The challenge

To travel overland from Europe to Everest. The ıdea both excıtes and terrıfıes me.

To follow the route forged centurıes before by Ghengıs Khan, Atılla the Hun, Marco Polo and Alexander the Great through some of the most remote and potentıally dangerous places on the face of the planet. This was to be our OdysseyThe very idea evokes romantıc ımages penned by men lıke Marlowe, Keats and Shelley and brıngs to mınd pıctures of vast caravans of camels carryıng fıne sılk and fragrant spıces from the Orıent sınce before the bırth of Chrıst. Ancıent but surprısıngly modern too

So early in the year 2000 we set sail on a voyage of discovery trekking overland through South East Asia, the Sub Continent and the Middle East to discover our heritage and roots in Ireland. Now almost seven years later we find our selves still travelling and still wending our way back home: the long way.

This collection of photos and reflections cover the period from May 2006 to January 2007 as our overland Odyssey takes us through the exotic and seldom visited countries of Central Asia and up into Tibet and then south from Nairobi through the countries of
Central and West Africa.

Heading South

28th May 2006 – Maidenhead
At last - tomorrow morning we set off by train to Dover where we will meet with the crew of the overland vehicle that will be our home for the next few months. This first leg to Istanbul takes us through France Germany Austria and then through the Balkans, and Romania. It’s a positioning run for the beginning of the tour so it's just the two of us. It's all familiar territory so we hope to persuade the crew make good time so we can enjoy a day or two in the beaches in Croatia or Monte Negro. Anyway, fingers crossed!

The tour then begins in istanbul travelling through Turkey, Georgia and Turkmenistan to Ashgibat. - Very excited but exhausted from packing up!

East meets West

5th June 2006 - Istanbul.
An exotic synthesis of the familiar and the unknown, East embracing West, vibrant and yet strangely peaceful and quiet.
Fifteen million (and two} people purched on the doorstep of Asıa and Europe. The Blue Mosque and the Aya Sofıa eyeballıng each other across the few hundred metres whıch has separated them and dıvıded Chrıstıanıty from Islam for almost 2000 years - seemıngly happy to share the same groundspace of Sultanahmet. If there ıs a sımbol of hope for us, thıs surely must be ıt. And here we waıt to begın our odyssey

Faraway places with strange sounding names

6th June 2006 - Turkey

Bing Crosby bought those words to the world in his 1941 recording, 'Far away places with strange sounding names'. Places like Constantinople, Samaqand, Khiva and Tashkent. Locations steeped in mystery and romance and all the exotic imagery of the Silk Route into the heart of Asia itself.

'The Sılk Road though was never a sıngle hıghway. It was a network of overland routes that wove through the otherwıse ımpeneterıble physıcal barrıers of Central Asıa. Thıs system of traıls carrıed more than sımply ıtems of trade; ıt was the ınternet of ıts day, a superhıghway along whıch goods,ıdeas,languages and people thronged. It meant globalısatııon many centurıes before anyone came up wıth the ıdea',.(Nıck Mıddleton - Extreems along the SılkRoad)

Meanwhıle we dream and rest from our trıp down through the Balkans (no wars thıs week) here ın Istanbul. The next leg of our odyssey begıns on Thursday when we wıll be joıned by four other ıntrepıd travellers for the 23 day journey up through the Caucausus and Trans Caspıan regıons to Ashgabat.

We had hoped to post a daıly journal usıng a mobıle phone wıth emaıl capabılıtıes but alas - technology ıs challenged, even ın Eastern Europe so don't lıke our chances ın Asıa. Special thanks to those of you who have posted comments to earlier blogs. As Dean Martin used to say Keep them cards and letters coming folks.

Living in caves

10th June 2006 - Cappadocia
In the half light of evening it spread itself out before us. A sereal landscape formed thousands of years earlier as molton volcanic lava fell like huge droplets of soft honeycombe rock over the floor of the Goreme valley. A Disneyland like paper mache ocean unfolding before us in the soft moonlight.
It had been a long and exhausting drive. Some 600km south east of Istanbul to the Cappadocia region of central Anatolia. It was here almost 2000 years ago that the early Christian community established itself in the thousands of caves carved out of the soft volcanic rocks by erosıon and generatıons of earlier inhabitants. The network of caves and interlinking underground cities, some housing upwards of 50,000 people, offered them cool and secure shelter. Today they are a national park and world hertiage site which we were able to climb over and tunnel through like creatures from Fraggle Rock before returning to our own dug out accommodation in a nearby tourist camp. Ours is a complex of several rooms including kitchen and toilet facilities. It has carpeted floors and plastrered walls and ıs most comfortable. It ıs, I ımagıne, much like the homes of the communities who have lived here before us.
Whilst centuries of erosion has caused physical decay to many of the older complexes, as you will see if I am able to up load the photos, the same works of nature are also exposing new columns which seem to be growing at the same rate as the old ones are being eroded. Perhaps God is in control after all.

Next stop the Black Sea and crossing into Georgia. Meanwhile, the swimming pool calls.

Perhaps the grass just seems greener?

12th June 2006 - Trabzone
We are still only several hundred miles east of Istanbul. In the high mountainous Trabzon region bordering Georgia and the Black Sea but already it seems a million miles from the Bush/Blair media circus, the instant celebrity culture and the endless parade of awards ceremonies we had become all but immune to. Boundries that until a few short weeks ago seemed to define and mark our own daily lives. People here are poor by western standards, subsistance farmers and punctuated by the five daily calls to prayer, the tides and seasonal demands of the harvest rather than the hourly BBC or CNN news broadcast. Under privliged by our measure, but seemingly relaxed and content with what we might call the simple life. Completely unlike us except for their worries: providing for their daily needs, raising their children and finding their own inner peace and happiness. Somehow it seems easier to see the reality of life beneeth the smoke and mirors of our own existance - or is it just a case of the grass is greener?
Next stop – Georgia.

A toast to Timmy

Georgia 19th June 2006 -Tblisi
Friendship and hospitality. Read any of the travel guide books and you will find they are unanimous: Georgia is renowned for the warmth and the hospitality of its people. Nowhere is this more evident than at the evening meal. Tables groan with home grown produce, cellars are filled with wine made from the grapes that cover the garden walkways and verandahs of the house and there is fresh fruit and vegetables from the market place. Hours of preparation and cooking to be enjoyed slowly and laced with conversation and toasts extolling the values of friendship, family and the mysteries of life itself.

All this somehow made it easier for us to reflect on the sudden death of our good friend Tim Sinnot. To think and talk with others about our fond memories of him and our shock at the discovery of his unexpected death last week. A warm hearted and generous man who would have been right at home here in Georgia. So Tim, we raise our glasses to you and to Robyn and to all of our friends and family.

To friends, family and the mystery of life: To Timmy.....

Better than Sainsburys

15th June - Batumi
Even though we had risen early the village was already a buzz with activity.. Old ladies dressed in black were gathering to draw their daily water supply and talk with one another, men cut and carried firewood and laughing children were setting off down the dry dusty river bed to school. Another norman day in a village where life had changed little in the last 100 years.
Just 12 hours earlier they had gathered to welcome us as we set up camp on the small grassy plateau beside the dry river bed. This deligation that had come with gifts of potatoes, garlic, blue berries and wine for our evening meal was gathering again but this time to farewell us, neighbours and already friends. We laughed together and embraced and said our goodbyes and I was left to wonder if they would have been so warmly recieved setting up camp outside my home in Berkshire.
Later that morning we stopped in another village, this time to buy wine for our evening meal. It was a small domestic vineyard producing house wine for themselves and family. The cellar was dark and attached to the kitchen, its earthen floor housing the 3 clay storage vats of maturing wine. At the far end stood an old table carefuly dressed with fresh home baked bread, and a greek type salad. There were clay drining bowls to sample the under floor vintage and a flask of Chacha [distilled spirits] to finish off with. - and 'grandma' our hostess saw to it we did!A very different experience from selecting the evening bottle from Sainsbury's metro in Maidenhead but one I could get used to

Azerbaijan-Hope the wine holds out!

