Above it all

Gee, thanks, phone - nice lockdown timing. Today's photo memory is from six years ago, when I visited Machu Picchu and came across the Google maps man with his fancy camera. I'm not in the real view of the site that's online now, so maybe it's been updated - though that seems a bit unnecessary, for something built in the middle of the fifteenth century, and celebrated for its historic good looks.

I felt I'd cheated, getting there by bus from Aguas Calientes (though, my goodness, there are 14 very sharp zigzags on that road) and felt it necessary to share with everyone in my tour group that it was actually my second visit, the first being done properly in (pre-blog) 2008, via the Inca Trail. I did also properly cheat, by borrowing the US passport of a busty Hispanic woman (thank you, Colleen) in order to use her unwanted booking for climbing up next-door Huayna Picchu. That's it in the photo behind camera-man. Obviously, the men at the gate didn't check, so my passport fraud went unmarked - and unpunished.

The summit is only 290m above Machu Picchu, which doesn't sound that much - but boy! it was steep, with lots of steps and rocks to scramble over, a tunnel to crawl through, plus it was hot, and there was altitude (2,720m) to consider too. There was sweating, and fogging-up of glasses. I was proud to have done it, though, and the view of course was terrific, over Machu Picchu itself so far below, and the surrounding mountains.

I did the return trip - despite the after-effects of a bout of Montezuma's revenge - in two hours, which was a bit rushed really (three is the standard recommendation) but I didn't want to miss another chance to wander round Machu Picchu on my own, after our morning tour. It's so amazing. The rocks are so neatly fitted together (the ashlar technique) and, incredibly, were pushed up to the mountain top to build the temple, observatory, baths, houses etc. That would have involved proper sweating, for sure. I did get distracted by the animals, though - not just llamas grazing on the neat lawns, but fat chinchillas squatting on the walls watching us. Very cute.

So actually, thanks, phone. I did enjoy being reminded of all that. Even if it now seems like another world. 

Essential purchase

Satisfying links today. Cast your mind back, regular 😀 reader, to the very end of 2017, when I was in Buenos Aires en route to Ushuaia for an Antarctica cruise over Christmas and the New Year. The day after I arrived, I got up earlyish and headed off to the Sunday Market at San Telmo. It was lovely - pleasantly busy with locals as well as tourists like me, safe, colourful and interestingly varied. I was especially taken by the stall selling saddlery, and the man festooned with feather dusters. One other stall that I was particularly drawn to had a display of colourful lace-up shoes, trimmed with traditional brightly-patterned fabrics. I wanted some, but they didn't have my size.

Move forward three and a half years, and umpteen kilometres to the Saturday market here on Waiheke. What do I find, as I wander around with my coffee? Only those same style shoes, except boots this time, made in Peru, displayed on a stall run by Clara, a friendly young woman from Grenada. She had my size so, clearly, it was meant to be. I bought them - or, rather, took them away with me, to pay for online later from home, at Clara's suggestion.

And then I went back to my car to pick up my shopping bag to go to the supermarket. My big Silversea shopping bag. It was a Silversea cruise I'd been in Buenos Aires en route to. On which, amongst many, many other delights, I was pleased to meet again my favourite Silversea staff member, wine waitress Miriam. Who is from Peru.

To be not disappointed

 Although I had two pages in the Sunday Star-Times travel section all to myself yesterday, the triumph was somewhat mitigated by the cover story being about the Southern Lights flight. This is a special organised by Viva Expeditions with Air NZ, to fly from (and back to) Christchurch in a Dreamliner on a 10-hour search for the aurora australis. The plane flies in the dramatically-named stealth mode, all external lights off, internal too, so everyone's eyes can adjust and fully appreciate the aurora.

They found the lights quite quickly, and they were pretty spectacular, according to the photos and video. But - and this is a HUGE but - not according to most passengers' actual eyes. The trouble is, our eyes, and especially older eyes, aren't very good at picking up the colours, so what almost everyone saw were swirls of white - the green and pink only showed up via cameras.

Now I would have found that deeply disappointing, to put it mildly. Seeing the aurora is one of my top wants, but to pay all that money, fly all that way and only see white? Nah, Instagram has spoiled me for that. I want proper colour, end of. And if I have to go to Finland, or Norway, or Alaska for my chance to see it, well, that's just icing on the cake. Or actual ice. Whatever. Even if it turns out my eyes can't do the business, at least I've been somewhere interesting and not just been squashed into a plane for ten hours, flying from A to A.

