12.27.2010

A South Pacific Christmas



If there was a word that could describe our (first) American Samoan Christmas, it was nostalgia.

Even though we both had been living here for two years, last year did not really count, since we were off exploring Fiji, drinking kava, and generally celebrating in a grand tourist festive mood. This year, though, we had our winter trip early (see previous Tonga post), and decided to spend the holidays in good ole Pago Pago.

We started it off by (trying to) watching the much-vaunted Christmas Choir in the open-air stage in Utulei. Parking two blocks away in the new market (all spaces were full with the traditional Samoan big trucks), we skirted past the (unarmed) police sitting by the side of the street (hey, this is the Pacific, cops don't stand!) and took up a post to watch the event. We mused quietly about how, as palagis, we would always be strangers looking in through the Fa'a Samoa window, no matter how long we've stayed here.

The day before Christmas, when everyone held their breath and looked out of their houses in anticipation of waiting, was spent chatting up families and sending greetings through the wire. We had spinach lasagna for our Christmas eve dinner (it's got red and green -- counts as a christmassy food, right?), and reminisced about our families' holiday traditions (the Brinkers are nothing if not a ritualized clan). Old Christmas songs (donated by a friend) played in the background, and sighs rang out as we viewed the harbor at night, intermittently lit by garish lights, but otherwise serene beneath the shadow of the Samoan mountains.

We closed up our windows on Christmas day to go hiking on Mount Alava with the Swedish radiologist, and talked most of the way about departures, trips, adventures, travelers, and the people that always get left behind. We had our post-hike ice cream, instead of at our traditional Samu (home-made!) stop, in the local McDs, with Tim slightly sick at being seen in such a nefarious place. We did admire the beautiful glass-paned windows through which you can see the yachts sleeping on their moorings.

Craving for ham, guaranteed great dessert, and other people's insight, we headed over to another couple's house for dinner. Over glasses of wine/beer/water, we watched the sky darken to twilight, and smiled as the stars announced their arrival. It was, after all, like a black-and-white picture, a memory, a window to the past, that could only happen once in a while.

8.01.2010

The History of Life


I’m not sure why I became interested in the far reaches of the globe, how people interact with their various environments, or what historical events transpired to shape our present world. As a child i can remember spinning the world globe, but at the time those different colored places seemed like make-believe. Life is usually a cascade of events: my river flowed from searching for something else, being introduced/open to new ideas, meeting others with different backgrounds. These concepts have consumed my thoughts for the last decade or so.


Most people find history painstakingly boring, recalling days of falling asleep during high school civil war lessons. I’m not sure if this is by design or just the legacy of an educational system hollowed out from the inside. My view of modern education is that it makes you smart enough to pull the lever, but not to question why your pulling the lever. History is not just another subject, just as the “outdoors” should not be classified alongside other interests: such as computers or entertainment, or sports. History connects us with the past and allows us to view to future with a grain of salt. For indigenous people, their oral history was everything, how they viewed themselves, where they came from, & rituals connecting them to the land. Today, ask a teenager about an historical event which happened last year and they will say who cares or where Russia is on a map and you will receive a blank stare. Unfortunately, we can’t understand our present situation without recognizing the context of our time period. History does repeat itself and certain events are circular.


Rapidly disappearing ways of life and languages are a distressing aspect of modernization, some even view it as our slow decline into the abyss. Yet, at the same time humans have never before been able to transport themselves into the far reaches of the globe, literally arriving in London for afternoon tea. This has enabled a person interested in anthropology or geography to visit remote corners of the planet and observe other humans living another way different from their own. You cannot see these things behind the walls of an exclusive resort, from the deck of a stadium style cruise ship, or in front of your mind numbing television. Presently, we have the unique chance of interacting with others whose language, culture, and way life question the foundations of our own existence.