26th June 2006 - Bakau
Arrived in Baku capital of Azerbiajn - a seamless intergration of East meets West, according to The Lonley Planet guide book. Anyway its certainly very western and secular and it's here we await sea cargo transportation for our truck across the Caspian to Turkmenistan on the northern border of Iran. The Turkmen are a nomadic people living in the Karakum Desert in some of the most remote scenery on earth. Their income is from carpet making and we will stay with then in their Yerts [round tent like homes] en route to the capital, Ashgabat where several more will join our group as we head into Uzbekistan.
Have largely given up on emails - it's too difficult and no facilities to upload photos so appologies for not mailing. You can still text us on our uk numbers if you want - infact as there is a GPS capability on the mobile network here I have been able to post the last 3 entries to this site from my phone - long may it last!
Keep us in your prayers and pray the wine we bought in Georgia holds out!

Turkmanbassy - Crossing the Caspian

27th June 2006 -Bakau
The sea lapped gently against the side of our boat: it was morning and we were at anchor several miles off the port of Turkmenbasy awaiting clearance to dock. During the night we had sailed for 320km from Baku across the oil rich Caspian, ahead of us lay several hundred more of desert to reach our destination of Ashgabad. As we sailed in to the small port town with its tiny house hanging lazily from the mountain backdrop, we were struck by the hot silent landscape and the seeming lack of any activity on shore. A small town on the edge of nowhere offering us no illusion of the harshness ahead. Its inhospitable profile mirroring our own feelings of heaviness as we reflected on the devistation news that four friends had been tragically killed only hours early; Gavin Thrush, his sister-in-law Liz Dengate-Thrush, his father Ron Thrush, and long time family friend Heather - all dead. We were numbed and as silent and emotionally barren as the landscape before us. This family had been Anthea's family's next door neighbour and second home since childhood. All tragically killed in a car accident in Wellington just two days before.
Our heart-felt sympathy and condolances to Cynthia, Ruth, Peter, Liz and Amy-Louise. My God comfort you and may they all rest in peace.

Streams in the desert

1st July 2006 - Ashgabat
I remember the sign I once had on my wall at Harcourt & Co, "Six munce ago I coldnt evin spel salesmin, now I is one." Six months ago I didn't even know where Ashgabat was, now we're here!
I'm not sure what I expected to find. I knew it was a predominantly Muslim country: I knew it was part of the old USSR, and smack in the middle of one of the worlds harshest deserts, so I supose I had imagined a hot dry desert town in the middle of nowhere. Hot and dry and in the middle of nowhere, yes, but small desert town, no. Ashgabat is more like Singapore, without the crowds than the forgotten colonial outpost totally destroyed by an earthquake in 1948 and then 'closed' by Russia' for more than a decade whilst it was rebuilt. Then with independance in 1991 and an influx of investment capital from other oil rich states, white marble clad hotels, appartment blocks and commercial buildings spring up like mushrooms from amid the 1950s Russian colonial architecture. Fountain lined streets and tree filled parks abound and wide boullevards now trickle out from its centre. There is no income tax (only a small superannuation contribution), there is free water and gas piped to each home and thanks to a two year compolsory military service period, full employment to follow tertiary education.
I know all this is just first impression and a very skin deep analysis: and I know that tomorrow we will be back in the Karakam desert and meeting the undeucated nomadic face of Turkmenistan so - watch this space!! Meantime, back to the hotel pool!!!

Promise not to tell?

5th July 2006 - Khiva
Now promise not to tell anyone but I like Marion Keyes. I like her characterisation and the way she digs just far enough beneath the surface to expose the rich tapestry of thoughts and emotions that compliment the plot. But it's the way her books draw me into her own cultural background that I like the most. Her stories could be set anywhere but it's their cultural context that gives her characters that unique subtilty and flavour - the way they say things, their perspectives on issues and their shared history that mark them as uniquely Irish. So yesterday when we farewelled three of the four people we had travelled with for the past few weeks and welcomed five new travel companions we realised that our 'truck culture' had disappeared with them. By the time we arrive in Biskek in two weeks we will have evolved a new truck culture. It will be unique to this new group of people but like Marion Keye's novels, much of its subtleties will be missed by those who have not shared in its making. Meanwhile we continue to travel through the Karakum desert in plus 40 temperatures and on roads that rival those we knew in Albania. A new group, travelling a new route and building a new relationship. A new Culture. I supposes it's a bit of a microcosm of life really? PS for the more boring details of our travel itinerary click on the links on this page for Turkmenistan and on the one for the Silk Route. Still unable to upload any photos - bugger! Next stop Khiva in Uzbekistan – magic!!

Exotic desert watering hole

5th July 2006 - Khiva
The mud and clay fortress walls that have protected this ancient city for hudreds of years still stand. Just like the day they were first built. Their sun baked muddy fawn colouring giving the appearance that they have been pushed up from the surrouding desert from which they were made. Inside are tall minerettes and gold and blue mosiac domes cap the earthern brick mosques, houses and public buildings. Khiva, once a watering hole along the Silk Road from China to Europe is now a showcase of Islamic Architecture, art and culture. Thanks to extensive rebuilding in the19th century and more recently, the UN World Heritage program, Khiva is once more a living city. Young men still gather daily in the to learn wood carving and young ladies, silk dying and carpet weaving while older women draw water daily from the well just as countless generations before them have. This is a timeless place. Quiet, peacefull and unhurried offering rest to travellers. After two nights camping in the desert we were very glad it still did! Unfortuately I still can't get pictures on to this site but just do a Google search on Khiva - images. It's amaising.
I've also added links to sites of others travelling with us - look at the top left hand corner of the site and click the link.

Next stop Bakhara

Mosques,madrassahs,minerettes and mausoleums

10th July 2006 – Samarqand
Mosques,madrassahs,minerettes and mausoleums by the score. Some of the most amazingly impressive examples of Islamic art and architecture anywhere in the world is here in Uzbekistan. Breathtakingly beautiful and the equal of the ancient wonders of Egypt or the majesty of Rome. We've been here at the very heart of the Great Silk Road for the last two weeks in Khiva, Bukhara, Samarqand and Tashkent. We've visited and stayed in ancient Caravan Sarai, nomadic Yhurts and modern hotels. We've browsed centuries old bazaars and trading domes, sat beside refreshing pools where the travellers took tea and relaxed, we've enjoyed delicious local cuisine and hospitality, felt perfectly safe at all times and of course taken hundreds of photographs.
It's hard to imagine that this won't be the highlight of our Off Road Odyssey but we're off to Kergystan next week and there's China, Tibet and Africa too. I'm sure we'll rave about them just as much.
At a personal level we're both very well and enjoying the tour. We seem to have lost text contact with Australia and New Zealand so apologies if we haven't replyed to you. Still having trouble with emails and photographs as well.
Thanks Bridiget for the sox- a little bit of possom heaven, possoms!

Tashkent to Fergana

16th July 2006
In his novel, The Screwtape Letters, C.S. Lewis remarks that gratitude looks to the past and love to the present whilst fear looks to the future. Eternity therefore, he suggests, exists at the point where gratitude and love meet, i.e. the present.
I was unfortunately able to test this theory for myself this morning as our taxi sped at over 140 kmh through the outskirts of Tashkent and over rugged mountain bypass roads to the Fergana Valley. I can report that I was deeply conscious of both the present moment and of eternity. Small villages, dazed donkey cart drivers and startled pedestrians all vanished into obscurity in the rear vision mirror as we laced our way in and out of slow cars using all of the three traffic lanes. At this point Lewis' theory came under severe strain as gratitude vanished out of the window and fear made the all too short journey to the future to join me in the passenger seat whilst a quick Act of Contrition prepared my eternal soul for the worst! I was emotionally discombobulated.
Anyway, as you've probably guessed by now, we arrived safely (well, unharmed) and I am now recovering and soothing my shattered nerves in the Fergana Valley hotel pool and wondering who got it wrong, me or Lewis!

