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2010 is a nice round number for a couple of reasons. It’s the start of a new decade, and for both Shirls and me it is also the year of our fortieth birthdays, a sort of half time in the game of life if you will (if we manage to live that long). So we decided that now was as good a time as any to go and experience a bit of the world before the second half kicks off (ok, that’s the end of the football references). Along the way our plans changed. After only two days in Bangalore we knew that for several reasons the experience was going to be generally a negative one if we hung around. But never mind, the sights of Rajasthan beckoned; the forts and cities, the Taj Mahal. And then on to Italy, France, England and South Africa, each place with its own unique memories.

And finally, inevitably, back home to New Zealand. It has definitely not been the most intrepid or arduous of trips; we have scaled plenty of low hills and ancient towers, but no mountains. Neither has it been ground-breaking or unique. The travel section at the bookshop heaves with quaint accounts of life in Tuscany, Provence, even England. So why did we write a blog?

Bruce: “Because Shirls blackmailed me into it.”

Shirls: “Because in years to come it would be lovely for us to look back and remember our trip, and also for our friends and family to keep in touch with us while we are away.”

So there you have it. Three months, fourteen flights, twelve trains, two rental cars and too many busses, rickshaws, tubes and taxis to count. It’s good to be home, but I have a feeling that this won’t be the last of the Two Trickers’ Travels. Maybe a 4WD overland from Tanzania to Namibia for our fiftieth. Anybody care to join us?

eTravelling Around the iWorld

Here we are, sitting in a Jo’burg News Café, using their free wifi, or at least trying to because it won’t connect. It has become a familiar picture for the last three months, bags packed, a blog posted, now where to next? How do we get there? Where will we stay? It’s a mystery how we managed to travel before the internet came along.  I vaguely remember dropping off the face of the earth for months on end; maybe a postcard here or a visit to an international call centre there, but that was it.

This time around, we are fully connected, or at least as connected as the laptop wireless and mobile reception will allow. And we have also enjoyed a slightly different approach to our backpacking days. The backpacks have been dropped in favour of suitcases with wheels and we have tried to spend as long as possible at each place we have stopped, ideally about a week. Shirls has been joking that we now neatly fit in to the ’55 and Over’ travel bracket when choosing places to stay. 'Perfect for families and small children'? No thanks. 'A smart little self-catering apartment on a back street'? That will do nicely. 'Handy to some really pumping nightclubs and bars'? Ah, maybe we’ll look elsewhere. Now, if we could just get one of those pensioner rail passes…

A Moving Experience

Teams have started to arrive in Johannesburg for the FIFA World Cup. Yesterday Brazil touched down, the day before, Australia. It seems that every piece of road is being hurriedly re-built, widened or spruced up. Many of the traffic lights are not working, adding another challenge to driving our small Kia rental car around the city. At the road intersections the street sellers have swapped their standard wares for South African flags, pennants, wing mirror covers, and the long clarinet-shaped (but deafening) hooters called vuvuzelas.

Every day the newspapers carry a front page story on some aspect of the Cup; a new scandal, a grand opening, a grinning fan. The county has whole-heartedly embraced the first soccer World Cup to be held on the African continent.

With only a passing interest in the beautiful game, we have come here for a different reason – to move house. Well, actually no. It just happens that Shirls’ brother and family are moving back in to their newly renovated home, so we have offered to help out. The almost complete re-build has been a major accomplishment for Alan and Sandré, project managing, buying all the materials and somehow finding time for work and taking care of baby Owen and his older brother Brad.

House construction here is complicated by matters of security. A guard is required to ensure that none of the materials (bricks, sand, wood) disappear overnight.

This is Blessing, the ever smiling security guard. Many Africans have wonderfully descriptive names: Gift, Praisegod, Beauty. In a city like Johannesburg, better known internationally for its murder rate and poverty, the colourfulness and cheerfulness of the people is like a salve, soothing society’s wounds… Now I’ve come over all prosaic.

Some things change, some stay the same

Blog by Shirls

I’m writing this blog looking at a view that I first saw 23 years ago - the dark blue water of Sterkfontein dam curving around ancient mountains, soft sun sparkling on the water, breeze softly stirring the grasses. Bruce and I are spending a few days at Qwantani which is a remote, high country area where I spent many wonderful holidays with family and friends while in my teens and 20’s. I haven’t been back to this area for a long time but looking at this familiar view it feels like nothing has changed. But it strikes me how much has changed in the past 20 years.