My interest in indigenous cultures and “third world” cultures stems from the desire to turn back the clock per se. Without the rapid technological transformation of society, you can still view a slightly adulterated picture of how we evolved culturally. Indigenous societies, are usually:

1. Rural- practicing farming
2. Traditional animist- recognizing animals and their environment as having spiritual qualities
3. Oral traditions- handing down history to the next generation
4. Specific focus on the family
5. Pace of life is accordance with natural biorhythms

This window to the past helps to explain or shed light on certain “mental illness”, alienation, or eccentric behaviors shown in our modern society. I encourage everyone to study the disciplines of psychology/sociology, anthropology, history, geography, and natural sciences.

It is one thing to read about these cultures and arrive at a perspective, but nothing replaces first hand experience. When the opportunity presented itself, we jumped about the chance to live in this hybrid society, caught between Polynesian tradition and American gluttony. The result is not always a story cut for national geographic and may be something for “purists” to thumb their noses at, but few places exhibit the results of such a violent collision of cultures as that of Pago Pago. Young men coming home from football practice, shoulder pads/helmet slung over their shoulder, with a traditional lavalava wrapped around their waist. An underground oven “umu” feast after a Sunday Mormon service of worship. The family, all 14, riding in the back of the pickup with American flags waving, as Samoan ukulele music blares from the speakers. Fafafines or tranvestites, holding a modern beauty pageant, with an opening prayer lead by the local minister. Young men arriving back from Iraq, venerated as traditional warriors- leis placed around their necks. Samoans even celebrate flag day, the official day that they came under the clutches of colonial rule by the united states.

4.28.2010

Savaii Aquatic



The verdant island of Savaii is the third largest landmass in Polynesia, following Hawaii and New Zealand. It is home to over 43,00 people and was once the center of the non-violent Mau a Pule movement against colonial rule in the early 1900s. Fa'a Samoa or traditional Samoan society remains strong on the oldest island off the Samoan archipelago. We
decided to spend a week in a traditional beach fale (hut) overlooking the sugary Manase beach.


Savaii is mountainous, fertile, and surrounded by coral reefs. In comparison to Tutuila (our island) the size 659sq miles to 54 sq miles, highest peaks of Mt. Silisili (6,096 ft) to Mt Matafao (2,142ft), Savaii is expansive and flat. The people are much thinner than those in American Samoa, due to more traditional lifestyle (diet & exercise), fewer cars grace its smooth straight roads. All cars drive on the left-side, changed last September in order for New Zeland car dealers to corner the market. This was the last country to change sides since the 1960's. I have to admit that im a bit partial to Tutuila's geography, where steep cliffs plunge into the pounding surf & coves are carved into the dramatic coastline. Yet, Savaii has the knid of beaches you dream of when someone mentions the south pacific.


The plan was to stay on the north side of Savaii, in the Manase district and scuba dive for several days. The area was covered in a series of volcanic explosions from Mt. Matavanu in the early 1900's, blackened rock dominates the landscape as far as the eye can see. The trip was planned with German percision, unfortunately we were using Samoan transportation.

A week before our departure date, the only plane of the stellar Inter-island Air fleet caught on fire in the outer island of Tau. This was the second aircraft fire in less than a month, the other being the Governor's plane. I frantically placed phone calls to the airport, only to be met with "we're not sure what the plan is, check the day before your flight." The day before we were set to leave, I was told they chartered the other airline's plane, only problem was we had to be ready by 3am.

At 5:30am we touched down on the island of Upolu, took a taxi to the wharf to catch the 7am ferry to Savaii. As the taxi driver unloaded our bags he stated, there is no ferry until 2pm. Thinking nothing of why we would want to sit at the ferry terminal for the next seven hours. An old woman laughing at us & selling breadfruit advised us about a ferry across the island in the capital of Apia. We caught another van taxi across Upolu with a driver who kept calling me champ. Finally, we boarded the 3 hour ferry to Savaii on the new boat donated by Japan. If you ever wonder why rich countries provide aid or donate things to poor countries, think about Japan's Whale lobby. Where they go around the world philantropically building schools, health centers, and donating ferries to third world nations in return for a voting consensus on whaling issues. Anyway the ferry was comfortable, and i spotted a peace corps volunteers whose website i had viewed on the internet. The Peace Corps program was started in 1967 and currently 35 volunteers serve mainly as teachers. To my knowledge many also specialized in hanging out, drinking beer, and scuba diving.