Travel should not be about disappointment, especially when it involves world-famous spectacles or landmarks. I'm happy to report that right up there with cast-iron guarantees of satisfaction (for the locations, tourist throngs notwithstanding) are the Taj Mahal, Machu Picchu, the Galapagos Islands, Easter Island's moai, the Eiffel Tower and Tower Bridge. There are lots of others. As further proof, most of those listed I've been to more than once, and been 98% thrilled to see them again. And, for today's connection, two of those - Machu Picchu and Galapagos - I visited the second time courtesy of Viva Expeditions. Thanks, Rachel.

All hail the travel agent

I hate this woman. Or, rather, I hate the TV ad that this actress appears in so much that I can't grab the remote fast enough to mute her whiny voice. What is even more alienating than that though, is what she's saying, which is dissing travel agents for being lazy, ignorant and incompetent, unable to access flight information that this clever woman can use WebJet to discover instantly.

I think travel agents are wonderful. To be able, as they do, to bring together so much disparate knowledge about places literally all over the world, from nuts and bolts to aspiration/inspiration, tailor it to the client, organise it all into a simple format, and then be there as back-up in case of unpredictable hiccups or even out-and-out disasters - well, that's so very admirable. I've worked with both high-end operations, like World Journeys, World Expeditions and Adventure World, as well as your literal high-street outlet like House of Travel, and have been impressed every time.

This year, for example, it was Marlene at Adventure World who put me in a place and at a time to experience the entire year's most unforgettable moment: standing just metres away from a wild elephant which was straddling the path between the restaurant and the bar at Royal Zambezi lodge in Zambia - a country I'd never even thought of visiting, until she slipped it into my South Africa itinerary.

Travel agents have in the recent past taken me effortlessly to Galapagos, Easter Island, Kakadu, Iguassu Falls, Machu Picchu: the travel so enjoyable because it was so stress-free. I knew I was in the hands of experts, and that everything would go smoothly. And it did.

Compare that with the trips I did this year that were DIY. They were only around NZ and to Tahiti and Hawaii, but the time and effort it took to piece them together, coupled with my perpetual mistrust in the value and workability of the final itinerary really did suck away a lot of the enjoyment of the trips. Instead of being proud of having done it all ourselves, I was suspicious of how much better - and, yes, more cheaply - it all might have been, if done with more inside knowledge and expertise.

So, out of this year's trips - horse-riding the Coromandel Peninsula, self-driving around New Zealand, ditto with exponentially higher stress levels in Louisiana, attending a conference in New Orleans, swanning through South Africa (and Zambia), sunning myself in Tahiti, swimming in Hawaii - it was the ones that were sorted by travel agents that were by far the most satisfying and the most fun. Suck on that, WebJet.

Traveller, beware! Or not.

You would think that, in a city of just 1.5 million, it wouldn't be hugely unusual to see a photo of someone I know in our local newspaper - but I can't actually remember it ever happening before. Now it has, though. And you know who it turned out to be? Only a man I met on the Amazon River in Peru. How bizarre is that?

Somewhat belatedly, the NZ Herald has published a story about a pirate invasion of a riverboat in which a couple of Kiwis were amongst the guests threatened with violence back in July. It all ended well - if you can call losing all your money, valuables and electronica, and the abortion of the cruise, ending well. Nobody died; though Denis, I'm sorry to say, got whacked a few times.

What makes this an especially fascinating connection for me is that the riverboat was one owned by Delfin, the company I cruised with, on the same route that I did, out of Iquitos. This attack absolutely could have happened on my cruise, which is a possibility I never gave a moment's thought to (despite one of New Zealand's great modern heroes, Sir Peter Blake, being killed by pirates on the same river near Manaus). I did know, of course, that Iquitos is a dodgy city, and was happy to be under escort all the time I was there; but once I was on board the Delfin II, this sort of danger didn't occur to me once. I was much more concerned about piranhas and tarantulas, quite honestly.

Ignorance is such bliss. I did actually know, before we arrived recently at the lovely Fugitives' Drift lodge in South Africa for what was assuredly one of the highlights of the whole visit, that David Rattray, the original owner and founder of the operation, had been murdered there by intruders armed with guns. That was more than 9 years ago, though; and when we arrived, it was to razor wire fencing around the grounds, and a 24-hour guard on the gate so, as far as I thought about it, which was fleetingly, I felt perfectly safe. 