Things we have learned

Kygerstan
24th July 2006 – Karakol
Just before we left the UK in May, we spent a week on a Dutch bargemoored near Bedford where we discovered a church that was pastored by John Bunyon, the author of The Pilgrim's Progress. The small reformationist church was austerely plain except for a series of twelve stained glass windows depicting aspects of Christian's progress during his journey. It made us wonder what adventures lay ahead for us on our Journey. Fortunately there's nothing too profound to report at this stage but one of two mundane lessons we have learned are;

• A traveller is neither a tourist nor a holiday maker.

• Other people's cultures and customs are not there to make me feel comfortable but to make them feel comfortable.

• Poverty is not defined by a deficit in the things we don't have, but by dissatisfaction with the things we do have.

• Don't camp in grassy feilds - they are a haven for millions of insects, bugs and biting things.

• All people are the same irrespective of race colour or creed - "If you cut us do not bleed?" Shakespeare's Shylock, Merchant of Venice.

• An adventure is not an adventure at the time, just pain and discomfort recalled at some later time from the comfort of home.

Soon we begin our journey through China and the Tibetan plateau to Everest Base Camp (5200 mtrs) where minus 15 degress with fierce wind and altitude sickness await us. Yippee! So I'm sure we'll have learned some more lessons by the time we get to Nepal.

Where did you get that hat?

27th July 2006 – Chalpon ata,Kygerstan
In earlier days, a hat said a lot about who you were or what you did. Butcher, baker, policeman, nurse etc: all wore distinctive hats that were exclusive to their occupational group or type. Here in Central Asia your hat can not only signal your occupation but also your religious affiliation, your age and even the part of the country from which you come. Young women, for example , change their headdress when they marry, have children and when they turn 30! Boys change theirs upon iniiation to early manhood and again when they take up a trade or deepen their religious committment. Sitting here with my green tea in a Kygerstan cafe I only need to look up to see a dozen different hat types walking past the window. Simply keeping the sun off ones head is not the sole function of a hat. In the merchant towns along the Great Silk Road, there were several buildings common to each; a Caravan Sarai where they could reach and warehouse their goods, a bath house, a money exchange and a trading dome. The first area in the bazaar was the hat trading dome. However, times are changing here as in the west and the universal headdress for all under 40s for all irrespective of gender or demographic subgroup is - you guess it - the baseball cap! In a few years it will probably be the only one and it's purpose will be to look cool and keep off the sun off.

The Karakoram

12th August 2006 – Dun Huang
Our bus slowly squeezed its way through the Pamir Gorge. Flanking us on either side were the barren reddish brownrock cliffs which rose from the river bed like giant sky scrapers, towering hundreds of metres above us. We were on the Karakorum Highway which would take us above 4,000 mtrs to the Pakistan border and past K2, the world's second highest mountain. The landscape was desolate yet astoundingly beautiful and the roar of the river deaferning as it thundered below us: its errosive force relentlessly pounding at the very foundations of the road. It was through terrain like this that in excess of 25,000 Pakistani and Chinese workman had laboured for more than 20 years to forge this 1,300km trade link across the Karakorams.
Small islands of green provided spasmodic grazing for nomadic flocks of sheep and goats while deserted mud brick houses, flat roofed and reminiscent of peasant Spanish or Moroccan styles, clung desperately to the river banks. As we moved higher, huge snow clad mountain peaks pierced the clouds and thin fingers of glacial ice inched their way ever downward: the 'Father of Ice' (7,500 mtrs) has over 30 glaciers making this truely the H.O. for glaciers! At almost 4,000 mtrs the air was cool and chrisp and the sky a hazy blue as we stopped for lunch, Mutton Soup, and bread from our hoast familys own kitchen. It would be near here that we would spend tomorrow evening with local families in their round Teepee like 'Yhert' houses on the shores of a turquiose blue glacial lake before returning to Kashgar on Friday.
Seven years ago we began this journey up the Karakorum from Pishawa in Pakistan and were given a white crystal from K2. Our journey today from the Chinese side somehow compleeted this for us.

The not so great Wall of China

13th August 2006 - Dunhaung
It spread out before us in every direction. An enormous grey ocean and sand, flat and lifeless. Devoid of any evidence of either plant or animal life and extending to all horizons motionless except for the fierce hot desert wind that blew continiously across it's face. We were driving away from Dunhuang past the mountainous sand dunes that mark the western border of the Great Gobi Desert and forward into it's heart. It was here, more than two thousand years ago that construction was begun on China's Great Wall. A mamouth straw and clay barrier standing some 10 metres high by 3 metres wide. We stood momentarily on the threshhold of history. Eroded by time, the Wall is now reduced to a broken chain of ruined sections except for two remaining gates, a control point through which merchants and travellers must have all passed in order to continue their journeys by either the northern or southern Chinese Silk Routes before heading south towards Tibet and the Himalayas. This journey of more than 2000 km would only take us a little over three weeks by truck but many months by camel for those in whose footsteps we would follow.
The Silk Route may have been the trade and information super highway of its day, but today's internet is a much simpler and quicker way to conduct business - but not necessarily better.

The Chinese Silk Route & Tibet

15th August 2006 - Golmond
We have been traveling progressively eastward now for more than 74 days and in the 30 or so that lay ahead, will cross the vast Turpan desert (where we will at times be 50 mtrs below sea level), ascend the Tibetan plateau, trek to Everest Base Camp, see the wonders of Lhasa and visit numerous temples and monasteries before compleeting the Asian leg of our Odyssey in Nepal at the begining of September. We will experience temperatures ranging from +45 during the day to -03 in the evenings as well as high altitudes (5,200 mtrs) and strong winds off the Himalayas, so we are kitted out with everything from sun screen to down jackets and mittens. This will with out doubt be the biggest physical (and emotional) challenge either of us have ever experienced - but Michael Palin made it, and so will we!
Meanwhile we are enjoying Dunhaung, an important Oasis town at the cross roads of the northern and southern Chinese Silk Route where tonight we will visit the western end of the Great Wall and explore the Buddhist art caves at nearby Mogao. This is an area of China seldom visited by westerners so we get the feeling we are the only outsiders here and continue to be a source of local interest attracting crouds of onlookers where ever we go.
I (John) have even experienced the local medical services here in Dunhaung where I had an eye operation in the local hospital to remove a cyst that had developed under my right eye lid. It was conducted in the doctors office, took no more than 20 minutes and cost less than $25.00 including the taxi there, prescription charges, and the cost of issuing my Chinese medical health records and certificate! Quicker than the NHS

Life at 4,000m above sea level

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Unveiling of the Thangka

21st August 2006 - Drepung
We sat there like participants in some latter day re run of the Sermon on the Mount. It was just before dawn and in company with thousands of Tibetan pilgrims we had climbed in the dark silence up the holy mountain opposite Drepung Monastery in heavy rain to wittiness the annual unveiling of the Thangka. Soon it would be carried in procession by huindreds of Monks to a site just opposite the Monastery and placed on a huge wooden frame where it would be hoisted to reveal its full 50x50m image of the Buddha. Along the mountain paths leading there, hundreds of smoldering piles of Autumn leaves laced with incense by passing pilgrims released clouds of sweet smelling smoke giving a solemn and holy atmosphere to everything. As dawn broke, the Thangka was unveiled to roars of approval from the ever increasing crowds. The Shoton Festival had begun and a growing carnival element added warmth to the cold morning and a secular face to an otherwise sacred event. It was warmer now and people were erecting shade shelters and preparing picnic food. We purchased a plate each and joined a local family dressed in traditional Tibetan style. Mother, Father and Granny, all twirling prayer Wheels in one hand and wheelding chop sticks in the other while their twin boys (about 4) conducted mid air battles with their blow up Batman dolls. It was crazy. We had arrived at Drepung by taxi well before dawn and now, in the warm afternoon sun we walked the several km back along the Beijing Road to Lhasa with our new friends. Tired but happy.