Crossing the Apolima straight to Savaii, while reading A People's History of the United States, my thougts mingled with the landscape & grappled with a moment in time that i was living. Where was I? How did I get here?
... Perhaps no other region conjures up so many romantic visions as Polynesia—swaying palms plopping their coconuts onto deserted beaches, the fabled missionaries, and beachcombers. Michener and Maugham have described it, Gauguin captured it on canvas. The names of Captain Cook, William Bligh, Bloody Mary and Sadie Thompson mingle together in a confusion of history and fantasy...

My Walter Middy daydream was rudely interupted by a bull horn announcing we had landed. We gathered our scuba gear and haggled for a reasonable taxi fare to Tanu Beach Fales. We passed people going about their daily lives, pigs running across the road, horses slapping flies from their backs, people living in open air fales- their things open for all eyes to see. Fales usually have a roof, thatch or corrugate, for posts, pull down thatch side or none at all. To the westerner our first paranoid thought is that there is no privacy, to the Samoan, have everyone hang out and share your life. We arrived at a family compound, waited for welcome drinks which never materialized, and were finally shown to our fale, perched on the powdery beach of manase. We were to spend the next week in a hut, scuba diving, reading, and feeling alive.

Unfortunately, we could not document this trip, due to someone pilfering our camera, but you can imagine. White beach as far as the eye could see, snuggled up to a technicolor reef, filled with bath water. As David Byrne of the Talking Heads said "oh heaven, this must be the place." Well, until the drunk Germans next door started wrestling on the beach (Nein! Nein!). Oh well...

As we settled in for the night, listening to the lapping of the waves, Michelle realized we had forgotten our contact solution, which for a dive trip is catastrophic. We argued about what to do when we remembered a similar situation, using 0.9% normal saline solution during our Papua New Guinea trip. We asked where the closest medical clinic was (10 mintues away), and arrived and gestured about our need (as they spoke no English) returning 20 minutes later with a syringe w/ needle intact filled with 50 cc of saline solution: mission accomplished.

The next morning Dive Savaii picked us up and brought us to the dive shop. Run by a wonderful French & South African, with 2 visiting dive masters from Czech Republic. The first day of diving was Coral Gardens. This dive site consists of a huge variety of corals: cabbage coral, bubble coral, leather coral, head coral, purple coral… you can reach a max depth of 18-20 meters, following the reef wall, enjoying the coral along with its inhabitants. Big schools of parrot fish, snappers, lazy turtles, eagle rays… sea cucumbers, nudibranches, clown fish, star fish and if you have a quick eye, the titan trigger fish. The second dive was wreck juno, a 3 mast missionary sailing ship which sunk in Lelepa bay in 1881. This iron wreck is full of corals, where one can easily see trumpet fish, turtles and a wide variety of colourful reef fish, parrot fish, yellow snappers, big-eyes and much more. The max. depth one reaches here is 25 meters. We dove with an argetinian guy, and shared the boat with 4 Peace Corps volunteers completing their PADI Open Water Training Course.

That night we were invited to a BBQ at the French owners house, consisting of chicken & burgers. Living in the South Pacific, you attend a wide variety of barbeques. It was wonderful, people from all over the world, Sweden, Germany, Switzerland, etc. Atmosphere was festive, with the dive shops daughter blowing soap bubbles, over a drinking game in Samoan, drowned out by South American singer Manu Ciao. Many Vailimas were consumed and we rested the next day, Sunday along with the whole archipelago.