What I didn't know, until I got back home, was that another esteemed guide, Robert Gerrard, who had worked there for 20 years, had been horribly attacked by armed invaders in his home nearby in February this year. He never recovered from his injuries, and died in hospital the day after we arrived at the lodge. Of course, nobody mentioned it, although the staff must all have been shocked and sad.

So, what conclusions are to be drawn here? Nothing new. Risky places have that reputation for a reason. Most of the time you're lucky, sometimes you're not. Bad stuff can happen anywhere. Not going to these places means missing out on things you'll remember forever, for all the right reasons. Keep your fingers crossed - but keep travelling,

Wai the heke not?

I've swapped green for blue: it's been a distinctly watery year. Mostly, it's been the sea, as I've trailed back and forth across the Hauraki Gulf here to Waiheke Island, and cruised various coasts in the Pacific and Indian Oceans and the Mediterranean and Timor Seas; but I've also pootled along the Seine, various headwaters of the Amazon, and the Grand Union Canal. It's a bit of a puzzle how I've done so much cruising this year, since it's not something I've sought out; but as it's such a huge part of the tourism industry these days, I suppose it's not to be wondered at - or complained about, certainly. It's hardly a penance.

First this year there was the Sculpture by the Sea exhibition in Perth, where the warm blue Indian Ocean was the backdrop for some spectacular works of art, and hissed up onto the sandy beaches of Rottnest Island, notable for its cute and grinning quokkas.

Two weeks later, I was back in Western Australia again for a Kimberley cruise along the north-west tip: blue sea, green bush, orange rocks. There were Aboriginal paintings, waterfalls (two of them Horizontal), a swimming hole, reefs, fishing and a 6-hour lightning spectacular, all of it underpinned by comfort and excellent food on the Kimberley Quest. And not one crocodile!

Next came Turkey, and the Anzac Day centenary commemorations at Gallipoli, where the literally dark Aegean lapped onto the pebbled beach of Anzac Cove, a sound amplified during quiet moments throughout the night before the Dawn Service, and forever after inescapably evocative. There was Istanbul too, many trips up and down Istiklal Caddesi, muezzin calling, a forest of fishing rods on Galata Bridge, cheerful touts in the Grand Bazaar... And the ruins of Troy, cats draped over the marble at Ephesus, a hundred hot-air balloons at dawn and sunset over the outcrops of Cappadocia, twirling Dervishes, Ataturk everywhere, and Barcin throughout, telling the stories.

Then there was an elegant and eminently civilised cruise along the Seine into Normandy, notable for cheese, cream and cider, another 6-hour effort (a rice pudding this time), comfort and luxury aboard Avalon's Tapestry II, and good company throughout. Also the inexhaustible Quan, and the Pet Cemetery which was, in its way, more memorable even than Versailles, which I finally got to visit just the 37 years after first trying.

After that I learned how to steer a 16m narrowboat through a single lock gate and hold it steady as the water rushed in, and how to shrug off bumps and scrapes as part of the canal-boater's lot. England was green and gold and lovely, fringed with poppies and full of birds. And pubs. With old friends, it was a rare holiday rather than work.

That came next, busily hopping through Peru and Ecuador, revisiting landmarks like Machu Picchu and Galapagos but with the diversions (heaven forbid these places should become ho-hum) of passport fraud at Huayna Picchu, catching piranhas, spotting pink dolphins and patting manatees in the Amazon, Cotopaxi spitting clouds of grey ash, and seeing water-walking seabirds and military-style gannet diving displays in Galapagos.

Then there was Istanbul again, departure port for a Silversea cruise that started dull but got good (ports, that is - onboard was just lovely, as always) especially at Rhodes and Mykonos - but even they were trounced by Santorini's blue domes. Even so, the most memorable meal was in unpretentious Piraeus: a Greek salad and prawns at a back-street family restaurant - a reminder that, despite all the imaginatively-presented, visually stunning and delicious feasts I was served everywhere, simplicity is hard to beat.

Finally, the shortest and most momentous journey of them all: 35 minutes across Auckland harbour to a new home, where the sea is always present, always different, always a plus. I could have stayed at the old place, home for 21 years - but when Conde Nast's world's fourth-best island and Lonely Planet's global fifth-best destination is so close, well, Wai the heke not move there?

Love and death

After a morning working industriously, I took a city tour of Lima in the afternoon. It's something I've done before, but it was arranged and the only option was to wander around on my own. That's something I've done before too, blissful in my ignorance of what was actually a fairly dodgy thing to do, since I strayed well outside the affluent district of Miraflores. Having been sternly warned in Iquitos - Iquitos! - about how dangerous Lima is, I came over feeble an allowed myself to be guided by Jean Carlos.

