The Finest Walk in the World

The Milford Track in all its glory:

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150394870418120.380166.510568119&type=1&l=c42a12bf46

For those of you who don't know, Rich is a bit of a fan of epic hikes (and by epic I mean 2,000 miles plus...) So after almost 18 months of travelling with him I knew that sooner or later an epic hike would be on the cards. Fortunately for me, the route of choice was epic in terms of its scenery and reputation rather than it's length - although at 4 full days it was still no mean feat for my, well, feet.

The Milford Track has been dubbed "the finest walk in the world." I haven't done that many walks (in the world or otherwise) to compare it to but as you can see from my photographic efforts above, it is pretty darn fine. A heady blend of rainforest, mountains, fjords and forests; the scenery we ambled through was breathtaking. The hike took 4 days, the first of which, at only 1.5 hours, lulled me into a false sense of security with it's shortness and flatness. Day two, although a longer 6 hour hike, was similarly unchallenging with glorious views of mountains and fjords and only a spot of drizzle and short climb at the end of the day to test us. Day three was a different story. We'd been promised a tough but relatively short climb from the hut to the top of McKinnon pass. Two hours of constant uphill on zig zagging paths later I was delighted to reach the top and the breathtaking views we'd been promised. It was amazing, with 360 degree panoramas across Fjordland and a toilet with arguably the best view in the world (see photos). Unfortunately, it was also so windy at the top of the pass that it was impossible to spend more than 30 seconds outside without succumbing to hypothermia or being blown unceremoniously off the edge of the mountain and into the 12 second drop to the bottom. Luckily for us the ranger at Mintaro hut had supplied us with cheese scones with which to bribe the rangers at the summit hut, thereby securing ourselves a well earned cup of tea.

Having dragged self and rucksack to the 1069m high summit I was quite looking forward to a leisurely downhill stroll to the bottom. Silly, silly me. The usual route down, which in itself was described as the toughest stretch of the hike, was closed due to avalanches and replaced by the "emergency" track. Unsurprisingly, this route was somewhat less well maintained, and involved scrambling unceremoniously down rocky, uneven stretches of track, clambering over boulders and navigating networks of low hanging tree branches, all to the ominous soundtrack of rumbling avalanches somewhere overhead. I don't think I've ever spent so long going constantly downhill. By the end, my legs had actually stopped working and rest breaks were threatening to outnumber the short bursts of walking. Even the sight of the rare blue duck, a prized achievement for Milford Track hikers, was viewed by me as nothing more than the opportunity to stand still for a couple of minutes to take a photograph. Never has a thin plastic mattress and a rickety bunk bed been greeted with such joy.

Anyone hoping to hike the Milford Track needs to plan ahead, as only 90 hikers are allowed to start the trail each day in peak season, all must hike northward and spend a night at each of the 3 DOC huts along the route (camping is not allowed). The huts are basic - bunk beds in dorm rooms and a few stoves in the kitchen and you need to carry your own food and bedding. Most people had stocked up on pouches of dehydrated chicken chasseur and beef stroganoff to reward themselves after a hard day's hiking. We of course, being 50% hard core superhiker, scoffed at such fripperies and dined on super noodles and pouches of tuna... The huts are manned by friendly rangers who take a register to make sure noone has fallen off a cliff en route, provide weather updates (usually involving rain) and deliver cautionary tales about kea flying off with your hiking boots if you leave them outside. Being new to wilderness hiking, I was impressed by the location of the huts (nestling under huge mountains in the middle of nowhere) and the relative comfort of the bunk rooms. The exception to this was the one in which the beds were completely encased at the head end by a partition wall, a very low sloping roof and a luggage locker prompting an embarrassing screaming fit when I woke up in pitch blackness from a nightmare about being buried alive. Luckily for me said pitch blackness prevented anyone from realising who the screaming person was, creating a much debated mystery at breakfast the next morning. If any of my fellow hikers are reading this - yes, it was me.

To get to and from the track itself you need to catch a ferry and a bus. There's only one ferry in each direction which means no dilly dallying on the last day. This was a bit of a shame, as approximately 30 minutes into the final day of hiking, having come through the previous 22 miles relatively unscathed, I was struck down with crippling stomach pains and general unwellness. Under any other circumstances these pains, along with their friends nausea and hot/cold sweats, would've dispatched me to bed or at the very least a duvet covered sofa. Sadly for me, unless I declared myself in need of a helicopter evacuation (tempting, but ultimately inadvisable), the only way to get to any sort of surface for lying down on was to complete the longest section of the hike at the brisk pace necessary to ensure I didn't miss the only ferry back to civilisation. This I managed to do with a mixture of steely determination, crying and a bit of swearing - it felt like the whole traumatic experience should've been accompanied by a camera crew, dramatic voice over and a sigur ros soundtrack. Even my triumphant sighting of the finishing line was marred by the realisation that (1) Sandfly Point is all too accurately named and I'd need to wait for the ferry not sprawled on the grass in the recovery position but sitting on a bench in the sweltering waiting hut and (2) that at the end of this my attempts at not throwing up would be further challenged by a half hour ferry crossing.

Despite my unexpectedly undignified end to the hike it was, all in all, an excellent trip.

Nugget View, Kaka Point & The Winding Thoughts Theatre

Photos:

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150391740963120.379640.510568119&type=1&l=f9acc4c2a3

After leaving Tally Ho we had a few days to get ourselves up to the start of the Milford Track which gave us just enough time to have a bit of a mooch round the southern tip of NZ's South Island. First stop were the excellently named Nugget View motel and Kaka point in the Catlins, home of seal colonies, penguins and a v. nice lighthouse.

Just down the road at Papatowai is one of NZ's hidden gems - the Lost Gypsy Gallery and Winding Thoughts Theatre of sorts. Tucked away in an old green solar powered housebus at the side of the road is inventor Blair Somerville's wacky wonderland - a treasure trove of wind-up gurgling sea shells, bicycle powered televisions and other curiosities made of discarded bits of junk and jumble. It's hard to describe why this place is so excellent but these videos might give a bit more of a flavour...

A Big Day for Tiny Horses

Lots of miniature horses:

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150164594938120.305395.510568119&type=1&l=58b3662150

I feel I should begin by saying Barb, if you're reading, I loved the miniature horse show and getting the horses ready for their close ups. But all things considered, it was also a pretty surreal day!

For a start Rich and I aren't the shortest of people, and spending so much time standing next to really small horses did nothing for our sense of perspective. Then there was the dizzying array of categories the horses could compete in, from the fairly straightforward "Best Filly 2 years old and under" and "Best Turned Out" to the slightly stranger "Best Mane & Tail" and "Best Head." And then there were the show names - again, thoroughly excellent, but at times pretty bonkers. Barb's horses had nice, sensible show names like "Tally Ho's Sir Lancelot." Others, like "Abba Diva Fury's Firecracker" weren't so lucky... . Of course, having the backstage access we did meant we got to refer to our superstars by their slightly less glamorous stable names: Lance, Button, Grace and Echo.

Without doubt the must surreal part of the day was also the most fun - grooming the horses in readiness for the showring. I think it's safe to say it's unlikely I'll be doing any of the following to a miniature horse again any time soon:

• painting hooves
• dyeing mane and tail with Just For Men
• "polishing" with Johnson's baby oil
• applying horse makeup
• shaving muzzles

When we were done with them they looked like the supermodels of the equine world...