At night we all ate together under the moonlight, serenated by traditional Samoan music and Siva Dancing. We walked on the beach, curled our toes into the sand, and swam under a Van Gogh esque starry night.

Monday's dive consisted of Lelapa bay self-swim w/o divemaster and the Juno Shipwreck to Coral Gardens route. We saw a 4 foot barracuda named Victor, who was very curious about what we were doing in his neighborhood. These dives were with a nice couple from the South Island of New Zeland, although they were pretty bad divers. Not to be a diving snob, but there is a big difference if everbody knows what they are doing vs not.

Michelle's 30+ birthday correlated with our last and most definitely best day of diving. All of the conditions lined up, minimal wind, calm seas, adequate sunlight to make excellent visibility. Luckily, we were all experienced divers and we made a congo line through Canyon Pinnacle. This dive site consists mainly of pinnacles with many swim-throughs and canyons to explore, reaching a depth of 25 meters. You will also enjoy the blue vastness of the ocean with usual 20m plus visibility. The ocean floor will reveal jenkin rays, cracks and crevices will reveal turtles and puffer fish, soft corals house clown fish and a variety of hard corals housse assorted reef fish. After snaking through the last of the 12 caves or swim-throughs, we all surfaced with big smiles on our faces. Its a feeling that divers get after they know that the conditions were just right.

Realizing the return journey home might be as adventurous as the original, we called the airlines, no problem, all systems are a go. Unfortunately, after crossing the straight and ariving at the airport, we were told "we're in a holding pattern." For the next 6 hours, we waited until at 6pm it was announced to no-one's surprise that the flight was canceled. Thankfully, the 1 aircraft airline, put us up at a decent hotel (well, thats after a week in a hut), paid for transportation and dinner- now that's Fa'a Samoa. We contacted work and told them of our predicament.



We finally arrived back on Tutuila, 1 day and 1/2 after leaving Savaii- yet we had smiles ear to ear. Sometimes simple pleasures are really the deepest and longest-lasting.

3.30.2010

Lifestyle Design


For many years now, Ive been experimenting with various aspects of lifestyle design. The more you learn about different places/cultures in the world, the more you uncover a vast array of different lifestyles, none "better" than the other. To my knowledge no one has found the only way or path to happiness.

The other day I came across a short story which summarizes why working 9-5 (wage slavery) for 40 years is overrated. This lifestyle places people into the category of deferred lifers, which we are unconsciously funneled into from our first day in organized education. Other categories consist of the working rich, the wealth seekers, dream jobbers, and finally lifestyle designers. The later category of people essentially ask, “why wait until you’re rich or retired to live the life you really want to live?” They start with the concept of an ideal lifestyle and work backwards to plan a career that will suit that lifestyle.

My wife & I are tossing around the idea of working 1/2 the year and more importantly not working 1/2 the year. This would enable us to pursue dreams not based upon money, stay tuned to see how this meshes with the modern wage system.

"Don't let your dreams be dreams." - Jack Johnson (Hawaiian singer/songwriter)


The Story of the Mexican Fisherman

by Henrik Edberg.

An American businessman was standing at the pier of a small coastal Mexican village when a small boat with just one fisherman docked. Inside the small boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish.

“How long it took you to catch them?” The American asked.

“Only a little while.” The Mexican replied.

“Why don’t you stay out longer and catch more fish?” The American then asked.

“I have enough to support my family’s immediate needs.” The Mexican said.

“But,” The American then asked, “What do you do with the rest of your time?”

The Mexican fisherman said, “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take a siesta with my wife, Maria, stroll into the village each evening where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos, I have a full and busy life, senor.”

The American scoffed, “I am a Harvard MBA and could help you. You should spend more time fishing and with the proceeds you buy a bigger boat, and with the proceeds from the bigger boat you could buy several boats, eventually you would have a fleet of fishing boats.”