So we started, as usual, at the Park of Love on the edge of the cliff looking down at the surf rolling in from the Pacific, and up at the microlight pilots suddenly blotting out the sunshine as they passed along the edge.  Yes, sunshine! It's unusual in Lima at this (or any) time of year - it's a grey and foggy place normally, which explains the brightly painted buildings throughout the city. It's also amazingly dry - never rains. Well, only 15mm a year, which is pretty much the same thing. The love-lock thing, by the way, seems scarcely to have started here, with just two lonely padlocks on the nearby railings.

Leaving the, frankly, ugly huge statue of two lovers, we drove past Huaca Pallaya, a very much pre-Inca pyramid of mud-brick blocks; and through San Isidro, a blatantly affluent suburb of olive-tree parks, high walls and video surveillance of the mock-Tudor and French-style homes. Then, as a contrast, past Victoria where no rules apply and you can get anything for a (low) price; and into the colonial centre.

Here are squares with fountains and statues surrounded by stately government buildings, the cathedral, churches and people, lots of people including a highly visible, if somewhat bored-looking,  security presence. San Francisco church is obligatory: cloisters, oil paintings, ornate gold-leaf altar and shrines, one of them to the Virgin Mary as a baby. Up above the altar the statue of St Francis is accompanied by a dog, an egret and a mouse, which seems pleasantly even-handed - though he also holds a skull.

Down below are plenty more in the catacombs, thousands of bodies now neatly arranged into bins of femurs, skulls and humerus, sometimes in patterns. Quite bizarre.

And that was Lima, and Peru. Tonight an 11.50pm flight takes me north to Quito.

Goodbye to the Delfin II

It was our last morning on the Delfin II and it started as all the others have: by waking up to a red sun rising over the river, dolphins and people already fishing, and the skiffs waiting to take us on another excursion to spot more birds, and another attempt to pin down a rufous kingfisher in a photo - or, failing that, any other obliging bird.

After breakfast there was something different: up another side river were ponds full of giant water lilies, over a metre across with raised edges, some of them with big white flowers. Impressive, even if the water was stagnant – they don’t like movement.

Across the river was the settlement of Puerto Miguel, where the women make all the dyed straw woven creatures that have been decorating the dining tables on the boat during the cruise, and our bedroom pets (mine has been a large pink and green praying mantis – so much more preferable than the room next to mine, which I saw today has been graced by a huge black tarantula). First though I wandered round the village, where kids were playing boldly (one boy I didn’t see apparently running around with a live snake curled round his neck) or hiding shyly, men were having their hair cut, people swung lazily in hammocks, and sad dogs scratched or struggled. A chicken perched on a wooden grave cross, a fat duck ate a frog, roosters crowed, and modern Western pop music blared incongruously from a wooden hut while Chinese outboard motors made a loud clatter along the water.

Back on board, there was a pisco sour toast where the Marañón and Ucayali Rivers joined to form what Peruvians consider to be the start of the Amazon (don’t ask the Brazilians what they think), 4000km from the sea. Then, at Nauta, we left the Delfin II for the last time and returned to Iquitos, stopping off at a wildlife sanctuary for a too-quick visit to some rescued manatees, slotting water lettuce leaves into their soft, whiskery muzzles. Lovely, gentle creatures, they are killed for food by the jungle people; but they are being educated not to.

With time to fill in before our flights, the Delfin people sent two of us on a city tour. Iquitos has 600,000 inhabitants and in the rubber boom years of 1880-1920 was awash with money, but now it’s much decayed, the Portuguese glazed tiles on the outside of colonial buildings cracked and dirty, the streets rowdy with thousands of motorbikes and motorbike taxis, litter in the broken gutters, people everywhere on the streets, graffiti scrawled on the lime-green, orange and turquoise-painted walls, and large areas apparently under water in the wet season. 

Even Gustave Eiffel's building here - made, it seemed, entirely out of metal - looked down-at-heel; but out on the river at the floating restaurant with its floating swimming pool and cooling breeze, it was really very pleasant, and the food was good. And Edward, met on the return ferry trip, was friendly and welcoming. It's an odd place, though: a real frontier town with, to me, an unsafe feel, but certainly with its own particular buzz. Where else would you see a unicyclist juggling three pretend machetes in the middle of the road, holding up a block's-worth of motorcycle traffic on a Sunday night?