But in all seriousness, mucho kudos must go to Barb and Robyn who put in a Herculean effort getting their horsey chums ribbon-winning ready. Hours of training, practice (their skills in the showmanship and obstacle events were remarkable), shampooing and grooming paid off in the armfuls of ribbons our miniature award winners came home with. After a long, extremely fun day we returned to Tally Ho tired but triumphant.

Tally Ho!!

Many photos:

https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150101724708120.286675.510568119&l=32d65fc027&type=1
Next stop on the Great Kiwi Adventure was some wwoofing at a little place between Dunedin and Queenstown known as Tally Ho; home to Stuart, Barb, Josh, 24 horses, 350 sheep, 6 dogs, 23 chickens, 15 ducks and counting. When we arrived baby animals were springing forth left right and centre - we bottle fed 4 baby lambs, watched ducklings hatch, helped to find homes for 3 puppies and went to bed every night wondering whether the pregnant mares would set off their birth alarms before morning and trigger a mass torchlit exodus into the fields to help with the birth. As luck would have it, the most eagerly awaited foal-ly arrival turned up at the eminently civilised hour of 10am - early enough for us to be around to witness the birth and the foal's first steps, but not too early to celebrate with a nice glass of vino... As if I wasn't proud enough just being there, Barb bestowed on me the honour of naming the beautiful baby miniature horse after me - Mona Lisa. I am assured the Mona part is for poetic effect rather than casting any aspersions on my attitude to farmwork...

Living and working at Tally Ho was a little slice of rural paradise. Aside from the constant cuteness of lambs, ducklings and foals to brighten our days, we got to sample the unlikely-to-be-repeated experience of working in a wool carding factory. For the uninitiated (of course, I knew exactly what wool carding was before I arrived...) this involved manning the giant wool carding machine into which clumps of wool were fed, then brushed and teased between giant rollers until they emerged at the other end in beautifully uniform lengths of wool which were fed into the balling machine before being bagged and sold at the Tally Ho shop to people clever enough to be able to spin them and knit them into woollen wonders. Barb tried to turn me into one of these people but although I genuinely enjoyed lots of the time I spent on the spinning wheel, the rest of the time I spent loudly cursing at the knotted, broken or uneven fibres confirmed to all within earshot that this was unlikely to become a lifelong pastime for me. I am immensely proud of my very own handspun ball of Tally Ho wool though.

One of the best things about wwoofing at Tally Ho was the faith Stuart and Barb had in us and consequently the things they (perhaps unwisely) trusted us to do. Like, for example, injecting lambs with medicine, wrestling runaway sheep to the ground, making horseblankets for the miniatures (this involved a sewing machine, nuf said), and driving a 4x4 across steep and muddy fields. We certainly learned a lot in those few weeks.

But my favourite part of our stay at Tally Ho was getting to know Barb, Stuart and Josh and being made to feel like we were part of the family. An epic shopping spree with Barb, being taught the art of Skip-bo by Josh, dining like royalty every day, our weekly trip to the local pub for a fish & chip supper, hanging out with Mr Peel and admiring his crown green bowling prowess - by the end of our stay I for one was more than a little teary eyed as we waved goodbye to the farm. And then there were the miniature horse shows, but that's another story...

Whales, Jails & Hand-pulled Ales

Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=283880&id=510568119&l=2db1038669

After leaving Karamea we had a less than leisurely 7 days to traverse the length of the South Island, stopping at all points of touristic interest on the way, in order to get to our final wwoof destination on time. So began a whistlestop tour of the east coast, during which we:

• Went whale watching in beautiful Kaikoura and marvelled at dolphins, sperm whales, a wandering albatross (that's its name, it wasn't lost or disorientated or anything) and an invisible blue whale (we were assured it was there, we just didn't see it).

• Paid a visit to Kaikoura's seal colony and watched some of them sunbathing in the car park.

• Spent a couple of nights in jail. No, really, we slept in a jail. Alright, it was a converted jail, but we still slept in a cell with bars on the windows.

• Stayed in an unusually swanky motel room, complete with king size bed, balcony overlooking the mountains and a luxury spa shower. The shower was amazing - built in radio/CD player, multilevel programmable jets, mood lighting, the works. Oh, and an ear piercing alarm (in case someone breaks in and tries to steal it, I can only presume). Rich discovered this to his cost whilst using the shower and trying to figure out how to turn off the ice cold jet function. How we (well, I) laughed...

• Explored Christchurch post-earthquake, discovered that it really is quite a cool city and wondered why I hadn't noticed this last time I visited. Then remembered I only stayed one night last time and was so hungover for the entire duration I only left the hostel to buy a sandwich and some aspirin.

• Took a tour of the Monteiths brewery in Greymouth, home of the world's most annoying tour guide, and sampled some of their finest ales.
  

• Took a tour of the Cadbury factory in Dunedin, home of the world's most inadvertently racist receptionist, and sampled some of their finest chocolate. And Rich wore a snood - v. entertaining.

All in all, not a bad week.

The Pub at the End of the Road

Fun & Frivolity:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=279752&id=510568119&l=ac6fc72a21

At the north-western tip of the South Island of New Zealand, nestled between mountains, sea and rainforest, is a magical place called Karamea. It's quite remote - Westport, the nearest major settlement, is an hour and a half's drive away down the only road connecting the town to the outside world. Follow that road north and it ends just a few kilometres out of Karamea at the coastal wilderness that marks the start of the Heaphy Track. This was to be our home for the next two weeks as we'd arranged to do some wwoofing for Dee and Dan, proprieters of Saracen's Cafe and the hub of town life - the Bush Lounge.

When we arrived things weren't exactly as we expected. Dee was unwell, Dan needed to be at work in Christchurch for the two weeks of our stay and the cafe and bar were temporarily closed until things got back to normal. At first we wondered whether we'd be more in the way than of use, but we soon learned that out on the West Coast everything has a way of sorting itself out and within a couple of days we felt more like we were at home than working as wwoofers.

This was due in no small part to Dee and Ruth, a fellow wwoofer from Darlington who had arrived in Karamea some months ago and, in her words, "never found a reason to leave." Life was good - work started when we were up and ready, the Bush Lounge's well stocked bar and the cafe's ice cream stand were at our disposal and Dee and Ruth were incredibly easy people to spend time with. Work was never dull, or unduly onerous. We fed the pigs, split and chopped firewood, picked tamarillos amid beautiful scenery and glorious sunshine, cleaned the cafe and bar, learned how to make a decent cup of coffee, rode around on the quad bike, did a spot of gardening when the weather was nice and watched DVDs with Dee when it wasn't. The food was amazing - the good people of Karamea's loss was our gain as with the bar closed we had Dee, the Bush Lounge's chef extraordinnaire, whipping up hearty homecooked fare just for us every evening.

We also spent some time getting to know the people and places of Karamea, something we never would have been able to do as passing backpackers. Living at the Bush Lounge meant there was always someone calling in to see Dee and soon we had a pretty good idea of who was who and what was going on in the town. Every Thursday we'd head down the road to Little Wanganui for the pub quiz night which introduced us to yet more friendly locals and the surprise taste of victory as we won the quiz two weeks running.

Our two weeks passed in a flash and before we knew it it was time to leave. Like Ruth I could easily have stayed longer - in such a small, friendly town you really come to feel part of the place after even a short stay and there are few more beautiful parts of the world you could have all to yourself. But the open road and a farm near Invercargill beckoned and we knew we had some travelling to do. As we left we also realised, for the first time, that coming back to New Zealand again might not be such a bad idea...