In the late 1980’s, South Africa was still in the grip of segregation and was a pariah in the world. It was hard to be a proud South African when there were so many reasons not to be. But things started to change. People started to change. Politicians put aside their anger, fears and prejudice and started to talk, and in 1994 the first free elections were held where all people were allowed to vote. At the Westville polling station where I was a volunteer, a 94-year old lady told me with tears in her eyes that this was the first time she could vote, and she was so glad to finally get the chance.

The country waited for the outcome of the elections, hoping that the doomsayers would be proved wrong about everything descending into chaos overnight. (I bet they got tired of eating all their stockpiled canned food!) Those doomsayers were wrong. We got a new President, a new flag, a new national anthem, a new constitution. And for the first time they belonged to the whole country. Mandela spoke about forgiveness and reconciliation, and wore a Springbok rugby jersey to the World Cup. People could start to feel proud.

Today the Bulls rugby team from Pretoria played rugby against a New Zealand team in Orlando Stadium, a soccer stadium in the heart of Soweto. Rugby has never been played there before. There was a capacity crowd, from all walks of life. A middle-aged white woman was interviewed and said it was the first time she’d ever ventured into Soweto and the welcome and atmosphere and shared elation was one of the best experiences of her life.

Politicians haven’t made the biggest advances here, the real people have. The people who make their lives in this vibrant, welcoming and conflicted country, who do their jobs and raise their children and in spite of ongoing issues, keep adapting. And laughing, sometimes through tears, but always ready to laugh.

If you are not from South Africa (and that includes me now that I live in New Zealand!), when you think about the country, think about the resilience and generosity of the people. Don’t dwell on the problems, because they aren’t! They're too busy getting on with life. And visit, because it is a spectacularly beautiful country.

And if you are from South Africa then know that you are an inspiration, and deserve to feel proud of everything that you have changed.

Durban Bunnies

Blog by Shirls

Today, Bruce ate a quarter bunny. No need to call the SPCA though because a bunny (or a bunny chow if you want to be 100% accurate) is a Durban delicacy. Dad took us to the middle of an industrial area, to a betting shop filled with happy punters to make sure we got the real deal, not some tourist version served in the city.

It’s comprised of a quarter loaf of white bread with a chunk taken out of the middle. Into the cavity is scooped a large amount of lip-burning mutton curry, and on the side is a carrot and chilli salad. It’s normally eaten without cutlery. And is delicious! Or so I’m told, because I have never been able to face that amount of white bread. Instead I had my curry in a roti, but Bruce ate his the authentic way, picking out the bones and washing it down with a Castle Lager. A curry-stained thumbs up!

The Moses Mabhida Stadium

While Auckland was debating whether to upgrade Eden Park or build a new blight on the waterfront for the 2011 Rugby World Cup, South Africa was busy finishing off five brand new stadiums and five refurbished ones for the 2010 FIFA World Cup. Durban now has a 70,000 seat venue for the event, which will be reduced to a more modest 54,000 after the cup has finished.

Sitting near the beach like an open shell, it looks very Santiago Calatrava, but is actually the work of the German firm Gerkan Marg and Partners.

Soaring overhead, the main forked arch supports the lighting, seating shades and also a 25 person cablecar and two sets of stairs. Feeling energetic, we decide to climb up the (550) stairs to the top.

The Dragon Mountains

We are staying in a small cottage in the Drakensberg. Mike and Barbara picked us up in Durban and we drove straight to Lake Navarone, in the Southern ‘Berg’. There isn’t a breath of wind. As the sun sets hundreds of frogs start chirping in the lake next to the cottage.

The cool mountain air is crystal clear; the Milky Way stretches from horizon to horizon.

Inside, the coal range proves to be a little temperamental and starts losing heat half way through the roast. Luckily, Barbara is well prepared. A pre-cooked chicken tonight, the roast can wait ‘til tomorrow.

Going Postal

Today, we finally offload something which has been driving me nuts.  In Tuscany, which now feels like a long time ago, we bought a sturdy metal Poste Italiane approved letterbox, complete with lock and key from a hardware store in Pienza, a small medieval village near Montepulchiano (a slightly larger medieval village).

Ever since then it has been occupying a significant space in my wheelie suitcase as I drag it down cobbled streets, onto trains, up flights of stairs, to four different apartments and five hotels, and finally on a flight to London.  So, before we begin the last leg of our travels it’s time to visit the post office to post our Poste Italiane post box.  And then it's time to visit the pub, before going for a brisk walk through Epping Forest.

