It is that this point that the average Westerner or British’er should try to forget everything that they have ever been taught in school regarding Hinduism.

When I was at school, Hinduism was brought up in Religious Education classes. Unfortunately, these classes forced all religions into the structure of Christianity in order to compare them. So, where in Christianity you have God, you had Shiva and under that you had, in place of Jesus, Krishna, and so on and so forth through the angels (the Deva), the priests (the Brahmans), the Bible (the Vedas) and the Kingdom of Heaven (Rebirth). The one thing is that it is clear from such a muddle is that the people who wrote the RE syllabus had little-to-no idea of Hinduism either. Placed into this twisted context it all looks a little crazy and no wonder as the Hindu faith isn’t like Christianity in almost every way possible. It is a totally different beast. In the first instance it is vital to realise that “Hinduism” is an umbrella term for a whole host of beliefs all interlocked only by their founding geography – that is they all come from India. Then you must realise that when we discuss the Hindu Cosmology we are not talking about a Celestial Hierarchy in the same way that we do in Christianity at all. I.E. with God at the top and you near the bottom just above the animals.

No, in Hinduism you are God.

For the Christians reality is like clay. There is a very clear analogy of God being like a potter at his wheel, or perhaps a watchmaker at his table and we are his creation. In Hinduism the analogy that fits is that of a play, a performance, which you are a part of. You leave and re-join the stage, you may exchange masks or play many parts, but this reality is all “in character”. There is another “self”, a spiritual self, under all this baggage of flesh and bones that is the mask we all wear. This is the spark of the divine, which is exempt from the black and white duality of reality. What we call “reality” is only an illusion because in the true reality you are God – but you have forgotten that you are God. That divine spark is a part of God, part of Brahman.

A meditating man seated towards the morning sun.

But what of Shiva et all?  This is where it gets complex. Essentially, he is an aspect of the Godhead just like everyone else; just with a cosmic job to do. If you were to ask Lord Shiva, “How do you do all this creation and destruction?” he  would answer “I just do. How do you breath in and out?” These “Gods” are not like God in Christianity or Allah to the Muslims, they are like forms of a greater nature a connection with which we have lost.

Keep this in mind when you read about the Hindu’s. It explains another massive difference; the belief in self-improvement. The Hindu’s believe that you can improve your self, your awareness of the self – that is of reality – through training. Religious training that takes many forms. For some it is through Vedic ritual; passed down over countless generations; for others it is by denying the body; the mortification of the flesh; but in all cases it is about release. The release from the chains of your mind. This spirit pervades almost all of Indian inventions. Take their food, Thali, which is devised from the scriptures of Ayurvedic medicine and is all about maintaining the right balance in the body to promote mental clarity (which it sure does, I miss it every time I think of it). This release, this blowing out, is what the Buddhists call Nirvana and is to escape the cycle of birth and death to which we are all (apart from the Buddhas) trapped in. The escape of the self is the waking up and remembering who you really are and the enlightenment of the true self. This is why Buddhists and Hindu’s put their hands together and bow to each other and why their rituals are full of bowing, because they are bowing to the self in each other that is part of the divine.

A man prays  in the Ganges

This is the reason that Varanasi, the center of the Hindu universe, is so important. Because Lord Shiva said that anyone who bathed in the holy river Ganges that flows through the city and burned in its pyres would achieve the Moksha (the blowing out and escape) that all Hindus aspire to. Being there on that river is a very special honour not to be forgotten and something to be cherished.

I tried really hard to keep all this in mind as I regarded the Aghori seated on the steps with his human skull bowl. The Aghori are worshipers of Shiva and totally devoted to their ascetic doctrines. They maintain that all opposites are in fact an illusion and make it their business to – at all times – liberate themselves through the un-acceptance of the duality of life. What this means in real terms is that the Aghori cover themselves with cremation ash and perform the taboo breaking rituals of eating meat, residing in cremation grounds, enjoying tantric sex with menopausal women, sleeping on corpses and even eating the dead found floating in the river or not burned up in the Ghat pyres (which I am coming to).

I must admit that I found it a struggle to maintain the perspective needed to achieve this. It was, if you will forgive the pun, hard to digest.

The previous night, before tucking into bed, I had wandered down to the river. The old part of Varanasi is all based around the Ghats. These are the steps that lead down to the waters. Many are unique or special to just some groups. Some have washers cleaning clothes, others have cremation death ceremonies being performed, all revolve around the water.

Ours was full of boats, so I booked an exceedingly early boat ride from an excitable boatman and turned in.

Old parts of Varanasi contrasts marvellously with the new. New Varanasi has some of the best universities in the world, some of the most modern hospital facilities and lots of money to run it all. The old Varanasi on the other hand is for pilgrims and tourists and had a vibe almost beyond belief.

In the morning, far too early in the morning, we got up and made our way to the boat. The guide/boatman was waiting and we hopped in.

Our Boatman rows us out at the beginning of our day

I am seriously not a morning person, but even I soon was amazed by the view of the city from the water as the sun rose. The city wakes up slowly and as the sun rises and starts to illuminate the buildings, turning them into a golden glowing red and orange colour, the pilgrims and Ghat’folk come down to the river to wash and meditate.

We went passed people slamming washing on rocks, priests performing the morning prayers to the sun (the same priests that would feature in the evening ceremony described below), monkeys climbing the buildings and seated brightly coloured Hindus enjoying the morning sun.