The wonderful world of Wellington work

I couldn't get photos of all our various occupations in Wellington, but here's a taster :

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=273175&id=510568119&l=3042385d54

The grand plan for our time in Wellington was to put down some light roots, find jobs and earn some much needed cash while soaking up the ambience of the "coolest little capital in the world." (This rather specific accolade was bestowed upon Wellington by the Lonely Planet's "Best in Travel 2011" guide and seized upon with such gusto that days after the book's publication banners bearing the slogan lined the city's main thoroughfare and the story was a major item on the national evening news. It reminded me of the time Redcar won the Seaside Award back in the late 90s...)

We started by finding ourselves a nice little Kelburn apartment to call home, kitting ourselves out in business attire at Number 1 Shoe Warehouse & Farmers (NZ's answers to Shoe Zone and BHS), printing out our CVs and heading into town to sign up with the local recruitment agencies. I'd done a fair bit of temping in the past, and we were both up for pretty much any work that came along, so we had high hopes of employment. Sadly, our optimism was not shared by the city's recruitment consultants. "Hmm, it's very quiet at the moment I'm afraid" and "well I'll put you on our books but I can't guarantee we'll find anything for you" seemed to be the phrases du jour. Undeterred, and more importantly having nothing better to do each day, we adopted the slightly belligerent approach of calling into every recruitment agency in Wellington in person every morning until one of them, in a desperate attempt to get rid of us, offered us a shift clearing tables at Te Papa museum's cafe. Result!

So began a long and varied succession of work assignments, as the recruiters realised we really would do pretty much anything and with very little notice. After succesfully clearing tables at Te Papa we were woken at some ungodly hour by an agency wondering whether we could take a shift that started in 30 minutes and involved making and serving lunch to students at the university canteen. From then on we were on a roll. Before I knew it I was in demand as a waitress working business awards dinners and high school proms, serving wine and canapes in house to solicitors at NZ's "premier law firm," washing dishes at an industrial research facility, making coffee and washing more dishes at the NZ national police headquarters and selling cupcakes on a market stall. Rich, meanwhile, had secured the dubious pleasure of working 2 weeks' worth of night shifts at Wellington hospital's laboratory. The lab staff were on strike and working to rule, therefore refusing to answer the telephone and thereby creating a job for Rich which involved sitting at a desk from 11pm to 7am waiting for the phone to ring. One on of the 10-15 occasions each night when it did so he would take a message, pass the message on to lab staff in the room next door and then call the caller back with their response. I did feel sorry for him until I heard about the temp whose job it was to sit at the end of the hospital's pneumatic tube transport system unscrewing and emptying any capsules which arrived containing samples for the lab to test. We also managed to work a few shifts together, notably manning the box office for a Wellington Lions rugby match at the Westpac Stadium where we sold a combined total of 23 tickets.

What with all the night shifts, daytime washing up assignments and evening waitressing gigs (I made such an impression that clients kept asking the agencies for me by name. I'm clearly wasted as a solicitor), Rich and I were pretty much working around the clock. He'd be coming in from work as I was going out, my feet permanently ached and we were both starting to wonder when we'd get some proper sleep. Having said that, there were unexpected perks, most significant of which being the ridiculous amounts of free food we kept being given (well someone has to eat all the leftover gourmet canapes, don't they?) After a few weeks we'd entirely restocked our fridge with leftovers from all the dinners, lunches and drinks receptions and I was getting quite a taste for the free wine that kept coming my way.

So it was both a relief and a disappointment when we each landed full time, day time office jobs. Rich was recruited to answer ministerial questions at the NZ Department of Health, and I was given a job as an executive assistant at Compass Health, the company which provides management support for health care providers (PHOs) in and around Wellington. I ended up spending 6 weeks with them and came to feel rather at home there. My work was varied to say the least - as well as taking minutes and being administratively helpful I also found myself trying to get tea stains out of a carpet with vinegar and driving across town to pick up a new foot for the staff fridge. I met some truly lovely people, including Kira (the kitkat queen), Erin (without whom I would never have figured out the binding machine), and my boss Stephanie who I will always remember for overseeing the implementation of the most brilliantly bizarre office colour scheme I have ever known.

In our spare time we made the most of Wellington's undeniably cool and eclectic attractions. Rich reports that he enjoyed the "extremely well developed independent coffee scene," notably at Memphis Belle; I was a fan of the shopping on Cuba Street and we both loved the food (Sweet Mama's Kitchen's swamp dip and fried chicken is worth travelling from the UK for); the grand old art deco Empire Cinema; the excellent Weta Cave; the Alice in Wonderland themed kookiness of Alice bar, as well as the impressive array of live music and arts on offer. We took in an evening of bohemian hybrid blues/calypso/spirituals courtesy of Storehouse at Mighty Mighty, the Wellington International Ukulele Orchestra at the San Francisco Bath House (a fun night but they could take some lessons from the original and far better Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain) and the amazing World of Wearable Arts show. Part avant garde fashion show, part circus, part theatrical production, this was like nothing we'd seen before and a definite highlight.

So 2 months after we arrived we left Wellington triumphant - money and happy memories both firmly in the bank. And now, having lived there for a short while, I think I can say the Lonely Planet got it spot on.

Exploding mud, a giant metal dog & a town called Clive

Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=261397&id=510568119&l=3fa4964784

After our eye-opening stay at the pig farm we headed south towards NZ's capital, Wellington. On the way we stopped to take in some of the country's quirkier attractions. These included:

• Fishing for prawns and having our fingers nibbled by their offspring at the Huka Prawn Park
• Climbing a giant kiwi fruit
• Visiting the road sign bearing the longest place name in the world
• Marvelling at the giant corrugated iron sculptures in Tirau, the town of giant corrugated iron sculptures
• Witnessing exploding mud, steaming pavements and crazily coloured rock pools around Rotorua
• Enjoying a Big Mac inside the McDonalds aeroplane in Taupo
• Taking a tour of the art deco neighbourhood in Napier and staying in the equally deco Masonic hotel
• Sampling the wines made at The Mission Estate - a former seminary
  
• Being disturbed by the macabre dioramas of singing and dancing stuffed possums at Opossum World.

New Zealand, you are quite an odd country...

Vegetarians Beware - Lisa and Rich go Butchering!

Photos (some grisly): http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=245930&id=510568119&l=8ffe137a8b

One of the main aims of this trip was to seek out as many new experiences as possible, particularly any we'd be unlikely to stumble across in our lives back home and regardless of whether we were confident the experience in question would be a good one. In other words, if it was new and unusual we'd probably give it a go. It was for this reason that we found ourselves spending the best part of a month working for stay at Soggy Bottom Holding - a rare breeds farm with its own on-site butchery, looking after the animals and, well, butchering them.

Oddly, looking after the animals proved to be more of a challenge than turning them into foodstuffs. Every day we had to feed the pigs (Saddlebacks, Tamworths and Iron Age) who lived in various free range enclosures/amongst the trees/on impossibly steep hillsides around the farm. Their diet needed to be protein heavy so that they could grow quickly and healthily, and as we were slap bang in the middle of the Waikato, NZ's dairy producing heartland, the cheapest way to do this was to go to the dairy factory down the road, buy a shipping container full of out of date McDonalds cheese slices and feed them to the pigs in blocks of 160. (For those who might occasionally partake of the odd Big Mac, be grateful for the relative freshness of your cheese slices as when they go bad they develop a delightful mucusy coating that probably wouldn't do much for your appetite). Each pig would get 2-3 blocks of Ronald's slowly decomposing rejects each day, as well as the odd bucket of windfall apples, leftover ciabattas from the local farmers market and the occasional camembert (these were well fed pigs...). Getting all this food up and down the hills to the pigs required the assistance of a Polaris Ranger and, at least during our stay, the skills of a world class rally car driver. It was a rainy mid winter when we arrived, which had turned the entire farm into an extremely hilly quagmire. The Polaris was essentially a quad bike with a canopy and the tracks we had to drive on were slick, muddy ruts so deep that once the Polaris' wheels were in them the vehicle operated like a self-driven rollercoaster - the ruts dictated the direction of travel and the only control the driver had was over the speed at which we slid down the track or struggled up it. This would have been terrifying at the best of times but once you threw in the vertiginous drops that lined the tracks, inclines more suited to downhill skiing and my personal favourite "the corner of death" (a 90 degree corner at the bottom of a hill, the track only inches wider than the Polaris and a 3 foot deep pothole along one side), you had the makings of an particularly grisly episode of "999."

