Beef...It's What's For Dinner (and breakfast and lunch)

Bidding adieu to New Zealand was difficult, but the lure of time travel and our fifth continent spurred us on.  We boarded our magical 747 in Sydney, flew 14 hours across the Pacific (and the international date line), and landed in Buenos Aires on the same day, one hour before we took off.  It's an expensive way to stay young, but something to consider...

Argentina is renowned for its beef and we did not waste time before finding out why.  Ben's friends Ludy and Rolando live in Buenos Aires and treated us to a gluttonous all-you-can-eat steak buffet.  After months of near vegetarianism, we slithered from the restaurant like sated anacondas, many days worth of meat weighing down our distended bellies. 

After a few days strolling the city's urbane neighborhoods, drinking in the architecture and sultry tango dancers, we were ready to venture further afield.  Our first excursion took us across the Rio de la Plata via ferry to Uruguay.  Here we ambled along the cobblestone streets and relished the tranquility of sleepy Colonia de Sacramento. 





"Sleepy" quickly morphed into "boring", so we turned north, braving an 18-hour bus ride to the confluence of the borders of Argentina, Brazil, and Paraguay.  Here we found much needed laundry, internet, and relaxation before visiting the real attraction - gargantuan Iguazu Falls.  If there is a method to adequately capture this sprawling spectacle photographically, we don't know it.  Spanning two miles in width, this thundering curtain of 275 waterfalls is incredibly accessible by virtue of a network of elevated walkways on the Argentine side.  These platforms allowed us to both teeter on the precipice atop the falls and stand beside the roaring wall of water at the bottom.  The highlight was a boat ride into the churning mayhem below the falls, which put us close enough to be battered by the cascade tumbling from above.

 In South America, more than anywhere else on our trip, we decry our ineptitude with foreign language.  A stronger Spanish foundation would serve us well, though we are absorbing enough to get by.  The other specter haunting us is the rapidly vanishing sand in the hourglass of our trip.  With some effort we are fixated on making the most of our waning days of freedom, though it is difficult not to look ahead and start imagining life in "the real world" again.  Rest assured, we will redouble our efforts and remain focused on fun, for the benefit of our faithful readers!

Simply Fjord-geous

"This is Major Tom to ground control, I'm stepping through the door.  And I'm floating in the most peculiar way". - David Bowie

Though we would love to have you believe that as the door of the tiny plane slid open, we had the composure to run an appropriate song through our heads, that is simply untrue.  At 12,000 feet, with jagged fangs of rock clawing towards us from below and the wind from the open hatch roaring over the whine of the single propeller, our reptilian brains were fully in command.  There were no words of inspiration dancing in our heads - all focus was fixed on normally mundane tasks such as breathing and keeping the flying monkeys in our stomachs from being released as vomit.  How did we end up hanging out the side of this plane with nothing but two miles of sky between us and the unforgiving ground?

Well, there is no sense in skipping ahead, so just be patient and we will find out if there is a rational answer to that question.

New Zealand's biggest draw, when we dreamt up this trip many moons ago, was the expansive Middle Earth terrain and the many highly regarded hikes that amble through it.  The country is known for their world-class trail system ("tramps" along the "tracks" in kiwi speak) and since the limited permits sell out rapidly, we reserved our slots in July 2009.  Our first tramp was the three day, two night Routeburn Track, which dazzled us with rugged mountain scenery over 20 spectacular miles. 

Following the trek, a fortuitously efficient two-day hitchhiking adventure put us back in the role of thumb-wagging passengers to reconnect with our acrid car.  In our best coup yet, Ben was scooped up by a gaggle of South Korean girls and provided a guided tour of the area (in Korean).

Our second tramp was the Milford track, boastfully dubbed "The Finest Walk in the World".  This four day, three night excursion winds gently over 33 miles from a massive inland lake to the fjordland, terminating in the spectacular Milford Sound.  Both tramps were luxurious by our standards, with bunkhouses for sleeping and common rooms for cooking and killing time.  These  way stations injected an enjoyable human element to the treks, inspiring rapid comraderie with out fellow trampers, especially David, John, Diane, and the Flying Dutchman.  We settled into a fantastic routine of strolling the picturesque trails by day, playing cards and slogging through a dehydrated meal in the evening, and listening to the old men in our bunkrooms rock the Casbah with their snoring through the night.  In general, the sun joined us on the trail, but even our rainy days were rewarding, lavishing us with endless waterfalls dangling down the cliff faces like the silver silken threads of so many spider webs. 

Unfortunately for the blood-thirsty sand flies, our days in the wilderness soon reached an end and we continued south to spend some time with Carolyn's family friends, Peter and Linda Seed.  These two globetrotters gave us the royal treatment, with home-cooked meals, a guided tour of Dunedin, and a lifetime supply of British songs to sing, courtesy of the pomp-inflated evening of Queen worship at "The Proms".  Did you know New Zealand is still a vassal state to the British monarchy?  Neither did we, but now you know....and knowing is half the battle.

Our waning days on the Enchanted Isles were spent visiting the country's highest point, the towering Mt. Cook.  This ice-sheathed giant dwarfs its surrounding brethren in the Southern Alps and has provided fertile training ground for some of the globe's most celebrated mountaineers.  With time running short, we went for a short hike to a glacier-fed lake and settled for risking our lives needlessly in other ways.