On the roof of the world

28th August 2006 - Everest Base Camp
The dark jagged silhouette of the Himalayas stood out amongst the grey pre dawn sky. It was
almost dark as we began this, the final stage of our journey to Everest Base Camp and as the warming rays of the sun bled into the ebbing darkness, the blue/black outline of the mountain range twinkled through hews of purple, red and brown merging them into an eairy back drop that separated us from and the morning sky. The wheat fields awakened too and burst into a speckled mix of browns, golds yellows and greens - all unfolding as from sleep and rubbing their eyes in salute of the new day. Tibetan farm houses with their distinctive triangular shaped windows and roof parapets decorated with tree branches (like Christmas trees) and covered in colourful prayer flags completed the picture as we ascended to our first stop - breakfast at 5,200 meters. Today was special. Today we would make it to the roof of the world.
As the daytime colours of the Himalayas melted back into shades of evening darkenss once again we arrived at the small gathering of mountaineering tents that comprise Everest Base Camp village. Our tent was spacious and warmed by an internal pot bellied stove and was strewn with carpet covered couches. There were thick Yak hair douvets, hot Jasmine tea and home made noodle and rice dishes. Everything we needed to see out the night. Next morning as the dawn once agan broke across the Tibetan sky, we saw it. Everest. Revealing herself in a sparkling shroud of fresh white snow. We popped two more altitude pills each and reached for the cameras.

Caught in the cross fire

8th September 2006 - Kathmandu, Nepal
The heavy roller door on the front of the camera shop in New Road slid shut sandwiching us between angry Maoist crowds and the four smiling camera salesmen for whom we had just become a captive audience - literally! Shop keepers all along the road secured their shops and scrambled to protect their valuable stock from possible riot damage. Just 24 hours earlier, rebels had savagely killed a young taxi driver and now angry crouds were moving toward nearby Durbar Square where the King was attending Religious ceremonies. As the danger past and shop fronts were once again raised we evaporated, along with others, into the quieter side streets and away from the crowds. All week there had been parades and demonstrations watched over by malitia dressed in grey/blue jungle fatigues and carrying riot shields and long bamboo poles.The mood is still quite quiet but we are cautious to avoid crowds and potential flash points.Seemingly the Maoist support comes from mainly county folk many of whom live in mountain villages in sub standard conditions with little chance of raising their living standards. How irronic that issues of such basic human riights should go unheard until become millitant angry cries that only attract the attention of those who wouild use them to fulfill their own political agendas in exchange for empty promises of prosperity and equality for all

Where's Russel Coutts when you need him?

12th September 2006 – Nepal
To be fair, He only ever did it the once. In all of recorded history God only ever ordered up one flood. Yes, it was a big one, but He had done His Environmental Impact Report, He had given every one plenty of warning and he had a well prepared contingency plan to minimise collateral damage. In short, God's flood was well planned, well managed and only the baddies died. Everyone was happy.
Today however floods are a dime a dozen. No matter what the season or whereever in the world you look, floods are common place. Widespread, unpredicted chaos with no warning and no contingency to control the damage to property or minimise the loss of human life. Has God gone completely bonkers, you might ask, or should we look elsewhere for the reason for all this flooding?
In Albania they use the word MIAFTA. It means,halt,stop,enough, no further. Despite my promises never to flood the world again, I think that if I were God, I'd be revising my plans for 'Operation Noah', advertising for a new skipper and muttering miafta under my breath.
Here in Nepal it has been raining for days. Hundreds of hectares are under water, farmers have lost their summer harvest, there will be huge food shortages in the coming months and widespread disease and death within a few weeks. I'm not sure who you think is responsible, but I believe it's the direct result of human greed, environmental mismanagement and apathy.
. . . anyone know what Russel Coutts is up to these days?

On the Hippie trail

13th September 2006 - Pokhara
In the late sixties it was just a tiny lakeside town. First stop on the hippie trail between Kathmandu and Istanbul or, if you were serious about your hash, Marrakesh. In those days before tourism and tighter drug laws they would overnight here on the way south to the Indian border: a stop that would often last several weeks or more! They found the heodinistic lifestyle just perfect for doing everything they were so good at: getting stoned,eating, growing their hair, staring into the middle distance and looking cool.
Today it's still a tiny lakeside town. Just a collection of neatly organised trekking shops, restaurants and bars at the beginning of the Annapurna Trail. A perfect backdrop to the snow clad Himalayas and an oasis where leisurely meals, good books and short walks can easily fill several days. At least that is our hope.
We've moved here from Kathmand till end of September when we are booked (via Dubai) to Nairobi. We have a very nice motel type apartment in the centre of Pokhara's only main street for a stagering $3 per night! There is a variety of new release movies playing nightly at the many restaurants below us, and lashings of Everest Beer at $1 per bottle. Who knows, perhaps we'll even grow our hair and try and look cool too.

No News is peace

18th September 2006 - Pokhara
Call me naive or an escapee from reality but the truth is I've never been so politically ill informed or, at the same time so relaxed about life in general and I'm wondering if these two states are at all related. For more than 100 days now I've gone cold turkey on BBC, CNN & Reuters. I no longer know who leads New Labour, neither do I care, and International Terrorism is a phrase that has slipped completely from my mind.
In its place I've given space to considering Byzantian Spirituality, Eastern phillosophies, visited countless Temples & Monasteries, marvelled at Islamic architecture and art, dwelt with nomadic tribesmen in Central Asia and the Tibetan Plateau and tried to decide which colour pashmina would be best to buy. In short, I've been sidetracked by the less important issues in life; art, culture and religion.
International news coverage may have shrunk our world, but has it also shrunk our minds as well? Perhaps I've just lost the plot or suddenly unplugged from the Matrix. Oh well, who care, don't worry, be happy!



Jack fell down . . . .

19th September 2006 - Pokhara
Travelling through developing countries can be a risky business at the best of times. First of all, there's the whole range of tropical diseases, and then there're things like diarrhoea, food poisoning and dehydration to watch out for. But wost of all are the whole range of man made hazzards like bungee jumping, paragliding, white water rafting and canyonning etc. These can be very bad for your health. So being of sound mind and nearing sixty, I determined to be totally risk adverse this time around. I got all my shots, even those you don't really need, drank only treated water, watched what I ate and religiously abstained from any activity more risky than reading. Apart from a minor eye operation in China, this stragegy was quite successful.
So, today, in accordance with our "No Risk Policy" we tooka taxi rather than trekking to the top of Sarankot. Even though it's nearly 2000m it's dwarfed by the surrounding Annapurnas (6000m - 8000m) so doesn't even qualify to use the term Mt Sarankot. A safe enough strategy you would have thought. Then, caught by a fit of mountain madness, we decided to walk down and back to our motel. The guide book didn't actually use the works "steep vertical descent" but did assure us that it was a good path and should only take 2 - 3 hours. What it couldn't tell us was that heavy monsoon rains had swollen the streams the cross the path about 2 km from the bottom and that part of the track was under water.
SO being a careful risk traveller that I am, I promptly slipped and fell approx 1.5 metres from the track into a man made irrigation ditch below. Fourtunately the stones in the ditch were quite smooth and soft so I only bruised rather than broke my hip/ankle/wrist/arm/leg but I did crack my head on the nice smooth flat stone that was being used as a foot bridge by those who chose to walk across rather than fall across.
The resulting rush of adrenalin had me on my feet again quite quickly byt the mossy stones underfoot had other plans for me, and, whilst cautioning Anthea to be careful, I slipped and fell again. Twice! By this stage the small gash in my head had pumped out enough blood for me to be able to audition as an extra in ER.
So on the way home I called on the local doctor, Prof C.N. Pandy. AHW CTEVT (Nepal). His practice is easy to find. It's on the footpath near our motel. It has a corrigated iron lean to roof like the shops on either side, and the front is completely open to the street. There's a long wooden bench beside his desk which serves as his waiting room and from where he gives medical advice and despenses prescription drugs from the shelf behind his desk. More serious cases, like my own, are dealt with in the surgery, a small narrow space at the rear. All very much the one stop shop model and certainly easier than getting to A&E and getting the prescription filled at Boots. My wound cleaned and armed with antibiotics and iodine, I returned to our motel thanking God that all that school milk I was forced to drink as a child had strengthened my bones and I only had a few cuts and bruises.
Anthea was gracious enough not to laugh till after my third fall, but was too distracted to notice my prized English sun hat floating off down the irrigation ditch towards the nearby rice paddies. Oh well - win some, lose some.