We probably wouldn't have been so worried about riding around under these conditions if our good hosts, Jono and Sarah, had shown any flicker of concern for our safety. Instead they reacted with thinly disguised disdain when, on our second day, we timidly suggested that perhaps we weren't quite experienced enough to be whizzing across their hillsides without killing ourselves or at least severely damaging their shiny new Polaris. In fact, the whole time we were there we got the distinct impression that anyone other than a fully fledged farmhand would be looked down upon whilst working on their farm, and as time went on I began to wonder if we were being filmed for some kind of hidden camera show. Examine, if you will, an extract from my journal:

14 July 2010.

Today I:

* Felt extremely redundant pruning puny larch trees with shears while Jono scooted up and down the hill pruning 5 big cypresses with his chainsaw for every half a dead twig-fest I managed. At one point I was actually snapping the branches off with my fingers. And I'm pretty sure he only left the larches for me to do out of sympathy. Also spent significant amount of time dodging falling branches being lopped by said chainsaw and trying not to fall down the hill. Not finest hour.
* Collected 30 litres of fresh milk from Mike's dairy farm - more difficult than you'd think, decanting a 10 litre bucket of milk into several glass jars. Ended up with lots of milk on the floor and several further buckets of water needed to wash it to the drain. Then driving home without spilling milk all over back of car slight concern... Only casualty = cracked jar but miraculously no milk spilt.
* Was so cold I took warmth from (1) the ham scented steam rising from an industrial bain marie, and (2) a hairdryer.
* Tried to look compentent as I struggled across a marsh, jumped over a small stream, climbed a fence and clambered up a steep muddy hill to see a sow and 7 baby piglets (v. cute). All attempts undermined when on way back I sank my foot into the swamp and lost welly in it, which Jono came back and pulled out as I removed my mud covered sock and regained composure.
* Narrowly avoided death (again) driving the Polaris (against my better judgment) up and down mud-logged narrow hillside tracks, at times sliding sideways in a rally-car stylee, at others inadvertently pressing the accelerator at key braking moments.Scooped the remnants of a cow carcass from a wheelie bin and burnt it in an old metal drum. This involved making a wood burning fire, trying to haul dead animal bits out of the bottom of the bin without falling in or smearing self in blood and guts from the side of said bin, avoiding leaping fat-fueled flames from the fire and hoping the acrid smoke plume floated obediently down the valley and not towards the unhappy neighbours' house...
* Scrubbed blood from the wall of the butchery.
* Felt like Cathy in Wuthering Heights climbing great big flipping hill in the wind and rain in order to feed cows.
* Spent some time living out my worst nightmares and re-enacting the downside of Glastonbury by sliding around and getting stuck in mud while attempting to build a pig enclosure. Regretted offering to leave relative safety of the track to help build said enclosure when result was being asked to put up an electric fence running along the edge of v. muddy, v. steep hill. Felt quite proud after avoiding thorn covered tree trunks, thorn bushes and ankle breakage to actually erect said electric fence.
* Discovered how loud and blood curdling the sound of pigs squealing is, whilst feeling traumatised by having to help put nose rings into a penfull of piglets.

In other news, our composting toilet has now reached crisis pyramid situation, and is starting to encroach up the toilet chute. Not good. Smell ripening. Apparently Jono needs to remedy with raking... It is still v. cold in our hut and the shower has now run out of hot water.

After this, the time we spent in the butchery hacking up pig carcasses and mincing their internal organs seemed like a holiday. In fact, it was also really interesting, and because Jono butchers his meat himself we were able to get stuck in and actually feel fairly useful. We learned how to butcher a whole pig (honing our cleaver skills on several spinal columns), made sausages from start (manhandling buckets full of cow and pig bits into a giant mincer) to finish (cutting the sausage links into singles, arranging on polystyrene trays and operating the vacuum packer), cured, sliced and packaged bacon and prosciutto. The highlights for me, however, were making black pudding and brawn. The black pudding is one of the top sellers at Jono's market stall, and making it was like stumbling into a slasher movie. Large buckets of congealed blood, livers, kidneys, hearts and other organs are tipped into the mincer which, when switched on, spurts blood across the room and continues to do so for much of the mincing process. The end result strongly resembles a murder scene. The brawn making was more of an experiment really - one which I won't be repeating in a hurry as it involved spending the first part of a morning pulling the boiled flesh from a pig's head, trotters and tongue before pressing it into a loaf tin and leaving it to set. I can tell you that there is a lot of fat on a pig's head...

After 3.5 weeks we had definitely had some new experiences, most of them good but some more suited to the "once but never again" pile. A definite high point was helping to man the Soggy Bottom stall at the nearby farmers' market. After feeding the animals, rounding them up and sending them off to the abbatoir, chopping up the carcasses and turning them into sausages, roasting joints and bacon, packaging and labelling them we were now able to sell the finished products direct to the public, and in doing so we realised how much we'd learnt about our food and where it comes from. All in all, then, an interesting and eye-opening few weeks.

On The Road Again

Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=244463&id=510568119&l=36cea28231

Next stop on our grand adventure was a trip to visit friends Chris and Charlie (and their adorable groodle puppy Georgie) in Melbourne. After an excellent but hectic couple of weeks at home, it was lucky we had the nice long 26 hour journey to Australia to use to catch up on lost sleep. It was less lucky that I have a hard time sleeping on planes and so arrived in Australia 26 hours after we set off, met Chris at the airport, managed to stay awake long enough to drink a cup of tea before passing out for the next several hours. Somewhere amongst the confusion of times and dates we were struggling to get our bodyclocks used to it was Rich's birthday when we woke up, so Chris and Charlie took us out to the Northcote Social Club to celebrate. I took the opportunity to sample the Parma - Melbourne's version of the ubiquitous Parmo. Needless to say the Parmo reigns supreme...

For the next few days we were treated to a trip down the Great Ocean Road courtesy of our hosts extraordinnaire. We saw the sights of Melbourne (including a trip up the extremely tall Eureka Tower), dragged ourselves out of bed in the middle of the night to watch the first England game of the World Cup (and to make sure our body clocks were completely bamboozled), visited the building site of Chris and Charlie's palatial new home, ate and drank like royalty and generally had an excellent time. After a few days of being looked after we were awake enough to be let out alone, so we bade farewell to Melbourne with a promise to return on our way home to help christen the new house.

Our destination was New Zealand, which was to be our home for the next 5 months. If all went to plan we hoped to buy a car, do some sightseeing, wwoof at a few of the more interesting farms we had found and earn some much needed cash working in Wellington. After just a couple of days we'd achieved the first item on the list, becoming the proud owners of a beautiful 1997 Mitsubishi Legnum with unnerving ease at one of the Auckland car markets where you can buy a car in much the same way as you'd buy a bag of carrots at a regular market. We named him Old Red (as he is a little old and very red), and after allaying our initial concerns about the functionality of the petrol gauge he was soon a trusty steed and part of the family.