“Instead of selling your catch to a middleman you would sell directly to the consumers, eventually opening your own can factory. You would control the product, processing and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village and move to Mexico City, then LA and eventually NYC where you will run your expanding enterprise.”

The Mexican fisherman asked, “But senor, how long will this all take?”

To which the American replied, “15-20 years.”

“But what then, senor?”

The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right you would announce an IPO (Initial Public Offering) and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich, you would make millions.”

“Millions, senor? Then what?”

The American said slowly, “Then you would retire. Move to a small coastal fishing village where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take a siesta with your wife, stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos…”

3.02.2010

Tramping in Fiordland



Imagine a land of snow-capped mountains, steep-sided fiords, deep lakes, and unbroken forests. This wild and remote region, consisting of 27,000 km2 of unbridled space, is known as Fiordland, and lies in the southwestern portion of the south island in New Zealand. Together with Mt Aoraki NP, Mt Aspiring NP, and Westland NP, they form Te Wāhipounamu (Maori for place of greenstone). In 1990 Unesco recognized the extraordinary beauty of this area and listed it as a world heritage site, which is thought to contain the original flora and fauna present in Gondwanaland (precursor super continent).


The indigenous people of New Zealand, known as Maori (meaning natural), are a Polynesian people thought to have originally migrated to New Zealand in the 1300's and developed a distinctive culture and language. Following the theft of their lands by European settlers in the 1800's, today the Maori (like virtually all indigenous people) have been subjugated to the lower class of society with all vices associated. For example, they represent 14% of total population, yet 50% of prison population.



Last year, we explored on the north island, the Whanganui River NP, the old Maori trading route which flows from the northern slopes of Mt. Tongariro. This expedition would retrace many of the "greenstone" trails, the Maori carved through the forest in order to collect this revered gemstone. The southern island was not heavily populated by the Maori, yet used it for seasonal hunting grounds and greenstone collection. Pounamu (a greenstone) is a form of nephrite jade, generally found in rivers as nondescript boulders and stones which are difficult to identify without cutting them open. These gems were highly prized by the Maori and they undertook perilous expeditions to collect these mainly for tools, ornaments, and weapons.


The story begins with the author and his Swedish colleague traveling along the southern alps, across tranquil pasture lands, scenic lakes, under the shadow of Mt Aoraki. It was to be a 10 day road trip, consisting of a figure 8 through the National Parks of the South Island. Our first stop was the highest mountain in New Zealand, Mt Aoraki (or Mt Cook), standing at 12,31ft. This eminent prominence is draped by 4 photogenic glaciers, which deposit glacial till in the lakes, creating emerald green heaven. I prefer the Maori name for many reasons, mainly because it means cloud piercer (which it does) versus the European name, which is named after the infamous Captain James Cook who never laid eyes on the Mountain. Geography is rife with the names of old white men, who never laid eyes on the things they were named after.



Following three flights (including 1 red-eye), 4 hours waiting for my traveling companion at the Christchurch airport, and 5 hours en route to Mt Aoraki- setting up camp and calling it a day seemed to be in order. My friend stated "you ready to hike to the glacier", thinking to myself are you completely mad, i replied "no thanks I'm going to set-up camp while it still light". Off he went, as i arranged camp next to a multitude of others, and made my way into the dreaming. The next morning before dawn, i awakened to a rapping on the side of the tent, "you ready to get the jump on the others." No, i thought, but a breakfast of bacon, eggs and coffee would be nice. Off we went in the cloak of darkness into the bucolic hooker valley. Traveling along a serene river we climbed into the glacier carved valley toward the foot of the glacier.