What Shape is your God Box?

20th September 2006 - Pokhara
This week, several young Hindu girls were taken to the local hospital here in Pokhara after swooning and fainting as the result of an intense religious experience during a school retreat. Nothing unusual about that, you might say, and you'd be right. Young girls have been fainting and swooning for just about as long as God has been revealing Her/Himself to mankind. However, if the experience were genuine, how would we know if it were God (as we know Him) or some other spiritual deity?
A friend who worked as a broadcaster in the days when it was call "The Wireless" said that radio is its own wardrobe mistress. By this he meant that because the medium was non visual, each listener was forced to imagine for themselves how each of the characters looked, thereby making each character unique to each listener. If this is so, then why couldn't the same parallel be used to describe God whom many of us have experienced but none of us has seen.
Promoters of the self awareness programme "Forum" use the term "Already Always Listening" to describe how our cultural background and social expectations prefilter our interpretation of whatever we see or hear. In other words, our human default setting is to see and hear what we expect to see and hear according to cultural background etc. It's easy to debate the theologies people set up to explain (and defend) their experiences of God, but it's far harder to dispute the actual experience itself.Is it possible, perhaps, that most religious experiences are actually God (as we know Him) but that we simply interpret them as either Christian, Jewish Muslim etc according to our own "Already Always Listening"?
David du Plessis, a respected Pentecostal world leader and advisor to Pope John Paul II's Eccumenical Council in the 1980s was sent to Madgegoria (?) to report on the sighting by several young children of the Virgin Mary. In his report David said that whilst he personally had no paradigm to understand or interpret their religious experience in the terms they used, he had no doubt whatsoever that they had all had an intense personal encounter with the Living God, and quoted Jesus' own words "By their fruits shall you know them".My wish/prayer for these young girls of Pokhara is that their religious experience will change their lives as dramatically as it did for the children of Madgegoria and that they would begin to understand the enormous depth of God's personal love for each of them. No matter how they may imagine or interpret Him. Perhaps God is more interested in the fact that we respond to His initiative rather than the shape of the box we put Him in.



White knuckle Bus Riding

25th September 2006 - Lumbini
If you've never taken a ride on an Indian (or Nepali) local bus, you should. It will enable you to cross with ease one of the last remaining thresholds of fear known to man. It's real nail biting, white knuckle stuff and rates alongside other extreme sports such as free fall parachute jumping or swimming with sharks. Most of these you can do anywhere in the world but White Knuckle Bus Riding is, as far as I know, unique to the subcontinent.
Earlier this week we took such a ride from Pokhara to Lumbini, a small town on the Indian border: a nine hour bus ride to the birthplace of Buddha that should have taken at least twelve. Our bus was a Tata (as are they all). It was almost as old as me, with huge tyres that were just as bald, and absolutely no suspension. Our driver, an unwashed sixteen year old, drove it as though it were a police car in a Bollywood car chase. With his left foot on the dashboard (I don't think he used the clutch once) and his right hand on the air horn button he wove his way through oxen, pedestrians, hand carts and rickshaws as well as between approaching traffic, all of which he did with the confidence of a rally driver. His co-workers, bus boys, hung grinning from the open front door or shimmied across the roof of the moving bus and in through an open window, like Harrison Ford in an Indianna Jones movie. Their job was to tout for local passengers who may (or may not) wish to travel one or two stops at a discounted price. This was negotiated while the bus was still moving, and if agreed, the passenger was pulled on the still moving bus, or offloaded in a similar fashion at the end of their ride. Fortunately I had my eyes closed most of the way, but Anthea assures me it was her biggest thrill yet.
Once upon a time, the most seriously hazardous thing you could imagine was to try and jump a motor cycle across ten to twelve busses of sail over Niagara in a wooden barrel. Today, at less than 50 rupees per 100 miles, White Knuckle Bussing must rate as the cheapest thrill in town.


Feeling the Pinch?

26th September 2006 - Kathmandu
Garage a bit on the small size for the Rolls? Wish you could afford an ensuite for the guest room or go somewhere a little more exotic next holiday? Well, never mind, we all struggle a bit financially these days. Take the family we stayed with in Nepal for instance.

• No drive on access (village is 45minutes walk up steep hill from the nearest road)

• House a bit on small side (2 adults and 6 children living in 2 rooms)

• Facilities basic (1 outside tap, 2 inside lights)

• Kids struggle at school (Govt pays for 1 teacher per 200 kids so most subjects require

private fee paying tuition)

In a way, their day to day problems are no different from any family anywhere, maybe a bit more extreme, but in the context of a developing ecomomy, their situation is far from uncommon and for many it is the norm. Unfortunately, poverty is a global problem for which there don't seem to be any global answers.But hey, no worries! Governments all around the world know about these problems and along with the World Bank and UN are working tirelessly at such things as debt restructuring, new trade agreements and better employment opportunities for those in the developing world. It'll be OK. Yeah, right!

Meanwhile, if anyone out there has an old mobile phone (SIM card type) it could make all the difference to our friend. He works as and independent trekking guide in the Annapurnas, but often misses business opportunities because he has a two hour walk from most of the pickup points where he touts for business, and better communications would make all the difference. He, like thousands of others, doesn't need money so much as the resources to improve his own situation. Email us for his postal address if you can help.

Eyes Wide Shut

27th September 2006 - Kathmandu
No, this is not a review of the classic Cruise/Kidman movie, rather a brief update on my (John's) eye injury. As you may remember, I got something under my contact lense during a sandstorm when we were staying with a nomadic family close to the K2 mountain range on the Kazakstan/China border last month. It was nothing serious and I got treatment for it at the No 1 Hospital in Kashgar and free bonus surgery to remove some small pimple-like growths from under my right eyelid. Apparently these are quite harmmless and very common for people of our age (old).
Anyway, problem solved, lenses back in, eyes wide open again, and, you guessed it, more dust and an opening of the old wound. However this time complicated by a bacterial infection which resulted in a visit to the National Eye Hospital in Kathmandu. As God would have it, straight into the office of the head opthermologist, and English trained eye specialist and head of the retina clinic. This time though it was a little more serious and he advised against travelling to Africa until tests confirmed that the bacterial infection had cleared and the abraison shown some signs of healing. So for the last several days I've been sitting on my bed, eyes wide shut and bandaged with nothing to look forward to but the next two hourly antibiotic drop and my next visit to the eye hospital for tests which will hopefully show that I'm cleared for travel at the end of the week.
Well, patience is its own reward and the eye is now free from infedtion, well on the way to a full healing of the abrasion and ready to see the sights of Africa. It will still need regular medication for the next couple of weeks but I've learned my lesson, Eyes wide Shut in a sandstrom and no more contact lenses. Just in case!