The Great Whirlwind Trip Home

Photos, photos, photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=244422&id=510568119&l=38e21c53c2

After more than 12 months on the road, a couple of weeks back home for our friends' wedding sounded like an eminently relaxing way to break up the journey to Australia. It probably would have been too, had we just spent a couple of weeks at home and gone to the wedding. But travelling must have become more of a habit than we realised, as before we knew what we were doing we were traversing the country from London to Teesside, to Manchester, to Birmingham, to West Sussex, back to Teesside, then to Birmingham and down to London again just in time for our 26 hour journey to Melbourne.

Relaxing it may not always have been, but as the photos will attest it was a lot of fun. Whilst we didn't have time to catch up with everyone we would've liked to, we did manage to fit in some quality time with the family, day trips to Whitby (with the requisite fish and chips pit-stop), and York (with the requisite visit to the Yorvik Viking Centre), an introduction to Rich's new baby cousin, a quintessentially English BBQ in the rain (where we discovered the culinary delight that is barbecued jam donuts), my dad's birthday celebrations, a highly entertaining attempt at the fitness trail in Guisborough Woods, boozy shenanigans in the capital, an excellent wedding and a significant amount of reacquainting ourselves with such great British foodstuffs as the Sunday roast, the jaffa cake and the Greggs' cheese pasty. It's good to be home.

Restless in Rio

Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=244417&id=510568119&l=66f8fa628b

And so we came to the final stop in phase one of our Grand Adventure. From Iguassu we flew to Rio, where we planned to spend a few days before heading back to the UK. We checked into an amazing guesthouse run by a young Brazilian couple, Juliana and Wesley, arriving late on a Friday evening to find a lively barbeque in full swing. After dropping our bags in our room we joined the party and were soon up to our elbows in barbequed meat, the best caipirinhas I've ever tasted and another Brazilian specialty - galinha do coracao or chicken hearts. After a couple of the caipirinhas and much encouragement from our hosts and fellow guests I gave one a go and can report that they are both chewy and extremely tasty.

After this excellent introduction, Rio itself was not such a resounding success. We visited Copacabana and Ipanema, taking in both of the neighbourhoods' famous beaches, but were somewhat underwhelmed by both. We checked out the city centre, including the enormous (and rather dark) conical cathedral and the bustling market, but sadly the Cristo Redentor statue was un-visitable due to recent landslides. We did, however, manage to fit in a football match at the Maracana stadium (watching, not playing, obviously) complete with a performance by the resident brass band.

Unfortunately, the most memorable part of our stay in Rio was the part where we tried to leave. Good old volcano Eyjafjallajokull had been causing problems for weeks before we were due to fly home, but just the day before our flight the UK airports were back to normal and things were looking good across Europe. Except in parts of Portugal, where on the morning of our flight several airports were closed. Of course, this wouldn't have been a problem unless we were flying home via Portugal. Which, of course, we were. So began a delightful 12 hours of being on hold to the airline, queuing at Rio International airport, cancelled flights, rescheduled flights, never-really-cancelled-in-the-first-place flights, delayed flights and, happily, a transfer onto a direct British Airways flight preceded by a complimentary 3 course meal. We arrived at Heathrow 11 hours later tired but happy (and extremely relieved).

The Most Beautiful Place in the World (except Redcar, obviously)

Pictures of paradise:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=243152&id=510568119&l=1faaa8caae

I've been lucky enough to visit a lot of amazing places on my travels, but Iguassu Falls on the Argentine/Brazilian border is easily the most breathtakingly amazing place I have ever been. Tucked away in the middle of sub-tropical rainforest, Iguassu Falls are in fact 275 waterfalls stretching some 1.5 miles - at one point your field of vision is completely filled by a 260 degree panorama of cascades. With a lush jungle backdrop, water thundering all around you, rainbows in the mist and clouds of colourful butterflies the scene is like something out of a fairytale. Even Rich, who'd had to endure weeks of me banging on about the incredibleness of Las Cataratas del Iguazú, admitted that they more than lived up to the hype.

All of this makes me wonder why so few people know the falls even exist. (I certainly didn't until I first arrived in Argentina and was told I shouldn't leave the country until I'd seen them). It's a complete mystery to me, especially considering the celebrity of Niagra which I visited last year and which is as impressive as a bathroom shower by comparison. If I ruled the world I would make sure everyone got to visit Iguassu at least once in their lives. If you have any inclination to go anywhere near South America get yourself to the falls - if you don't like it I'll drive you to the optician's myself.

The Day of the Gnocchi

Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=200358&id=510568119&l=019e478485

Other than a "classic" Homerism remembered by my Simpson's-obsessed boyfriend, I didn't know very much at all about Uruguay. To be honest, I can't be sure I didn't think it was somewhere in Africa... However, the lure of the new passport stamp meant we couldn't pass up a quick trip to the country, especially as it's only an hour long ferry trip away from Buenos Aires.

As it turns out, Uruguay is a really lovely place. First stop on our whistlestop tour was the UNESCO world heritage site of Colonia del Sacramento. It's picturesque cobbled streets, artsy shops and rustic seaside eateries made for an excellent place to while away a day after the hustle and bustle of BA. We then spent a couple of nights in the capital, Montevideo, home of the first ever football world cup and, it transpires, a promenade uncannily similar to the one in Redcar (see photos). We also experienced the monthly Day of the Gnocchi, on which it is customary to eat the small potato and flour dumplings and almost every restaurant in the country is clamouring to serve you them. This worked out well, as Rich and I are both big fans of the dish and they're cheap as chips. The trip ended with a relaxing ferry ride back to Argentina, marred only by Rich's annoyance at the fact that our arrival, and the abrupt switching off of the on-board entertainment, coincided with a penalty in the football match he had been watching. My observation that it was an achievement just to be watching live football on a ferry in South America did not have the desired consolatory effect...

Return to Buenos Aires

Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=200345&id=510568119&l=310f15c9dd

I first visited Buenos Aires a few years ago and I've been looking forward to coming back ever since. Putting this entry's photo album together I was surprised that the pictures aren't more colourful and vibrant as that's how I've always remembered the city, but maybe seeing it as part of this longer trip has altered my perspective. Don't get me wrong, I still love BA - it's European elegance infused with the Latin American spirit and the seedy passion of the tango make it the most intriguing city I've ever visited. But looking at the place through more cycnical, travel hardened eyes, I realised with some disappointment that a fair bit of what I thought was the "Buenos Aires experience" is cleverly cultivated for the tourists. Yes, the Caminito is a riot of colour and spectacle with its multi-hued buildings and tango dancers on every corner, but it's also the Argentinian equivalent of the Tower of London - great for the tourists, but not really representative of the rest of the city...

But what am I being so negative for? Sure there are touristy elements to BA, but I for one loved the seedy glamour of the tango shows, being spooked by all the cats in the gloriously Gothic Recoleta cemetery and sipping lemon soda in Cafe Tortoni. And I got to see a bit of the other side of things as well, joining the crazy die-hard fans at a Boca Juniors game and sampling the finest steak I have ever tasted in the company of BA's business lunchers.