The week and a half in Blighty has flown by (witness the lack of blogs).  Everything is familiar for both Shirls and me, the locals are friendly and we speak the lingo.  Tomorrow we fly to Africa.  I will have to learn some more Afrikaans.  So far Shirls has taught me "Gaan kak in die mielies".

London Calling

The flight from Bordeaux to London went without much note, as flights tend to do.  One moment you are here, the next you are there.  We are in Theydon Bois, in semi-rural Essex.  The trees in the street sag with bountiful spring blossoms and rabbits bounce around on the nearby fields.

It is Election Day, and for once the contest is more than just a two horse race between Labour and the Tories.  The ‘Lib Dems’ are putting up a good show and everybody is watching eagerly to see what the result will be.  Well, not everybody.  We have been enjoying some of the other attractions, the Tate Britain gallery (not to be confused with the Tate Modern), a good old pub lunch, the 'Grand Designs Live' show (which happens to be on at the moment, honest, it’s a pure coincidence!)  Our hosts have been unreasonably nice and Shirls has been enjoying lots of catch-up time with her best mate. It will be very hard to leave, despite the nippy spring weather.

A cheesy tour

Blog by Shirls

Just outside of Millau we make a stop in Roquefort-sur-Soulzon for a tour of the caves where for centuries the famous blue cheese has been made. The tour was typically French – fixated on food, lots of detail and pretty weird.

If you would like to recreate the tour in your own home, just follow this handy do-it-yourself guide.

1. Ensure you have a printed translation of what is going to be said on the tour. This is because the man taking the tour is going to speak French, very quickly, and you will have no idea what he is saying. Selected parts of the translation should make no sense.

2. Set up your environment to be dark. Perhaps try to grow some lichen on the walls. Set the aircon to 10 degrees and breezy.

3. To start the tour proper, you’ll need a room with a model of a mountain which will collapse to a soundtrack of morning birdsong. Then move on to a different room and project pictures of ghostly ladies on to the walls – here the soundtrack should be French men talking. And then on again to a bigger room where you’ll play a video showing pictures of sheep being milked and the master cheesemakers taking an awfully long time to sniff their cheese.

4. Finally, you are ready to move to the cheese room. Recreate the smell by bringing a wet Labrador into the room, as well as at least 5 pairs of smelly shoes.

How can it be that cheese that smelly tastes so darn good?

A Bridge Too Far

We hire a Renault hatchback in Arles and head towards Millau (pronounced meeowww) and the Millau Viaduct. Designed by the renowned engineer Michel Virlogeux, it is the highest viaduct in the world. The architect Sir Norman Foster gets all the credit, but this really was Virlogeux’s baby, both aesthetically and functionally. It is breathtakingly beautiful to see ‘in the flesh’, particularly when driving across it. The speed limit has been lowered from 130km/h to 110 because of gawking tourists like us gazing up at the seven cable stayed piers, and down at the valley far below as we cross.

A map of France looks like a crumpled piece of paper, with roads (major, and very minor) going everywhere. Unfortunately, we don’t have a map. We have the Garmin in-car GPS supplied with the rental car. It appears to have navigation software designed on the Sinclair ZX81. Unbeknownst to us, it was set to ‘shortest route mode’. Our journey from Arles to Millau starts off on a picturesque winding two lane road. At each turn the road gets imperceptibly narrower and narrower as it climbs up over a mountain range.

A hand written note attached to a detour sign guides us on to a still narrower side road , until it eventually becomes a single lane farm tracks. The bushes scrape down the side of the rental car (with an 800 euro excess) and at one point Shirls has to get out to clear a rock slide of small boulders from the path. Thick leaves cover the track in places, indicating that it has been a long time since anyone passed this way.

Unbelievably, the GPS is still saying everything is ok. We pass curious villagers, who are still marvelling at the discovery of the wheel, get lost countless times and eventually pop out the other side. Tomorrow we are buying a map. I don’t care how Old School it is.

The following is a public safety announcement

Please be aware of possible Health and Safety hazards present in some areas of France.

1. Tiny, ancient streets and crazy local drivers who will not slow down to avoid pedestrians unless their car becomes wedged inside the kerb sides.

2. Travellers are warned that they will experience a desire to eat at hourly intervals, sometimes more often. Willpower alone is not an effective deterrent.