Oh, and El Condor Pasa, naturally

No, sorry, it was today that was properly teeming. We set off early with our togs on under our clothes and went up the Pacaya River into the Pacaya Samiria Reserve, a huge wetland, biggest reserve in South America, that’s heaving with creatures. There were birds for Africa, if you see what I mean, including a tall jabiru which was trying to swallow a too-big fish that threatened to choke it.

Then we found a pod of pink dolphins also busily feeding, popping above water much less than their marine equivalents, clearly pink in the glimpses we got of them. There was a flock of ungainly hoatzins, like startled chickens with Mohicans, blundering about in a tree overhanging the river. Cormorants, the rabbits of the river, flew straight ahead of the boat, not thinking to turn aside; flocks of green parakeets flew overhead. There were even troupes of spider monkeys, moving fast through the trees.

We breakfasted in the skiffs moored under a big fig tree, served fruit, sandwiches and pastries on woven mats and colourful plates, with glasses of juice and cups of coffees. Even the woven straw decorations weren’t forgotten, tied around the serviettes. Delfin II is style all the way.

And then we got to the lake, where we were assured there were no piranhas or caimans, and most of us leaped in, waving aside the proffered noodles until discovering, almost immediately, how much hard work it is to stay afloat in warm, fresh water; after which we all wrapped them around us and  wallowed with great pleasure in the tannin-stained water.

Then, of course, five minutes after getting back into the boats, we found caimans – not big, but still caimans. No matter, we were pleased to have another photo opportunity. Then we worked on catching a shot of the turtles sunbathing on logs, as we returned to the Delfin II for a “mandatory pre-lunch nap” according to Juan Luís. The rest of the day was equally dedicated to R&R, even the evening skiff excursion a mellow affair centred mainly on the sunset across the water.

After dinner things changed suddenly though: the staff put on a concert of remarkable talent and energy, room attendant Jose the star with his guitar/Pan pipes combo as well as vocals, Pedro the waiter showing great facility with his guitar, the chef turning out in a revealing jungle outfit, and even the captain, warming up on percussion, suddenly finding his mojo and leaping into the spotlight with some very lively dancing. It was fun – and yes, the programme did include ‘Guantanamera’. Of course - what did you expect?

Sharp eyes

Now, this morning, there was teeming. Masses of birds, everywhere, as we glided along a side-river in the skiff; fish jumping out of the water; an actual 3-toed sloth hanging upside down high in a tree; and caimans (caimen?).

These were youngsters, lying low in the water, unblinking, hoping to be left alone; but one, almost a metre long, was scooped up for a photo shoot. Smooth, soft and wet, it lay passively in our hands, no doubt hoping for the best – and it was back in the water just a few minutes later as we continued on our little expedition.

We passed a village of thatched wooden huts on stilts, the women washing dishes in the river, the men untangling catfish from their nets as they sat in dugout canoes, a gaggle of kids standing bare-footed on the muddy bank, staring back at us. There’s not much in the way of education in the jungle.

And then we did some fishing for piranha: bits of tenderloin (nothing but the best) on hooks on bamboo poles, dropped into the brown water and, mostly, pulled out again empty just seconds later. I wondered if it would be more effective to stick a finger in there – but then Juan Luís showed us the large scar on his thumb. Someone else caught one, less than 15cm long, orange and white, and it fell into her backpack. When Luís pulled it out, it had a torn piece of the bag lining in its jaws, its tiny white triangular teeth clamped down hard on the nylon.

I eventually caught a couple, plus a tiny silver angelfish, and we took some back to the boat to eat with our lunch (so much more preferable than the other way around) – they’re actually quite tasty, though the white flesh is very bony.

In the afternoon we set off again on another – well, it’s hard not to call it a game drive, because that’s just what it was, everyone with their eyes peeled trying to be best spotter, but no-one better than the guide and the driver who were quite simply astonishing. How on earth are they able to spot something as well camouflaged as a potoo, which looks exactly like a broken branch, as they’re skimming along the river 75m away at about 25km/h? Phenomenal.

But spot things they did: a three-toed sloth moving branches in cliché slo-mo; a troupe of squirrel monkeys; a single monk saki monkey; a spectacled caiman. It was very impressive, and lots of fun too – especially the catching of the caiman – and just super-pleasant, to be gliding along with all this exotic scenery and wildlife passing by. Excellent work, Delfin II!