After a last minute change of plans we decided to go separate ways, and I would spend the next week in the mountains of Fiordland. So at the crest of the continental divide, I made my departure from organized society. The Routeburn Track traverses 32km of Fiordland NP over the Harris Saddle into Mt Aspiring NP. It is one of the fabled Great Walks of New Zealand, consisting of red/mountain beech, dense ferns, high alpine ridges, and clear flowing rivers and waterfalls. Having enough supplies for a party of three, including a bottle of pinot noir, jars of peanut butter and jam, a loaf of bread, and numerous other unnecessary equipment, I set off up the track, alone into the wild. The word tramping in New Zealand roughly corresponds with North American hiking, European trekking, or Australian bush walking. All are synonymous with carrying a backpack weighing around 35 pounds with tent, cold/rain gear, sleeping pad/bag, food, etc. Tramping is very popular in New Zealand, with lonely planet writing a guidebook on this sole activity, and a permit system in place to ensure protection of the local ecosystem. Typically, a maximum of 40 trampers can commence from the trail head and sleep in either a basic hut or campground. Huts consists of cooking burners, freshwater, mattress, and toilet, while the campground consists of whatever you bring.


While ascending into the alpine of the Routeburn track, i struggled under the weight of an immense pack, in addition to the comments of fellow hikers. Usually, they carried about a 1/4 of the load this yak had, commenting "that's a heavy pack there, "are you a Sherpa", "what do you have in there a library?" Although portrayed in a jovially manner, my first extended trek in over 1 year and feeling like atlas with the weight of the world on my shoulders, the emotional barbs were sharp. I took it in stride as New Zealand humor is a bit more dry than its American counterpart. After a few hours along the Jurassic park fern line, I came to Earland Falls (178m), which burst over the tall cliffs above creating a virtual mist.



I started to hit my stride after a quick PBJ sandwich, recalling the enjoyment of the mountains. There is truly nothing like an extended foray into the wild, leaving your fictional worries at the gates, while more immediate concerns surface. Such as, what am I going to eat, do I have enough water, or is this wine really necessary. Higher and higher the track climbed until it reached above the tree line and the magnificent alpine scenery came to life. I guess pain and pleasure do have a certain covalent bond, as the things in life you remember and truly hold dear are things you've struggled to obtain. Many weeks can pass in civilized life where you simply cannot recall many significant details, yet carry 40 pounds over a 4,000 foot mountain pass and you can remember the pungent smell of dew on a fern leaf (not to mention your body odor). The captivating landscape of the deeply carved fiord was spell-binding, with each step you were reminded of how truly small your existence really was. Ancient tress of 2,000-3,000 years old smiled as you the babe in the woods trudge past.


The first night lead to glacier fed Lake Mackenzie, where the campsite was located. After assembling the tent and arrangement of foodstuffs, I went for an evening stroll beside the lake. Around a bend in the lake I met an Australian couple in their late-seventies, who had been avid hikers for over 40 years. We discussed the different aspects of tramping in New Zealand, Australia, and South America with the warmth of old friends. It never ceases to amaze me the kindness you encounter when people slow down, you take away their possessions, and simply place them together in natural surroundings. People become very friendly, sharing, and reminiscent of life in general- loosely much closer to how human beings were designed to function. We got to discussing our gear, and they berated me for carrying so many things, telling me I needed to get "up to date" or "modernize" my equipment. Having senior citizens encouraging me to "get with it" provided instant humor to my evening. How had a man in his 30's living on a small island in the south pacific fell so far behind the times? They graciously agreed to share my bottle of wine that evening, so with another German couple we sat by the lakeside drinking a bottle of red wine as the sun disappeared behind the mountains. A small group of people from different age cohorts, various parts of the world, meeting on common ground of understanding in the wilds of Fiordland.