3. Take care to ensure that your limbs remain attached at all times.

4. Related to point 2 above, do not confuse ice-cream (i.e. a frozen snack shared at a park bench overlooking a pretty river) ...

.. with a similar-looking substance found on most roads and pavements. The latter substance Is Not Ice-Cream and normally has evidence that some other unfortunate has already ridden, walked or skidded through it, and it busy spreading it across the city.

Les Arenes

About 200m up the road from our apartment is a large white sports stadium known as the Arles Amphitheatre. It is used regularly for bullfights, concerts and other events and seats about 20,000 people, similar to North Harbour Stadium. Unlike the latter though, it appears in a painting by Vincent van Gogh.

At the time he painted Les Arenes (Nov/Dec 1888), he had his mate Paul (Gauguin) staying with him. Gauguin was escaping the winter chill in Paris – he seemed to like the warmer climes, and eventually fled to the Pacific to paint naked Polynesian maidens. As they huddled around the fireplace at the Yellow House, he must have said to van Gogh, “Hey Vince, ever been to a bullfight?” Hearing that, van Gogh would have leapt up and said, “Yeah, man, last spring. That gives me an idea for a painting” before disappeared off to find his favourite smock and brushes. Maybe the memory of the bullfight started to get to him – the matador winning victory over the bull and then cutting its ear off as a trophy – or maybe it was just an attempt to get Gauguin arrested after he threatened van Gogh with a razor, but a few weeks later he cut his own earlobe off and gave it to a prostitute.

Anyway, back to the stadium. It was built around the first century BC after Julius Caesar established the city as a sort of retirement village for the Roman 5th Legion. When you wander around ancient monuments, it’s easy to imagine them lying in ruin for centuries until the council builds a visitor centre and some interpretive displays, but this is not the case.

After the fall of the Roman Empire it became prime real estate. Solid construction, arched windows and plenty of natural light, not like your typical medieval leaky building. They built stuff properly in those days. About 200 houses and two churches were built inside the stadium. It wasn’t until the 1800’s that they began booting out the remaining residents and declaring it a national monument. And holding bullfights. And hence a visit by a scruffy drunkard in paint stained pants.

Best of Arles, Day 1

Blog by Shirls (while Bruce watches some unintelligible French drama on TV)

Arles (pronounced Arles) is a city in Provence, in the south of France. We're waiting for the public transport issues to return to normal, so are spending a week exploring this ancient city. The city is famous for its Roman buildings (cue happy Bruce) and also for some modern things such as that it's the home of the Gipsy Kings (everybody sing along "Volare oh oh, cantare, oh oh oh oh") and that Vincent Van Gogh painted many of his most famous works and removed his own ear here.

Highlights from our first day.

• Realising we're well and truly in holiday mode because we know to plan all activities around getting home in time for siesta. Home is a newly-refurbished apartment near the Rhone River, just inside the old city walls. It has most mod cons, but weirdly no bottle opener. Bruce had to make an emergency dash to get one in time for dinner or we were going to resort to digging the cork out with a fork.

• Walking around the very atmospheric, almost 2000 year-old Roman amphitheatre which is still being used today, no longer for throwing people to the lions, just bullfighting now.
• A chocolate, custard and almond croissant-type treat that we found at the bakery next door to our apartment. I can't remember the French name but they may as well just call it "Mmm".

• Finding out that the cheapest bottle of French wine in the supermarket is very drinkable and not at all like vinegar. In fact, at 3 euros, it's cheaper than vinegar. The French have made their priorities clear.

Dark clouds looming, but not for us

Three crowded train trips bring us from Italy into France, but only just.  Each time we board the train there is a scuffle as tired looking travellers jockey for seats.  Luckily, we have reserved our seats in Pisa, and for us the journey is quite pleasant.  Shirls talks to a big burly Swiss guy trying to get home.  He looks like an army sergeant, and grins as we listen to the other passengers bickering.  All trains north are booked out for the next six days, so he is attempting to go via France, or even Spain if he has to.  The other passengers are heading for the UK, Netherlands, USA; they are still thousands of kilometres from home.  Our goal is less ambitious, and we soon pull in to Nice, on the French Riviera.  Our onward plans have changed several times in the last week; working on an organic farm in the Dordogne has been abandoned due to the difficulty in getting there.  Together with the volcanic eruption in Iceland, the French rail workers are also on an extended strike.