In fact, we got so caught up in all things Porteño that we ended up not only watching tango shows but learning a few steps ourselves. My plan before we got to BA was to impress Rich with the moves of some professional dancers before suggesting that maybe with a few lessons we too could be gliding across the floor looking all sultry and impressive. Unfortunately, the show I picked was something of a let down - the dancing was awful and at one stage the girls were prancing round a darkened stage clad in battery operated flashing feather bowers. Not the sexy, sophisticated look I was going for. Not to be deterred, I booked us into a show at El Viejo Almacen, where I fell in love with the tango during my first trip to the city and where I knew the dancers would be top notch. They didn't let me down, as you can see for yourself:



Suitably inspired, we found ourselves a milonga that also gave lessons to beginners and booked ourselves in. Unfortunately, it was only when the lesson began that we remembered we were in a Spanish speaking country and the milonga we had chosen was for locals rather than tourists. This made for an entertaining couple of hours as our flamboyant cliche of a Latin American tango instructor resorted to manhandling us into the right positions and gesturing wildly that our movements needed to "flow more." After the lesson we caught our breath and watched some couples who were slightly past their first lesson strut their stuff on the dancefloor. I reckon with a few more sessions (in English) we could get the hang of it, and it was a lot of fun. Rich has tentatively agreed to sign up for a course when we get back to the UK so watch this space...

Vineyards and Royal Suites - Turning 29 in Style

Photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=200340&id=510568119&l=5984047958

We crossed into Argentina just a few days before my birthday, and what better way to celebrate the last birthday of your 20s than to get in some practice for being a sophisticated 30-something and touring a Mendozan vineyard. We set off bright and early with our tour guide and fellow wine-tasters, calling at Finca Flichman Luigi Bosca and Catena Zapata wineries for an introduction to the art of winemaking, and local specialty Malbec, followed by the all-important tasting sessions. Half way through we stopped for an epic lunch (with more wine, of course), at Cava de Cano. Needless to say, by the end of the tour we were both slightly less ignorant about viticulture and slightly less sober... We also celebrated my cumpleaños with a delicious parrilla, another Argentinian specialty of barbequed steak, morcilla (blood sausage) and chorizo. And some more Malbec, of course.

After spending a leisurely few days in Mendoza we set off for Rosario - a city some 500 miles, or 10 hours away. Carrying on the birthday celebrations for as long as possible we decided to treat ourselves to the luxury version of bus travel - the Royal Suite. For the princely sum of thirty English pounds, we were provided with pre-dinner drinks and snacks, a three course hot meal complete with wine, an after dinner glass of bubbly, a film played on our own personal plasma screen TV and the pièce de résistance: a fully reclining leather armchair and footrest that combined to create a surprisingly comfortable full length bed. We slept for a whole 8 hours before being woken the next morning just in time to be served out hot breakfast before arriving in Rosario. The only downside to the experience is that I may never be able to bring myself to take a non-luxury nightbus again...

A New Day, a New Continent

Photos here:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=193845&id=510568119&l=086bc2b927

I had a brilliant time in Central America, but I have to admit arriving in Santiago, Chile, was a breath of fresh air. It was like stepping into a Latin American version of Europe - suddenly we could buy red wine and pesto in the supermarket, tram and bus networks ran through the streets according to timetables and for the first time in months it felt like we were in a vibrant, fully fledged city. This was particularly impressive given that Santiago had suffered a massive earthquake just weeks earlier - the only evidence of it was the occasional dramatic crack in the facade of a building and otherwise everything seemed to be business as usual.

Compounding my happiness was the abundance of amazing empanadas, the ubiquitous South American pastie. The grandfather of all empanadas, the pino, is a steaming pastry pocket of mince, olive and hard boiled egg. Yum. Less successful were my samplings of the local beverages "Bilz" and "Pap." You can gauge my reaction to these appropriately named delicacies in the photo album.

We spent several happy days exploring the city, sipping lattes in sidewalk cafes, mooching around art galleries and funky boutiques and eating candy floss in our local park. A particular highlight was Cerro Santa Lucia - a leafy, landscaped hill adorned with Italian-esque fountains and curving staircases that sits in the heart of Santiago and offers excellent views across the city to the looming Andes mountain range beyond. We also went along to a Copa Libertadores game, which apparently is the South American version of the Champions League. Happily, both the football and the singing from the fans was infinitely more entertaining than in Guatemala.

Next stop was the faded seaside glamour of the port town Valparaiso. Named a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2003, "Valpo" is a unique city, but one that divides opinion. It's been described as down at heel and rough around the edges, but for me that only adds to its roguish Bohemian charm. Away from the naval port and the bustling commercial centre, funicular elevators creak up into the city's hills, where steep labyrinthine streets are lined with brightly coloured houses and even more brightly coloured murals. The original murals, painted by students from the Art Institute of the University of Valparaiso in the late 1960s, are collectively known as the Museo a Cielo Abierto - the "open sky museum." Today there are murals all over the city - so many in fact that after the first hour of excited photo snapping Rich admitted defeat and went for a coffee while I finished my architectural photoshoot. He soon cheered up when we sat down to sample Valparaiso's speciality, Chorillana, a veritable mountain of french fries smothered in fried onions, pork, egg and cheese. You can catch a glimpse of this culinary monster in the photo album, and yes, we did eat it all.

Sadly we were struggling for time in Chile and it wasn''t long before we needed to head for Argentina. We spent our last night admiring the fleet of tall ships with their masts lit up like Christmas trees that were lined up along the docks as part of Chile's bicentennial celebrations. Chile, we'll be back.

Panamanian Pandemonium

Photos, photos, photos:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=193841&id=510568119&l=fda39bbff5

To be honest, there wasn't much pandemonium in Panama, I just liked the title. There was, however, plenty of r'n'r following our jungle trials. Rich, myself and Christina (a fellow escapee from the farm) headed for the hills and the refreshingly cool mountain town of Boquete. Here we spent several happy days taking in the scenery, patronising the local ice cream parlour and playing table football. We also participated in the local Easter festivities which, being in a Latin American country, were not on a small scale. We followed a nocturnal parade that must have involved every single inhabitant of the town and its nearby villages, saw locals putting together elaborate Stations of the Cross outside various shops and houses along the town-wide route, and I went the extra mile by sitting through a 2 hour Good Friday service given entirely in Spanish. (Had I known about the 2 hour part I may have reconsidered...)

After bidding a fond farewell to Christina as she set off for home and the backwoods of California, Rich and I boarded a bus for the capital - Panama City. Panama is not your typical Central American city. The new part is like a cross between Miami and Dubai - full of shiny new (and not-so-shiny still-being-built) waterfront skyscrapers, funky coffee shops, restaurants offering cuisine from all corners of the globe and even a strip of uber-trendy nightclubs that wouldn't be out of place in LA. A few blocks away, however, is Casco Viejo, the old part of town. Here whole streets of beautiful colonial buildings were left to crumble when the city's elite moved out to other neighbourhoods, and until recently the city's entire historic heart was a rapidly declining slum. A few years ago, the gentrification fairy found Casco Viejo and by the time we visited she had started to work her magic. Dotted amongst the tumbledown houses you can now find a sprinkling of boutique hotels, gourmet restaurants and trendy cafe bars. But to get to them you still need to traverse the menacing slum that surrounds the old city, and even then the regeneration is still in its infancy. It was a fascinating time to visit, and it will be interesting to see just how far, and how well, the transformation goes.

Now it's well known around the world that when visiting Panama there's one thing that everyone has to see. That's right, a Guns n' Roses concert. In fact, Guns n' Roses, despite having a huge following throughout Central America, had never played in Panama before the week that Richard and I happened to be in town, so we decided it would be rude not to go along and lend our support. After getting our hands on a pair of tickets in the usual way (queuing up in the Panamanian equivalent of Boots and buying them at the till) we trooped along thinking we'd catch a bit of the support act before the main event. 4 hours later, still no sign of Axel & co. Still, we had had the pleasure of listening to Sebastian Bach (of "Skid Row" fame) for 2 hours and a nice bit of space on the floor to sit on for the hour or so after that, so I suppose I shouldn't complain.