Elsa the Lioness

11th October - Kenya
The thin row of multi coloured shops stand shoulder to shoulder along the edge of the red dust road, their rusting verandahs and brightly painted fronts making them appear patchworked against the green of the tea and sugar cane crops behind them. Outside each, samples of their wears hang from the rafters; plastic products of all shapes and sizes,canvas school bags,brightly coloured clothing and a variety of household hardware. Atop each a hand painted sign recommending the establishment; Elijah's Butchery, Hosannah Hair Fashion, Jesus Saves Electrical etc., the fruits of zealous missionaries from the 1800s. On a nearby bush, washing has been spread out to dry in the sun and in front of it a woman sets up shop in the dust selling home grown vegetables as well as knitwear she has made herself. This is rural Kenya and we're returning from a day Safari in the Lake Naikuru National Park and at Elsmere, the property where Elsa the Lioness rose to international fame in the 60's. We have seen a leopard, a white Rhino, Hippos, Giraffe, Impala and a host of Gizelles. We're tired but happy as we join the locals - all of us returning home for the evening. Brightly clothed woman carring shopping,shiney headed children returning from school and men on foot, or riding bicycles, together we make our way into the approaching dusk. This is a good country and these are warm hearted and generous people who have made us at home in their midst. We shall be sorry to leave them. Tomorrow we move on to Tanzania and the great Serengeti. Hopefully we will addLions and Elelphants to our list!

On Safari - Serengeti & Ngorongoro Crater

13th October 2006 -
Ever since I was six or seven years old I've known all about safaris in Deepest Darkest Africa. You begin by kitting out in a khaki safari suit, a Pith Helmet and an Elephant gun. You hire a couple of local guides and an Elephant (complete with sun canopy) then silently stalk through the jungle till you see a rampant lion or stampeding water buffolo and then you shoot it and return to camp. Once there you relax with a sundowner, usually gin & tonic (the quinine in tonic is good for preventing malaria) and then feast on the day's catch. Traditionally this would be served by a shiney faced local chef as one watched the sun melt into the horizon. In reality though, there are one or two adjustments required to this paradigm. Firstly for safari suit read tee shirt, shorts and sandals, and for jungle, National Park. Guns have been replaced by the Nikon SLR digital camera and the G&T is more likely to be a can of Tuska beer or perhaps a cold chardonay if you're lucky, and designer drugs rather than quinine are more commonly used nowadays to control malaria. The romantic backdrop to my daydream quickly evaporated in the reality of the hot Serengeti sun. Nevertheless we did see more wild animals than you could poke a stick at. We watched lions and leopards kill and eat their prey and we listened in alarm as stray baboons and hyeneas visited our camp site in the wee small hours to sort through our rubbish can! This may not have been the Eroll Flynn type safari I had always imagined but it was exciting experience we will never forget.

Zanzibar

16th October 2006 – Stone Town
Maybe it's the impending trauma of clocking 60k (it's my big six- 0) in a few days) or perhaps I've gotten too far into the Hakuna Matata (No worries, no hurry) culture, but emotionally I'm as dry as a dingo's dork! Ever since I began this column almost ten months ago I've relied on personal spontanaeity and emotional energy to surf the thoughts and feelings inspired by our "intrepid adventures" but even though we are in some of the most beautiful and exciting scenery we've seen yet, I can't summon up a single inspiring thought. Currently we are in Zanzibar, about 60 - 80 km off the Tanzanian coast. We arrived here by fast ferry from Dar es Salaam and spent the first 36 hours in Stone Town, the ancient Portugese/Arabic slave trade capital and birth place of the late Freddie Mercury. We are now in the far north of the island, a remote tropical paradise with tranquil turquoise seas, fine golden sands, thatched seaside bungalows and Carribean style bars and restaurants jutting out into the ocean. The flora and fauna are lushly tropical and highly coloured and there's absolutely nothing to do but eat drink swim and be merry. An under commercialised utopia where my internal energy is as flat as still as the ocean I look out upon. Perhaps there's wisdom for me from Greek philosophy: "Remember there is nothing stable in human affairs; therefore avoid undue elation in prosperity or undue depression in adversity."- Socrates 470 - 399BC Some people would moan if there arse was on fire eh?

Too Old to Party

18th October 2006 - Zanzibar
Sitting on the beach we could hear him. A tout for a nearby resteraunt trying to drum up custom for his employer's beach party later that evening. It would, according to him, be the biggest rave-up the island had ever seen. It sounded to us like it would be a good gig and we would be foolish to miss it. As he got nearer, we thought seriously about going as he repeated his pitch again and again to others, who like us, were savouring the last rays of the afternoon sun. Finally he was before us, huge white teeth smiling at us from the frame of a black African face. There was no talk from his lips of a beach party, just sunset cocktails and post cards. We were obviously, in his mind, far too old to party! Reeling from the shock of his perception of us we quickly quit the beach and adjourned to the bars for safety and a shisha (hubble bubble) pipe. " Evening Mumma, evening Papa, we have a nice seat for you on the
sofa." Who are these turkeys who want to pension us off to the sidelines, we thought?
When my parents' generation returned to Australia, New Zealand, Canada, U.S. and the U.K. at the end of WWII, the very first thing they did was to have children. More each than their parents did and over a longer period of
time. Those like us born between 1946 and 1963 became known as "Boomers",
the largest demographic segement in the Western World. We exploded
classrooms in the 50s, swamped the job market in the 70s and 80s and as we
now begin to hit 60, stretch the pension fund past breaking point. In the
west we are not old - we are simply the majority!
Here in Africa (as in Asia) however, lower births and higher mortality rates
mean that people our age are rarer and being called "Mumma" of Papa" is a
respect reserved for the elders of their society. Do I feel honoured?

Several days ago we visited a Masai village near Dar es Salaam. The Masai
warrior who escorted us was typical of his generation (and culture), 24 and
married with two wives and four children. People of his age in the west
would likely be single students still living at home, but here, they are
heads of families and the decision makers of their society.

I'm still not sure how I feel about my new title of honour but it makes me
yearn a little for the anonimity of my generation back in New Zealand.

Full Circle - Namibia

23rd November 2006 - Nambiba
It's true. what goes round, comes round.We have spent the last several days here in Namibia visiting and living with the native 'San Bushmen' and 'Himba People', two of the nomadic tribal inhabitants of this land. These people still live much the same as they have for hundreds (thousands?) of years. Still painting their bodies each day with red ochre paste, still gathering food and medicines from trees and shrubs, and still hunting and living in a predominately polygamistic tribal existance where life is largely untouched by the changes that have shaped our western society over the last two hundred years or so. They taught us how to make fire, snare birds and make the bows and arrows which they still use for daily survival, and they sang and danced for us around the camp fire. Their land is largely flat, unfurtile and stoney, the red soil intermittantly sporting dry brown desert grass and short spindly trees. These are the people who, at the time of Europe's colonial wealth, were persuaded to part with their homelands, much as the New Zealand Maori did, for, in some cases, a mere handful of glass beads and a few empty promises.
Today Namibia has some of Africa's most significant mineral wealth and is a major player in the continent's economy. Nomads like the San Bushmen and the Himba People now have much of their land back (probably not that with the diamonds and uranium though) and are free to live in traditional ways or to migrate to the urbane arears. Whichever they prefer. But here's the spin.
It's now us, descendents of the old colonial powers, who pay them large sums of money to enjoy their hospitality and exorbitant prices for a mere handful of glass beads that pass as ethnic jewelry. I guess what goes round comes round. At least they've learned something from us!

Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe

"On sites as beautiful as this, angels in their flights must have gazed." . . .

These were Livingstone's words on first seeing this magnificent revelation of the power of nature. What else is there to say? We spent four wonder filled days here, days which we well remember always. Tremendous peace amidst such awesome power. Check out some pictures on google.