But Nice is… nice.  The eerie haze and brooding clouds make for an interesting photo on the beachfront.  We are not sure whether the strange light is a result of the volcanic ash or something more mundane.  By morning the skies are clear and the Cote d’Azur is living up to its reputation as a winterless holiday spot for the super rich.  Tomorrow, we head east.  The rumours are that the planes will start flying soon, but it will take some time to clear the backlog.  None of this matters to us; we will go wherever the train takes us.

Fun with Pisa and pizza

Blog by Shirls

I remember the first time I went scuba-diving in the ocean. We had practiced the Open Water basics in a pool in Johannesburg and then driven all the way to Sodwana to do our qualifying dives in the sea. I back-rolled off the side of the inflatable, heart pounding in my chest as I hoped I remembered what to do. A few moments of fumbling with equipment and all was under control. And then the unexpected surprise and delight of hearing the crackling sound made in the ocean and feeling the surge ... I couldn't help smiling and started to laugh. And then my cheeks pushed out my mask which flooded with water. But the point is how nice the surprise was, and that brings me to the Tower of Pisa.

We all know that Pisa's famous tower is leaning over and we've seen the pictures of people pretending to hold it up.

But today as climb it, I am surprised at how disorienting it is to walk on a lean that moves from left to right.  We wind up the 296 spiral stairs to the top, and I notice that each step has hollows where people over the past 830 years have placed their feet, and the hollows move left and right as we take the same path as all those others.  

It really is a strange feeling and by the time we reached the top after fits of giggles, I'm giddy with excitement - clearly it doesn't take much - and do some crazy jumping (secure in the knowledge that Bruce says the stabilisation work to stop the tower falling over is complete). The trip down is even better because with a bit of speed if feels like I'm in a pinball machine, bouncing off the sides.

After all the excitment we go to a restaurant that Michele recommended, he says it's a haunt of families and students so it will suit our budget. It's our last night in Italy so it's only appropriate to have pizza, and we order one to share. It arrives and is the size of a car tyre. We protest that it's too big, and then finish all but a few scraps.

Big Italian Knockers

Shirls says I am obsessed.  She doesn't understand.

What the Eyjafjallajoekull?

Stepping off the train in Pisa we notice the commotion in the station. The ticket hall is packed with long queues of travellers snaking back and forth and out the main doors. A short walk later, Michele, our B&B owner (and also professional photographer, tile maker and Italian Army geographer) explains; an eruption of a volcano in Iceland (I won’t repeat the name above) has cancelled over half the flights in Europe.

The scene at Pisa Centrale station is being played out throughout Europe as travellers try to find alternative routes home. Our planned onward journey to France might have to wait. We decide to spend an extra night here and see what happens. Apparently there is some sort of tower. Slightly canted. Listing. Not quite straight up. On the Pisa, so to speak.

The Five Lands

Squeezed between rugged hills which plunge into the Mediterranean, Manarola is one of five villages in the Cinque Terre National Park. The topography has prevented the construction of a road up this stretch of the Italian Riviera, but somehow it has not stopped the local communes from planting every available non-vertical cliff face with terraced vineyards, vegetable patches and olive groves. A railway passes through each village – quite literally. The line only briefly emerges from the earth at the stations and the occasional gully.

On this clear, calm early morning, our pension rumbles gently as the trains pass beneath us. The main street, usually full of villagers and wandering tourists is deserted. We leave the town and set off along the Cinque Terre walking trail. Still we pass no-one. Have we broken some rule? Where are the crowds of walkers we have heard about? Just when we think we must have entered the park illegally we pass another walker, obviously also keen to avoid the rush. He passes us without a word, with his fingers firmly inserted in his ears. Must be French, we mutter.

We continue on, walkers outnumbered by cats sunning themselves in the early morning light.

We stop at Corniglia for breakfast, then on to Vernazza before the final leg through to Monterosso, and only then do we encounter crowds not too dissimilar to the Abel Tasman coastal track. The difference being that sections of the Cinque Terre trail are very narrow – a stone wall on one side and a precipitous drop to a vineyard or wave-tossed rocks on the other. As we step aside to allow others to pass we get a “Buon giorno!”, a “Grazie!”, or an indifferent silence from some. “You’re welcome!” Shirls calls. Must be French, we mutter.

Lunch and the obligatory gelato at Monterosso is followed by a comparatively quick train trip back to Manarola through the tunnels.