark bleak winters. Staring out the taxi windows at the overturned cars buried under a foot of snow lining the streets, I suddenly became acutely aware of the ominous slide of our own vehicle as we drove the icy roads. From my perch in front of the hot air vent, I glared at our Kaiser-Chiefs-humming driver who seemed blissfully unaware of our loss of traction, or the concerns of his six foreign passengers holding on tightly in the back. Davíð Stefánsson, the Icelandic poet, once said, “Það er löng leið frá Íslandi til Himnaríkis” or “It is a long road from Iceland to Heaven.” I was starting to have similar thoughts of my own.

Iceland sits high upon the world, just inside the Arctic Circle to the east of Southern Greenland. The island nation was spewed forth from between the North American and European continents, high atop the Atlantic ridge. This locale proves both a blessing and a curse for Iceland’s residents. Considerable geothermic activity in the area provides cheap electricity and much needed heating in the long winters but unfortunately, like all areas with high volcanic activity, eruptions can happen with disastrous effects, such as the explosion of the volcanic fissure Laki in the eighteenth century which wiped out a quarter of the population.

The Crew (L to R): Nick, Rach, Tony, Wendy, Me & Chris

Despite Iceland’s extensive infrastructure in place to take advantage of volcanic and geothermic energy the population still emits ten tonnes of CO2 equivalent greenhouses per capita, which is higher than that of France or Spain. Personal automobiles contribute significantly to this figure so the introduction of hydrogen fuel to filling stations may have a positive impact on this figure in the future. Presently Iceland is one of only a few countries currently capable of producing hydrogen for purposes such as this in adequate quantities at reasonable cost.

Most of Iceland is uninhabited and is largely classified as wasteland; most of the 300,000 residents live in or in the immediate vicinity of the capital city Reykjavik. This lack of natural resources hindered Iceland’s growth during the industrial era, but in recent years thanks to Iceland’s rapid adoption of technology the country has rocketed from one of the poorest countries in Europe to the fourth most productive country in the world behind Qatar and ahead of Ireland in nominal gross domestic product per capita. In 1999 82.3% of Icelanders had access to a computer and they had the highest rate of connection to the internet per capita in the entire world. Mobile phone subscriptions outnumber residents 1007 to 1000.

My friends and I traveled on a £210 package deal with IcelandAir including return flights from London Heathrow, a Northern Lights Tour and accommodation at the rustic sounding Cabin Hotel. While the hotel was adequate and certainly a step up from the hostels I would usually frequent, it had more in common with an office block than the romantic wooden lodges I had envisioned – except for perhaps the diminutive size of the rooms and slight mustiness of a place that doesn’t get its windows opened very often, although perhaps this is not surprising considering the ferocity of the Arctic winds blowing on the other side of the glass.

Icy Waterfall - Reykjavik, Iceland

Leaving our hotel in the morning, within seconds of stepping out in to the blustery weather my choice of attire proved woefully inadequate. My ears stung relentlessly and my toes rapidly went from numb to excruciating. At the risk of stating the painfully obvious, Iceland is very cold – and I was drastically under prepared. After forking out over kr17,000 (US$220) for the cheapest pair of boots I could find, I learned an important lesson – no matter how much traveling experience you may think you have, don’t ever skip basic research and preparation, even if it is just for a weekend trip.

Somewhat poorer, but now at least with my feet toasty and warm, my friends and I set out for Hallgrímskirkja, Iceland’s largest church. Opened in 1986 Hallgrímskirkja is the fourth tallest building in the country and the observation deck, 80m above ground level, is an excellent vantage point to survey the city of Reykjavik sprawling out around you. Glancing up, I noticed the icicles hanging above our heads quivering threateningly in the wind. Preferring to avoid the possibility of being impaled by falling ice we took a short bus ride and arrived near The Perlan, home to four vast silver-domed warm water tanks and the Saga Museum which displays a fine exhibit with audio tour outlining Iceland’s tumultuous history.

Trudging our way through the deep snow up toward the building we were caught suddenly in a flash snow storm. Visibility dropped to just metres and we got pelted with jagged flecks of ice biting at every millimeter of exposed flesh. I tried to run, but was going nowhere fast in the thigh deep snow. I was starting to get a feel for the reality of everyday life for the inhabitants of this barren outpost.