Just after midnight Guns n' Roses finally deigned to grace us with their presence. Or rather an ageing Mickey Rourke look-a-like, several session musicians and a teenager in a Slash costume appeared and launched into Welcome to the Jungle. The crowd were elated. For about 30 seconds, until Axl took exception to a plastic cup that landed somewhere near him, stopped the song and gave us all a good telling off. The poor man was so distracted by the whole thing he completely forgot to apologise for keeping us waiting so long. S'alright Axl, we forgive you...

Luckily for Mr Rose, Gn'R have some fairly excellent tunes in their arsenal and getting to thrash around to Sweet Child O' Mine, November Rain and Paradise City (possibly the biggest missed lyric change opportunity in history) as performed by almost the band that created them was a definite joy generator. Less enjoyable was hearing Axl screech his way through Gn'R's latest material and watching an obviously talented young guitarist posturing like a trained monkey with a top hat and drooping cigarette in the hopes that noone in Panama had heard Slash had declined to join the tour. Still, it was an early morning to remember and at 2am we headed home happy.

Final port of call was the Panama Canal. I went along with fairly low expectations, and was duly delighted to find that not only can you watch enormous ships go through the equally enormous locks right in front of your strategically positioned multi-level viewing platform, you can also go round a museum and pretend to pilot the boats yourself in a groovy simulator type-thingy. Much fun was had by all. Next day we struck out for the airport and our flight to South America. After almost 3 months in Central America this stage of our trip was drawing to a close, and we both agreed Panama had been an excellent way to round things off. Next stop Chile!

Giant Spiders and a Costa Reekin' Toilet

Whilst in Costa Rica we decided to spend a few weeks wwoofing at a farm in the Valle de El General - the country's lush tropical coffee and sugar cane heartland. We found a place run by two aging hippies called Mario and Rosie - or Glowingfeather and Honihawke to give them their "Rainbow Names." Always up for something a little different we overlooked the slightly kooky job description (featuring such reassuring nuggets as "the land will be your teacher," and invitations to participate in "heart song life dance playshops"), hopped on a bus from San Jose and sallied forth into the middle of nowhere.

Earth Rose Farm, our new home and workplace, is very beautiful (see pictures here) - 45 acres of green fields sloping down towards the river El General. Previously a coffee farm, mangoes, starfruit, pineapples, bananas, oranges, coconuts, avocados, guanabana and cacao all grow in abundance on the property and a few cattle graze in the upper pastures. Early in the morning mist rolls down the valley as the sun rises - a view best appreciated from the rancho some previous wwoofers had built at the highest point on the farm.

The farm is also extremely isolated. It sits at the top of several impossibly steep hills, and is accessible by vehicle only when it isn't raining. Costa Rican road planning does not adhere to the generally accepted methodology of winding around hills, preferring to go up and over them in as straight a line as possible. In addition, the roads around Earth Rose Farm are not roads in the traditional sense, consisting simply of tracks etched out of the earth by diggers and left to turn into steep, slippery mud slides at the slightest hint of precipitation. Add to this the fact that a small river has to be forded just to get onto the main access road to the farm, and you're in a pretty transport-unfriendly environment.

Sadly for us, getting on and off the farm was by far the smallest challenge we faced over the next few weeks. Peruse, if you will, these pictures of our rustic accommodation. On our introductory tour of the farm we were proudly introduced to the outdoor solar shower. This was actually pretty good (if you got there before the hot water ran out or before it got dark and the frogs came in to join you) and it was quite a zen experience showering under a blue sky in the shade of a palm tree and some bougainvillea. The toilet, however, was not so pleasant. I say toilet - it was in fact a small wooden platform screened by palm branches, inside which was a rudimentary wooden frame suspending a toilet seat over a plastic bucket, and a second bucket full of sawdust. When the first bucket was full, one of us would need to lift it gingerly out of the hut and carry it to the nearby pile of hay half-heartedly contained by a square structure made out of sticks. The bucket was then hoisted up over the stick enclosure and emptied out, before its not-even-slightly-composted-yet former contents were covered over with more hay. Given that 5 or 6 wwoofers were sharing this toilet, it needed emptying pretty frequently and the sights and smells and splashes which accompanied this process can only be described as nauseating.

Our sleeping quarters were another wwoofer construction - a 6 bed dorm room with a concrete base topped by a wooden frame and tin roof. The whole thing was encased in a fine metal mesh which we were assured did a great job of keeping all the creepy crawlies out. It soon transpired that the creepy crawlies were not in fact kept out by the mesh or indeed by anything else, and we received nightly visits from colossal spiders, giant scorpions, huge barb-tailed grasshoppers and all manner of creatures inbetween. Those who are not faint of heart can see a small selection of our non-human roommates here. You can also admire one of them in this little video:



At least, we thought, we could look forward to getting stuck into all the farm work that was going on (pictures here). Unfortunately, by the end of our first day it had become clear that our hosts at Earth Rose Farm were far from farmers, and in fact to call it Earth Rose "Farm" at all was something of a misnomer. For starters, Rosie and Maji (first names and surnames being far too parochial for ole' Glowingfeather he hopped over to Hawaii and changed his name to plain old "Maji") were a couple of retired Americans from Florida who, having no experience of farming or animal husbandry whatsoever, decided to buy a farm in Costa Rica on the basis of a vision Maji had when he "died" during heart surgery. Unfortunately, according to Maji said heart surgery had rendered him totally incapable of anything more strenous than lifting a cup of tea, and Rosie's only ventures outside of the farm house were to pick the odd carrot from the vegetable garden or get into the car and drive into town. Undeterred by lack of experience and physical ability they took over their land from an aging farmer who, in keeping with the best use of the land, had previously grown coffee and raised cattle. Maji and Rosie didn't like the sound of raising cattle to be killed and coffee cultivation was far too much effort, so they decided to, well, to be honest, after 5 years it still wasn't entirely clear what they were doing. Rosie, very sweet in her own way, had no interest in the farm whatsoever beyond her occasional jaunts to plant a few seeds, feed the chickens that lived behind the house or admire her small crop of cabbages.

Maji was slightly more interested, ostensibly in turning the farm into some kind of collective where other couples and families moved in, built themselves houses and presumably did some actual work around the place. After 4 years his dream had failed to become reality, something that could possibly be attributed to his laziness and inability to plan or manage anything on the farm. We were asked to start work on numerous ill-conceived projects during our stay, but perhaps the best example was the grand kitchen project. One day Maji announced that he wanted to build a new kitchen at the wwoofer dorm. The next morning, the perfectly serviceable shelter we had been using was torn down, leaving piles of jagged, rusty corrugated tin roofing sheets, wooden posts and 6ft deep holes strewn around outside our bedroom and making any attempt to enter or leave after it got dark around 6pm something of a risky undertaking. Only once half our accommodation block had been replaced by the obstacle course of death did it occur to our esteemed leader that he didn't know how to build a kitchen. Nor did he have any materials or access to diggers, cement mixers, anyone with construction experience of in fact any of the things you might want to get your hands on before you start demolishing things. In an effort to redeem himself, he instructed the wwoofers to chop down a few trees with a chainsaw and drag them up the hill to the kitchen site using the two knackered old horses he had and a bit of old rope. After nearly killing both horses and several wwoofers with our efforts, we presented the decimated tree trunks to Maji for inspection, only for him to decide they were probably too heavy for us to lift into place and calling a halt to the entire project.