That night I was awakened to a neighboring tent listening to lord of the rings (part 1 fellowship of the rings) on their iPod. Although this seemed a bit tactless, before I fell back to sleep I recalled that just over the mountain pass was the fictitious town of Isengard. The next morning, as I packed my bag for the saddle crossing, I watched a park warden berate a German couple for not holding a camping ticket, thus having to pay double for laying on the earth. The sky looked overcast, which was not uncommon in the fiords, where the local weather consisted of either showers or rain (never saw a sunny day forecast). As the clouds mounted their strength for a storm, I passed the Australian couple on a switchback. The wife could hardly contain herself "calling me a crazy Samoan" for the size of my pack. As I walked through a fairy tale setting, winds ripped across my face and the rain began to fall. By the time I reached the Harris Saddle, my rainproof jacket didn't feel so rainproof and I had violated a strict law of the mountains- never wear cotton. After a quick refueling stop at the saddle hut, I picked up the pace down the beech lined path toward Routeburn flat falls. In the midst of the downpour, I opened my map, which stated to expect at least one day of rain during your hike, fair enough I thought, as a young Irishman rounded the corner. He was fixing to hike all 32km in one day, had only a fanny pack around his waist and stated his girlfriend was meeting him on the other side. I'm not sure which was more ridiculous, my pack which looked bound for Mt. Everest or his plan to complete the Routeburn in 1 day. I asked him if he had a headlamp and said thank goodness for girlfriends, we laughed and parted ways.


After covering 10km at an efficient pace, I arrived at the peaceful Routeburn falls, where I asked the warden if I could make it to the trail head in 2 hours, hoping to catch the last shuttle back to town for the day. She sized me up (briefly pausing at my pack) and stated that she could make it with a brisk pace and a small backpack. "Thanks, that's all I need to know!" I passed up on my 2nd night of camping due to the rain and made a dash for the end. Through the virgin mountain & red beech forest I spied a hilarious looking man in overtly small jogging shorts and a huge safari hat, which fairly screams of "tourist" down the mountain. We nodded to each other as I made my way over the last few suspension bridges and out of the of the forest. To my surprise there was a group of people cheering my last steps, congratulating me, and giving me high fives. I soon realized I had stumbled into a day hikers tour group, only to disappear from acknowledgment after they realized i wasn't with the tour. Further realizing that the last bus was not coming, I changed into some dry clothes and planned where to spend the night. When along came the marathon runner with the 10 gallon hat, I nearly cheered him in and gave him a high-5, but merely asked if he was headed back to town. Out of breath, he said yes, but after a 30 minute cool down. The runner turned out to be from southern california and agreed to give me a lift back to town. Along the way he shared his passion of orienteering, a sport where you run in the woods with a compass, and along the 2 hour drive I learned more than any man needed to know in a lifetime. We did have a nice conversation though, as we exited the last mountain pass back to the tourist center of queenstown (adventure capital of the world).


Having survived on strictly fruit/vegetables for 4 days, I gorged on bits of thai, turkish, and indian foods that day. I know its pathetic, but sometimes I hike faster with the thought of a dancing swarma (turkish kebab) in my head. After 1 local draft beer I awoke 10 hours later, nearly missing my bus to Te Anau (walking capital of the world) and the Kepler Track. After nearly recruiting 2 doctors to come to American Samoa during the bus ride, we arrived on the shore of lake Te Anau. Later that afternoon, i dropped 3/4 of my gear at a backpacker place for storage, rented a stove/pan/dehydrated food from Bev's camping, got a weather report from Dept. of Concervation Headquartes, and caught a shuttle to the trail head of the Kepler Track.


The Kepler Track is a 37-mile circular trail which passes from the lowland beech/podocarp forest to the alpine moss forest, to deep gorges with lake views. The track was named after Johannes Kepler, German astronomer famous for his laws of planetary motion. On a crisp blue afternoon i crossed a river and walked several miles through the dense/soggy forest to a campsite on the shores of Lake Manapouri. This was a spectacular area of Fiordland, with steep forested mountains plunging into the deep lake below. As I hiked into camp, I noticed a small hut and wandered in for a closer look. A friendly German guy was sitting inside and stated that there was plety of room for me to stay, which seemed be a perfect way to avoid a wet tent on the first night. As we closed mice holes in the floor boards with rocks, he stated that he was from the former East German Republic, (a place the allied military firebombed at the closure of WW2), known as Dresden. He related that he was traveling around New Zealand for 4 months, in an old beat-up van he purchased. its very popular to purchase used vehicles in New Zealand and resell them at the conclusion of their trip. New Zealand has no laws on importation of old cars and in fact no emission testing at all.