From the beginning of our trip, our hearts were set on bungy jumping in Queenstown where the "sport" was born.  However, upon coming face to face with the prices, we found the idea of paying $30/second for the experience scarier than the prospect of actually bungy jumping.  Instead, we shifted our focus to the lunacy of sky diving over the Remarkables mountain range and the other-worldly blue of Lake Wakatipu.  The free fall from the plane lasted an incredible 40 seconds, which felt eternal at the time, but is hard to recall at all in retrospect.  It seems that our brains were so overwhelmed by hurtling towards the ground at 120 mph that memories ceased recording during the plummet.  We can easily say that the wind was fierce enough to knock the screams (very manly, confident screams in Ben's case) from our throats.  We bent the budget for the day and sprung for a concurrently diving cameraman to capture Carolyn's jump on film, so her mother could see it for herself at long last.  The five minute parachute float earthward was Carolyn's highlight.  Our tandem masters were able to maneuver our chutes to within shouting distance so we could relish the moment together.  Touchdown brought with it lots of high fives and hugs, knowing we now had more ammo with which to someday convince our kids that we used to be cool.

Our time in New Zealand ended on a high note, with Ben's unforeseen second place finish (and accompanying $10 prize) in a beauty contest while playing Monopoly!

P.S. If you were considering filling you water bottle in the urinal at the Sydney airport, we advise against it.  You have been warned.

And...a few extra pics.

Paradise Found

This just in...it feels like vacation again.  After a short hop over the Tasman Sea and a big hug for our pilot, we closed the door on Oz, tiptoed across the hall, and swung open the next door to find New Zealand beckoning.

For the first time since Singapore, a friendly face greeted us at the airport.  Rosie, a friend from Turkey and native Kiwi, housed us, fed us, chauffered us, and rekindled our excitement for being on the road.  From the "busker" shows (a fancy New Zealand word for "street performers") to an all-day outdoor music fest, to the bustling pub scene, we were treated to the best of Christchurch summer.

Our first order of business after settling in was rebuilding our paltry cache of remaining gear for the upcoming excursions.  We received phenomenal assistance in this quest from our beloved friends at gear manufacturer, Kelty.  Our connection there (code name: Bizz) donated two brand new backpacks, a Pawnee 3300 and a Coyote 4500, which were shipped to intercept us in Christchurch.  Thanks again Kelty and Bizz - we can´t say it enough!  With our newest companions on our backs, Rosie graciously spirited us to all of the city´s most promising second-hand stores, where we bedecked ourselves in all of the best fashions of the 80´s and 90´s.  Ben even scored his first denim since college, inheriting a pair of castoff jeans from Rosie´s flatmate, Warren.

Rejuvenated and resupplied, our wanderlust flared up and we embarked on a three week, counter-clockwise tour of New Zealand´s South Island.  Heading north from Christchurch, we skirted the stunning Pacific coast, stopping occassionally to skip gleefully down a deserted beach or watch a seal lumber awkwardly across the rocks.  We stayed in an enjoyable string of mom and pop hostels under the BBH affiliation, which we found to be traveller-run and cozy.

Our chariot, eventually named Lyle, became a welcome sight to New Zealand´s plentiful hitchhikers, as we repaid the kilometers that we had borrowed while thumbing in Europe.  The hitchhikers gave back too; one of them spilled milk all over the backseat, leaving a smell that insured we could not forget her for the rest of our roadtrip.  At the suggestion of a roadside info booth (we really were that desperate for solutions), we applied a top coat of vinegar to the backseat in hope of removing the stench.  This left us with an odiferous conglomeration best described as what you would smell if you were dying Easter eggs, ran out of eggs, and decided to proceed with roadkill instead.  Neadless to say, the windows stayed down for the rest of the trip.

Upon reaching Golden Bay, at the northern tip of the South Island, we treated ourselves to a sunrise horseback ride on stunning Cape Farewell.  This expedition echoed a ride Carolyn did with her parents 15 years earlier and we marvelled at the fact that the cicadas who serenaded us along the way were likely the offspring of those she had heard so many years before.  For his part, Ben clung tightly to his trusty steed, Ivanhoe, and slowly picked up enough confidence to revel in a thundering beach gallop past the towering stone sea stacks.

We also enjoyed a quiet hike in Abel Tasman National Park, which paid off on a deserted strip of sand lapped by the waves.  We were definitely on vacation again!

Soon our path turned south to follow the island´s rugged west coast, where the mountains march into the sea.  The highlights here were the enormous Franz Joseph and Fox glaciers, beneficiaries of the bountiful precipitation dumped as moist ocean air that slams into the peaks of the Southern Alps.  We then turned inland, weaving through the towering mountains and sprawling lakes that line the passage to the charming town of Wanaka.  Here the country`s siren song reached a crescendo and we started flirting with the idea of living in New Zealand someday.  As of this writing, the Kiwi immigration folks do not agree with that sentiment, but we are sure they will relent when they see how nice we are.

Next stop: Queenstown - adventure sports capital of the planet!