Of course, another reason Maji was finding it difficult to recruit people for his Costa Rican eco-paradise could be the fact he is an irritating egomaniac with a penchant for spouting horrendous freeform poetry or new agey pseudo-science at anyone within earshot. These character defects could possibly be forgiven if he genuinely believed he was nurturing the spirit of the earth and helping to save the planet, but in reality his hippiness takes 6 months off each year when he and Rosie pack up their tie-dyed t-shirts, fly home to their bungalow in Venice Beach and go back to steak dinners, driving an SUV and watching the Boston Red Sox on their wide-screen telly. But worse than this, during the time they were in Costa Rica they made no allowances for the fact they were in another country and a completely different culture. They employed a local worker named Carlos, a brilliant guy who we all loved working with, but they couldn't communicate with him because they had decided they were incapable of learning Spanish. Instead, they relied on the wwoofers' translation skills and the age old tactic of saying everything slowly, loudly and adding an "o" to the end of their words. Instead of making friends with their neighbours and fellow farmers (who we met anyway and who would have been happy to help Rosie and Maji given their years of experience) they patronised them, made fun of their "Costa Rican ways" and spent all their time either on the internet, watching DVDs or lording it up in town with other US ex-pats.

Thankfully, it wasn't all bad news down at the farm. Every day we picked, squeezed and drank the juice of the most incredible oranges I have ever tasted, and there was no shortage of equally amazing tropical fruit for the taking. Because it rarely got below 30 degrees in the middle of the day, work started at day break when the farm was at its most magical, and every afternoon afforded plenty of time for lazing in hammocks drinking smoothies in the shade of the banana trees. We also met some fantastic people who you can see here: Christina the intrepid back-country ranger, Brian the sculptor and chainsaw-master, Sarah, all round ray of sunshine and up-and-coming farmer, Darien, horse-rider extraordinaire, Juaqin the brave escapee and Kimberly, the creator of the best banana and chocolate smoothie I have ever tasted. Somehow we managed to have a pretty excellent time in spite of everything and Rich and I left Earth Rose Farm happy to be going but glad we came.

Grumbles in the Jungle

Tree frogs and tropical rainforests:

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Every now and again when we told someone about our trip we'd be greeted with a scornful "so you're going on a 2 year holiday then?" I think the time has come to set the record straight. Travelling is amazing, fun, exciting, sometimes relaxing, but it is definitely not a holiday. For one thing, we're spending quite a bit of time working pretty hard on various farms, but that aside there are still many aspects of our trip that would have most people, myself included, thinking fondly of their office desk and place in suburbia from time to time. Imagine you're several thousand miles away from home, in a country where noone around you except your travel companion speaks English. You're going to be that far away from home for the best part of 2 years, and for 99% of that time the only person you'll see who isn't a complete stranger will be said companion. Now imagine you have to carry everything you need for 12 months in a large bag on your back and that you no longer have a bedroom of your own, let alone a house. As a result, deciding where to sleep every night becomes a more difficult decision than what to wear each day. If you want to get through the trip without going bankrupt you'll need to do a fair bit of cooking, but to use a kitchen you'll need to squeeze in between a dozen other backpackers and their assorted pans and chopping boards. (Assuming, that is, your hostel has a kitchen and also assuming you can find anything recognisable to eat - I never thought I'd see the day I was pining for mushrooms...) A quiet night in front of the TV, once an entertainment option taken for granted, becomes an impossibility unless you want to share a sofa with 6 other people and watch reruns of Friends or the Simpsons all night. In Spanish. Of course, there are all the amazing places you've come travelling to see but let's not forget that to get to them you need to spend, on average, 5-10 hours every 3-4 days crammed onto various coaches, minivans and boats navigating mile after mile of the worst roads you can imagine or cowering in a speedboat piloted by a 12 year old praying his failure to crash headlong into other boats and riverbanks is due to his incredible skill and not an excessive dose of good luck. I could continue, but you get the picture.

The reason for this little tirade is that by the time we arrived in Costa Rica we were both starting to feel a little sorry for ourselves. Not that we weren't having a great time, but after a solid 3 months on the road in Mexico and Central America without any of the home comforts of the USA, Canada or in fact home, nerves were a little frayed. Things hit an all time low when we arrived in the frankly horrible town of Puntarenas after a long and sweaty bus journey and sat down to plan where we wanted to go next. We consulted the Lonely Planet and realised our options were (a) going to the beach, (b) going to the rainforest or (c) going to look at more volcanoes. Having just come from a rainforest covered volcanic island we were beginning to get a bit of a sense of deja vu and were definitely thinking of the old adage "too much of a good thing" with a new-found appreciation. The beach option was another day and 3 modes of transport away, so we hedged our bets between the rainforest and the volcano and set off for Monteverde.

After the distinctly developing world ambience of the past several weeks, arriving in Monteverde was something of a culture shock. The bus ride we took to get there was predictable enough - long, hot, dusty and involving our coach negotiating mountain passes that would be difficult for an alpine goat and stopping in the middle of nowhere at regular intervals to drop off aged passengers and their sacks of assorted vegetables. When we pulled into the village, however, it was as though we had taken a wrong turn and ended up in Switzerland. Suddenly there were streets with pavements lined with shops that had glass windows and automatic doors. There were Western outdoor stores selling hiking gear where previously there had been only Central American hardware stores and greengrocers'. Most bizarrely of all, there were other Westerners - and lots of them. Apart from the strange Twilight-Zone-esque contingent of Americans on one street in Granada and the Spanish School student population of Antigua, we had scarcely seen another person of non-Latin origin for several months. We spent our first evening bemoaning the commercialisaition of Costa Rica while secretly delighting in the availability of pizza and the English language.

Next morning, bright and early, we set out to explore the Monteverde cloud forest - home (we were reliably informed) to colourful tree frogs, howler monkeys, tarantulas and toucans. We were also reliably informed that the chances of actually seeing any of these creatures was slim to none unless you camped out for several days so we weren't too disappointed when the closest we got was hearing howler monkeys from across the jungle. It was still a pretty amazing place though, faithfully recreating the green, dripping vine covered landscape everyone had to draw at some point in their primary school education. We did see some funky giant beetles and a cute little coati and the soundtrack to the day was an excellently eerie mix of crazy birdcalls and howling monkeys. My biggest disappointment was not seeing any of the eponymous tree frogs, so to rectify this we paid a visit to the ranarium (frog zoo) next to our hostel. It turned out to be quite impressive. We went at dusk as many of the most exciting frogs were nocturnal, and spent a couple of happy hours spotting tiny multicoloured amphibians by torchlight.

Next stop was the town of La Fortuna and its imposing sentry Volcan Arenal. Still very much an active volcano, Arenal looms in the background everywhere you go in La Fortuna, ominously belching smoke and occasionally rumbling. Emboldened by our survival of the Pacaya ascent, we decided to take a night tour to see the famous volcanic eruptions. Unfortunately, the postcards that littered the windows of every shop in town depicting dramatic natural pyrotechnics proved to be either digitally altered, out of date or both. We did see a couple of showers of sparks spitting forth from the crater, as well as some narrow ribbons of orange light where the molten rocks bounced down the volcano's side, but it wasn't quite the awe-inspiring spectacle my camera and I had hoped for. The fact that I was disappointed that the volcano I was standing underneath wasn't violently erupting made me realise that perhaps my recent over-exposure to all things volcanic had tricked me into forgetting that they are, after all, fairly dangerous.