The sunset that evening left you with a feeling that the world is good and that you are exactly where you should be at that time. Dining on dehydrated curry chicken seemed extravagant after many days of PBJ sandwiches. We kept warm later that night by a fire, made by a New Foundland guy and his Quebecian girlfriend. They had the philosophy of bringing the kitchen sink, dining on steak, vegetable, wine and dessert. Everything was in place for a perfect evening, until the mosquitoes and sandflies invaded the hut (probably why everyone chose to set up tents). Corresponding with backcountry sharing he let me use his light, as mine had mysteriously disappeared. In the middle of the night I arranged an emergency tent setup, so the German guy (who I knew for 5 hours) and I snuggled in the tent happy to have survived the "mozzie" feast. For the record, this was my first experience sharing a tent with a strange man.



The next day we were met with skies so blue, no clouds seemed to have received an invitation. The Saxon and I climbed up the gradual slope discussing the bombing of Dresden, race relations in the U.S. south, and alternative forms of lifestyle. He was very typical German with strict orderliness, efficiency full tilt, and love of technological machines. He was an acoustic engineer, he loved camping from his mountain bike in his free time, cruising around NZ in order to improve his English.
Hiking though a pine forest we met a Brazilian, who had camped at the summit w/o a tent (to avoid the $15 dollar tariff) wearing 4 layers of clothing & nearly freezing to death, some people are just plain "bat-shit" crazy, I thought to myself. Amazing scenery was viewed up the iris burn valley to the next campsite next to a river. The Saxon & I parted ways as he was staying in the mountain hut.


As I prepared camp for the night and took some magic hour photos, a bedragled French men slumped into camp. He wore no shirt, and his pants hung a bit low around his waist. As he unloaded his Ramen noodles & white bread, he explained that his drawstring on his pants broke and his pants would fall down awkardly at times. Under his heavy French accent, he explained that he was from the Basque region in southwest France on the border with the Pyrennes. He had never been to Paris and that he recently finished his marketing degree, and planned to pick fruit for money as the season changed. I let the Frenchman use my cooker to heat his noodles, for a karmic repayment to backpacker code. That night after viewing 2 endangered blue ducks, I fell asleep to the sound of flowing water.


The next morning after a quick meal of white rice, the Frenchman & I ascended the Murchison Mountains. The warden had warned of winds of 100 km/hr which was going to be miserable, we thanked her for her kind words of encouragement and continued the climb. After 3 hours we reached the first emergency hut, I refueled with a cranberry snack, which provided nutrients for 1/3 of the day. The views of the fiords were astounding, although the winds did whip us around a bit. Luckily we received no rain and the sun beamed down on us as we wandered into the Mt Luxmore camp. We discussed many interesting things along the way, Basque independence movement, ethnic groups in France/Spain, & politics in Samoa.


The last section of the 10 hr downhill hike dragged on, but soon we were rewarded with panoramic views of broad bay campsite. There the Frenchman, Canadians & I enjoyed a well-deserved fully-clothed rest on the beach. Since the French guy was the only one crazy enough to go into the frigid waters, he was induced to procure everyone fresh water. The last night I passed out by 8 o'clock, feeling deeply satisfied. The last day of tramping brought me back to Te Anau, where I cleaned up, had some lamb Vindaloo, and sampled local brews. The next day I took a 12 hr bus ride back to Christchurch and civilization. I knew I was back when a red-headed Englishman next to me played loud metal music with no consideration for his surroundings. Ah the trappings of the modern world.