Okavango Delta - Botswana

The sociologist, Eric Maslow, proposed a hierarchy of human development. A stairway, as it were, which mankind could climb from the slime of creation to the fullness of human potential. At the bottom of this "stairway" were the basic human needs of food and shelter, and at the top, a category he called "self actualisation", a point from which we can develop our inner life and contemplate the more serious issues such as Life, The Universe and Everything In It. In the West we strive to live at the top end of Maslow's Scale, but here in Africa, as in much of the developing world, life never proceeds much beyond the first two or three steps.
Today we are in the Okavango Delta. A vast maze of waterways created as the Okavango River runs down from the Angolan plateau and ribbons out across the Botswanan Delta before finally evaporating into the sands of the Kalahari Desert. Here there is very little in the way of social development. No electricity, no clean water supply, no roads, shops or indeed anywhere to recharge one's ipod or camera battery. Just water. Shallow riverlets of it running between three to four metre high walls of papyrus and bamboo. Between these slender fingers of water, smaller channels made by hippos create roadways for the locals who navigate them in small dugout canoes (makoros) punted by long bamboo poles. It's a tropical environment where fish, mammals, birds and man have existed (at the bottom end of Maslow's Scale) since the dawn of time. And here we are. Completely separated from the world as we know it with only food (enormous plastic boxes of it speedboated in from the supermarket three hours away) and shelter, (luxury safari tents curtesy of the camp owner).
Here we will survive the next two or three days at the bottom end of the scale - just food and shelter. Oh yes, and a small petrol generator to crank up the beer fridge and a large solar panel to give us endless hot showers.
I'm sure it never occured to Maslow that such simple luxuries as cold beers and hot showers could catapult mankind across centuries of evolution from survival to self actualisation in mere seconds.

Around the World by the Seat of my Pants

6th November 2006 - Africa
Overlanding in the developing world is a great way to travel. Not only does it enable you to get a Worm's Eye View of the world and to meet the locals in situ, see areas totally unaffected by tourism and avoid airport security scans, it's a great exercise in social equality. A chance to meet your fellow travellers stripped of all the pretences that normally shroud our every day lives.
Doctor, lawyer, dentist or dustman, you all meet up at the team briefing in uniform back packers' clothing sporting a dirty rucksack, plastic sports watch, wearing ridiculous looking Teva sandals
and carrying a water bottle and a well thumbed copy of The Lonely Planet. All your distinguishing finary is at home, you're sweatty and if you're male, unshaven, and female, devoid of makeup. Separated from all cultural support structures you're about as individual or distinguished as an army conscript. And this in only day one!!
You're now going to spend the next 3-4 weeks living 24X7 on the back of a truck with these people (well it's more a truck/bus really) eating round a campfire & washing out your kit in the river. You'll be starved of all TV and sports results, stock exchange movements and newspapers. You'll subject yourself to all sorts of risks and dangers and hot showers will be as rare as hen's teeth.
So why, you might ask, would one want to do such a thing?
Well, for all the reasons above. There is an edge to this kind of adventure that creates a life long bonding between those who share it and there's a reality and a simplicity that's hard to find in our complicated daily lives in the real world. Either that or we've just become a little more excentric in our dotage!

The thrill of the chase

The Jeep's two way radio crackled, breaking the silence of the hot Aftican night. We were on Safari in the South Luangwa National Park in Zambia and one of the other jeeps was radioing that they had spoted a leopard in another quadrant about five minutes drive from where we were parked. The hot night air tore at out skin as we sped silently along unsealed tracks and across rough grasslands toward our goal. The starless night and veiled new moon, pierced only by dim headlights and the powerful sweeping beam of spotter lamp as it wandered across our path, searched for the tell tale eyes of our prey. Suddenly, she was there. Her sleek outline in silhoette as she stood briefly in the beam of our light. Majestic, graceful, elegant - and way too cool to let on she knew we were watching her every move. She posed momentarily for us then walked slowly across our horizon, a handful of light beams chasing her like huge white Jedi swords, fighting to pick out her image as she moved against the background undergrowth. Then, just as suddenly as she had appeared, she was gone. No chase, no struggle, just the finality of her departure.
It all reminded me of my early teen years. How we would dress up of a Friday evening and parade ourselves down Otaki's Main Street. Skin tight Levi's, hair Brylcreamed down and heading for the local Milk Bar. Posing and posturing beside the Jukebox, eyeing the local girls from our periferal vision but way too cool to let on we were looking. Great White Hunters sizing up our prey.
Just like our evning encounter with the Leopard it didn't matter that there was no chase, no finality to the exercise. Just being there and looking cool was sufficient.

The Mighty Zambizi

Lying here in our tent we can look across the ten meters of silver white sand to the waters of the mighty Zambezi river where we are camped on one of its many uninhabited islands. About one and a half kilometers behind us is the Zambian shore where we began our 3 day Canoe Safari earlier this morning and less than 500 meters in front of us, the shores of Zimbabe where we landed a short while ago to gather firewood for tonight's camp fire. The ease with which we illegally entered Zimbabe reminded us of the thousands of Albanians each year who risk their lives crossing the mountains into Northern Greece or swimming the one kilometer gap between the mainland and the Greek island of Corfu to escape the poverty of their homeland. How many Zimbabwian men and woman, we wondered, would do the same here?
The Zambezi is very beautiful and winds its way through some 3,000km of Africa. It is wide, swift moving and very dangerous. There are estimated to be 10 Crocodlies for every 100m2 and thousands of wild elephants and hippopotami roam its banks and islands. All are potential killers and only today a local 15 year old boy was taken by a crock just a few kilometers from where we are now camped. So, we are being very careful!
Today as we had our lunch on the Zambian side we counted more that 30 elephants walking within 50 meters of our picnic spot. It was midday, over 40 degrees and like us, they were thirsty and making for the river to drink. Later, many of them swam to fresh grazing on a nearby island. An amazing sight!
Tomorrow we will paddle a further 25km down stream, lunching, animal spotting and enjoying another breathtaking sunset before camping and returning the following day by road to our starting point some 50km upstream. Then a formal crossing into Zimbabwe to spend 4 days at Victoria Falls - elephants crocks and hippos permitting!

Paradise Lost

Malawi - 16th October 2006
Kande is probably not even on the map. It's just a small cluster of villages, approximately 8000 people living on or near to the shores of Lake Malawi. A sun drenched tropical paradise in the heart of southern Africa, it's crystal clear turquoise waters glistening in the sun and it's gleaming white sands unspoilt by the horrors of commercial tourism. Here banana trees grow down to the water's edge where children swim and play in the sun, women do the family laundry and men fish from dugout canoes. Life ticks on slowly in Kande. No commuter rush here.Yet this paradise is flawed. The tranquil waters of the lake are home to the deadly bilhatzia virus and to malaria, there is widespread unemployment and AIDS, as in most of Africa, is an endemic killer leaving death and orphaned children in its terrible wake.
One of the few expats living here in Kande is Sandra, a young Dutch woman. Blond and in her early to mid 20's, Sandra spent a couple of days here in 2002 as a passenger on an overland safari - just like us. Like us she met the locals, visited their school and inadequate hospital and child care facilities but unlike us, she decided she could do something to help. Immediately, she returned to the Netherlands and set about gathering as many medical and educational supplies as she could beg and returned to Malawi to do what she could. And slowly, her dream took shape.A local Chief gifted her some land and with finances raised from friends and the business community back home she established; a day care centre for orphaned children, (most had extended family who could care for them in the evenings), a basic medical support unit in conjunction with the local hospital,a gardening project to feed the children and a pig breeding project which now supplies approximately 40-50 pigletts to local villagers for breeding and for food each year. In just 4 years, this young Dutch video store assistant has established a project that employs 19 local people full time to educate, feed and care for approximately 70 orphaned children.
Remarkable as Sandra's story is, it is not unique. There are thousands of aid workers doing much the same thing all over Africa. But her example did challenge me to consider the extent of my own pathetic Lenten Appeal response and even to wonder if our 2 year contribution in Albania was sufficient. It also reminded me of what any of us can achieve if our dream is big enough. Perhaps you can help? Take a moment tovisit her website and see for your self what she is doing.