Hallgrímskirkja - Reykjavik, Iceland

The silicone characters in the Saga Museum are taken from casts of real people and look eerily realistic; you almost expect some of them to start moving much like a street performer holding a pose for tourists. The exhibit shows some of the pivotal points in Icelandic history, from Sister Katrín being burned at the stake for witchcraft, to Freydís Eiríksdóttir taking a stand against Native Americans in Vínland by menacingly holding a sword to her exposed breast.

In centuries, Icelandic language has changed little from its original Norse roots. Heavy in grammatical inflection, having three genders, and with nouns, adjectives and pronouns declined in four cases, Icelandic is a fearfully hard language to learn. Despite this a little over 30,000 or 13.5% of the Icelandic population was comprised of people born abroad, with the Poles making up the largest minority nationality. The Icelandic themselves are a mix of Nordic and Celtic origin, supposedly due to the Vikings taking women from surrounding countries and bringing them back, largely by force, to the island.

David, an Ex-Brit, now full time Icelandic citizen, collected us in a sizeable van the next morning and we set off for regional Iceland. Hampered by mountainous snow drifts and high winds we plodded along behind a grader clearing the snow from the one and only road connecting Reykjavik with the surrounding territory. As we got over the mountain range and back down in to lower altitudes the weather thankfully cleared up considerably allowing us for the first time to truly appreciate and immerse ourselves in the unique landscape. High mountain clefts and rolling white lowlands spread for as far as the eye could see. Glowing greenhouses dotted the landscape; all powered by geothermic energy, explained our guide.

Dark Water

During a lull in our guide’s commentary I slipped my headphones in to my ears and turned up the music of the Icelandic group Sigur Rós. Long have I been a fan of their music, but now being in their home land I could truly appreciate how their haunting, ethereal sound captures so well the natural beauty of the Icelandic landscape. (Side note: If you’ve never heard any Sigur Rós, go buy their album “A Taste Of Sigur Rós” – now.)

After a long day of touring the Golden Circle, visiting the mighty waterfall Gullfoss and the ‘Geysir’, a large geyser (and the origin of the English word), we retired back to our hotel with a new found appreciation for this frozen country. There is something strangely becoming about the miles and miles of snow, the forbidding geography and the multiple layers of outdoor clothing one must don before braving the elements. Having spent so much of my life surrounded by concrete and glass, I found the rawness of Iceland deeply invigorating.

I would love to return to Iceland during their nightless summer months and explore the island more on foot, something I was not nearly brave enough to attempt on this trip. I think it’s debatable as to what the best time of year is to visit; the winter is intense and spectacular, and also the time you are most likely to see the dancing Northern Lights. In the summer, however, the snow is gone and the temperature is at a more human-friendly level, making it a much less daunting task to those wishing to put on their hiking boots and get off the beaten track.

Alleyway - Reykjavik, Iceland

Alas, the weather gods were not kind to us during our brief stay in Iceland. Our Northern Lights tour was canceled every night due to dense cloud and snow storms. Our visit to the picturesque Blue Lagoon was likewise a miserable experience thanks to the gale force winds and sub-zero temperatures. Despite this, my friends and I reveled in the hostile weather conditions; it’s amazing how fast a group of supposedly ‘mature adults’ reverts back to being children when the world is covered in snow. Never in my life have I thrown, or been victim to, so many flying snowballs.

As I stared out the airport window at the snow falling from the dark sky I could understand why many of the original settlers to Iceland left again shortly after arriving; in the days before electricity and modern technology life here must have been incredibly difficult.

Contemplating this, sipping my piping hot cappuccino in the heated bliss of the airport, it seems remarkable to me just how far we have come since those rough, primitive days of humanity. Thankful I didn’t have a long and arduous journey across the seas ahead of me like the Vikings of so long ago, I ambled towards the air conditioned comfort of the airplane and for the first time in my life, I looked forward to the ‘warm’ temperatures of England.

Photos: http://flickr.com/photos/marksteele/sets/72157603821925652/