The Skeleton Coast, Namibia

22 November
We saw it, and for the first time began to feel a little homesick for New Zealand. The westerly aspect, the pounding surf, the huge curving beach vanishing into either direction, the setting sun sinking into the west and the incessent westerly wind. Particularly the wind. Apart from the absence of Kapiti it could easily have been the Otaki Beach of my early teenage years. But this was the Namibian Desert coast. Nearly two million hectares of dunes and gravel plains which form one of the world's most inhospitable and waterless (except for the Atlantic Ocean) areas. Early Portugese sailors called this area "The Sands of Hell". A treacherous fog blanketed coast, a graveyard for unwary ships and a death sentence for their shipwrecked crews.
It was late afternoon and sunny when we pitched camp here on the sands, just a hundred metres or so from the sea, opened a beer and waited for the sunset. One of the most recent shipwrecks here was the New Zealand Shipping Company's "Dunedin Star" which was run aground after hitting rocks a few hundred miles north of here, just south of the Angolan border. They were sailing from Cape Town to the Middle East war zone with more than one hundred military crew and cargo on board. They were eventually evacuated, after much drama, by a convoy of trucks which took them over one thousand miles of desert to safety in Swakopmund (where we will be tomorrow for four days) at the edge of the desert.
However tonight we sit here, sip our beers and watch the sunset, just as we have done so many times before back home.

Big Brother

Namibia
The other day we stood queueing in a Namibian Post Office to get stamps for post cards we'd just bought.It was like Post Offices anywhere, a window for motor vehicle registrations, one for customer enquiries and another for stamps and miscellaneous needs. We felt at home. There were three others in front of us and as we watched, the person at the head of the queue, a local woman in national costume, affixed her fingerprint (thumb actually) to an official looking document. Oh, we thought, poor woman, we thought, must be illiterate, we thought. Then we noticed the clerk take the documents to the far side of the office and place the thumb print under an infrared light. Electronic verification of her fingerprint? Impossible, this is Africa!
The next two people in front of us bought stamps and withdrew money. They used the desktop "chip and pin" (Eftpost) terminal with which we are all familiar. You know, the retailer inserts your cashcard, enters the amount of the transaction and you, the customer, enter your PIN nunber. Right? No! This terminal had a small infrared scanner inset in the display panel and instead of a PIN number, customers placed their thumbs over the panel which read and verified the print and authorised the transaction. So is everyone in Namibia illiterate or is this some trial of a new technology to be rolled out elsewhere? Perhaps a more economical alternative to Tony Blair's contraversial (and expensive) compulsory national ID card, or simply the forerunner to the "Mark of The Beast?"Watch this space!!



Colours of night

2nd December 2006 - Namibia
Only our headlights disturbed the darkness as we drove quietly north into the heart of the Namibian Dunes. It was 4.30am and in less than an hour we would climb Dune #45 as dawn broke to await the sunrise. Now they appeared as dark timeless apparitions, cold and aloof, closing in all around us as the early morning moonlight mixed with the light of the coming day - the Cross and its pointers visible in the southern sky reminding us that we were moving daily closer to home.
As we reached the Dune top, its razor sharp ridge, molded by the wind, snaked out into the distance, the rising sun sparkling on its red westerly face while the east side remained shadowed by the passing face of night. Below us the dunes to our west sprung now into lights - playing bold reds and gold's against the blue morning sky. All moving quickly through a pallet of changing colours as the hills saluted the morn.
Sometimes the most simple of Mother Nature's mods can far exceed the complexities of our best efforts to impress - don't you think?



Planning your own Odyssey

8th December 2006 - Swakopmund
Oscar Wilde said that life, (even an Odyssey) was much too important to be taken seriously. And of course, he was right. So for those of you who have been following our Off Road Odyssey Blog, and inspired by our example, may now be considering throwing caution to the wind and taking your own personal Odyssey, here are a few important things you need to bear in mind:
1/ Have some clear idea of where you are going and how you will know when you’ve arrived
To be sure of getting anywhere, especially when you’re on an Odyssey, you need two things, direction and drive. Without drive your boat will never leave the harbour and without direction you’ll just scoot around all over the place, like we have done for the last several years, till either fate, or happy circumstance brings you home again.
2/ Understand that the Odyssey has a mind of its own
When Moses stood at the banks of the Red Sea it was not him but God who decided the direction of his Odyssey by ripping the heart out of the Red Sea. And it was Moses' fear of Pharoh’s armies, rather than any strategic genius on his part, that propelled him and his followers into the desert for the next 40 years. He was simply responding to what was already going on around him.
Like Moses, we thought we were setting our own agenda as well. We were off to Ireland in search of our roots. In reality, our Odyssey had already begun several months earlier on 6th May 1999 with the tragic and unexpected death of our youngest daughter, Mary-Anne. Even though neither of us were strangers to deep personal tragedy in our lives, the pain of losing a child was so great that running, as Moses did, seemed the best escape route available to us. So, responding to what was already going on around us, we left port early the following year, bearing north by north west across the sub-continent and the Middle East to Ireland.
Today, more than 50 countries and almost seven years later, having practically filled two passports apiece, spent over nine months on the back of various overland trucks, suffered hair loss, wrinkles, diminished hearing and having aged considerably, we find that our ‘wandering barque’ is steering its own course back to port, unaided. Seven years ago we set out, like Abraham and his wife, ‘not knowing where he was going.’ During that time we have journeyed from the earth's lowest point (Dead Sea) to its highest (Everest), experienced every shade of emotion known to mankind, visited (and lived with) some of the world's poorest and most privileged people and finally arrived at a point where we can return, not in grief or loss, but in strength to celebrate the birth of our first grand daughter, Su-Jin and to begin building a new life there for ourselves too.
3/ Realise that the Odyssey never ends . . . .
. . . and that the journey and the destination are one and the same thing. That returning home simply opens up a new chapter where there is still more to learn and many new adventures to enjoy. So we will continue to post to our blog site.
We cherish the many friends we have made along the way in Ireland, Albania and Maidenhead and are especially grateful to our long suffering children; Lisa, Ciara, Gina and Sean (and families) who have accommodated our eccentricities graciously and lovingly over the past seven years. Hopefully the passage of time will now allow us to renew relationships as equal adults now, rather than those of simply parent and child.
Almost fourteen years ago we discovered a verse from the Hebrew prophet, Jeremiah (Jer 29:11) which has continually proven itself a truism for us. Speaking to Israel, (at the time in a desert place themselves) God said, through the prophet, I know the plans I have for you, plans for prosperity and not despair, plans to give you a future and a hope'.
That promise remains at the heart of our Odyssey, wherever it may lead us, and it’s our wish for you this Christmas.

Merry Christmas and a future full of hope.



A white Christmas?

I pull my coat collar up, tuck my scarf in and step out into the cold December night. It's only a short walk to the church and the Christmas Eve Mass is about to begin. We have been home for just over a week and already my winter woollies have established themselves as the clothing of choice and the electric blanket has been permanently installed on the bed. But wait - this is New Zealand. Only two days ago we celerated the summer equinox. This should be a balmy mid summer's eve. At least that's what my childhood memories suggest. But already huge icebergs have broken off from the Ross Sea ice shelf and assembled themselves along the southern coast of New Zealand: a vast Armada. The polar wind in their sails forcing temperatures down to single figures. But it's not only unseasonal here. Why just today we had news from UK friends disappointed that their visit to Lapland to see Santa had been totally devoid of snow, just slushy under foot and unseasonably warm for mid winter. I suddenly remember the summer floods that devastated northern India and vast areas of Nepal only a few months ago and recall a Radio NZ report last week that the hole in the southern ozone layer is so much larger than ever imagined. Still, all this must be normal. George W Bush is telling us 'America will not over react in the face of the latest climate change reports' (NZ Dominion 27/12/06) and John Howard agrees, so perhaps I'm just imagining the cold rain tonight and the fierce burning of the sun I felt on my head earlier today? As I enter the church and kneel to pray I wonder what sort of summer memories our grandaughter, Su-Jin will take with her into the mid years of the 21st century - sun screen and an overcoat perhaps? Whatever they might be they will certainly be very different from mine, or those of her great grandmother who would recall long summer weeks at the beach and boast of going back to school after the summer break “as brown as a berry”. Still one thing never changes - “You can't beat Wellington on a good day.” It's just that there seem to be far fewer of them now than once there were.

Everest Base Camp