The stunning Varanasi Ghats

It was quite magical and a vital ingredient in enjoying your visit here. Then we passed the “burning” Ghats and the cameras went away. The funeral pyres were already in progress. The bodies, lightly wrapped in muslin, had been laid on a precisely calculated amount of firewood and then set alight. Even though the practice of wives throwing themselves onto the pyre is now banned, I can understand that the fundamentalist Hindus (that “f” word being the key to almost all the world ills) still want their women to go through with it. The prospect looked horrifying to me. As we passed along further I saw people swimming in the river and drinking the water, which is surely an extremely bad idea as the Ganges is polluted almost beyond belief. Perhaps they are adjusted to it, I thought. I was careful not to get any in my mouth anyway. The entire experience was very peaceful and broken only by the ubiquitous Indian music coming from behind the shoreline.

I filmed everything I could and at the end of this post there is special edition of the film I made of the footage.

After about 3 hours we arrived back at the hotel’s Ghat and retired to a very good travellers shop/cafe/hostel to take it all in. We had lots of planning to do because we were arranging a Tiger Safari on our next stop. I sipped a coffee and Cesca and I slaved over our computers arranging everything. It was there that we learned that there had been a murder discovered along the Ghats that morning. A quick look through the camera footage and we realised that Cesca, quite by accident, had recorded the crime scene.  We look at each other and silently determined to remain cautious about Varanasi.

The poor dead man.  |  Feral dogs roam everywhere.

As night fell, we got back in the boat and were rowed towards the real show.

“Dashashwamedh Ghat is located close to “Vishwanath Temple”, and is
probably the most spectacular ghat. Two Hindu mythologies are
associated with it: According to one, Lord Brahma created it to
welcome Lord Shiva. According to another, Lord Brahma sacrificed ten
horses in a yajna here. A group of priests daily perform in the
evening at this ghat “Agni Pooja” (Worship to Fire) wherein a
dedication is made to Lord Shiva, River Ganga, Surya (Sun), Agni
(Fire), and the whole universe.”

The evening puja location at Dasaswamedh Ghat

Every evening the priests come down to the edge of the river to perform a special ceremony to worship fire.

This is incredible and, like all good ceremonies, goes on far too long entirely on purpose. Its colours and special ambience is on the film as well. This time we were amongst multiple boats that had come to see the event and I soon tired of the tourist horde and so had our boat drop us of on the bank to get a close look at the proceedings.

There was a large crowd involved in the ceremony who were all clapping away to the music as they watched the five priests play conch shells and burn offerings all while wielding increasingly and uncomfortably hot looking fire goblets. It was here that I saw one older women cutting up carrots and praying under her breath. I took some footage and a photo of her and it is one of my proudest shots.

I remember being mesmerised by the look on her face. Whatever she was doing it was a fundamental part of not only her belief, but of her self and her life. That was the first time I stopped and wondered at Hinduism, but it certainly wasn’t the last.

After the ceremony we walked out of the Ghat along with the crowd and caught a cyclo back to the hotel. The poor rider struggled to get us moving and I paid him a bonus for his efforts. I had a lot to think about regarding what we had seen that day. It was all to come to an unfortunate conclusion in the next post, when Cesca and I found ourselves in the maze of back alleys in the “old city” and at the mercy of the unscrupulous…

For now then, here is the Special Edition of my Varanasi film about that day:

Regards,

Basho

We arrived on the train from Bodh Gaya relaxed and ready for more adventure.

It was a dark night and, unlike the Buddhist Centre, the large city of Varanasi was busy even at this time of year, so we joined the hordes at the station exit trying to find transport. The Tuk Tuk drivers descended on us travellers like raptors and the experience soon became a walk amongst shouting voices all vying for our attention. Over the top of the throng I could make out a government taxi ticket booth. These large booths sell fixed price tickets to people wanting transport into the city proper and are the only way to avoid being totally fleeced by the touts. It was only when I approached the counter and saw two policemen armed with sub machineguns standing behind the ticket seller that I started to get a feeling that this might not be the safest place. Indeed in my time in Varanasi I was to see more armed policemen than in all the other cities put together and I don’t mean with pistols, I mean with large rifles, assault rifles and Stirling sub machineguns. We bought a fare to our hotel at the far end of the strip running along the Ganges. It was a good price, slightly higher than one would want, but fixed – and that is worth paying a premium for. We jumped in the first Tuk Tuk, which had two men in the front, one driving and another along for the ride, and handed him our ticket. He immediately pulled off onto the road and started pootling along.

“Where do you want to go?” He asked with a thick accent placing a heavy emphasis on the ‘o’ in ‘go’ so it sounded like ‘Gohhh’

To the “Anami Lodge please.”

He shook his head, “No sir, that not good hotel.”

“Just take us there please.”

“Yes sir, but please this not a good hotel, very bad. I can show you a better hotel. It’s on the way no problem. You need a guide to the city?”

“No, we’re fine thanks.”

“Sir, please let me tell you, I am a government sponsored guide, I can show you the whole city for a fixed price.”

“No thanks” I was starting to get a little tension creep into my voice and Cesca cut in.

“We just want to go to our hotel.” She insisted.

“Ok madam, sir. Sorry, I just wanted to show you the other hotel, very good rate with breakfast included, much better room. Please sir, look at this.”

He took a small book from the dashboard and passed it back. I took it from his and regarded it. I had seen them before. It was a small lined exercise book, the sort a schoolboy would have. In it was page after page of “recommendations” from happy tourists saying that this man was one of the very best guides in the whole of India and that we had really fallen on our feet by being in his Tuk Tuk. Surely, the book told me, we should take advantage of this great fortune and let this wise and friendly man be our guide to this big city. On almost every page was a photo pasted in. Sometimes just a Polaroid, sometimes smaller like a photo-booth shot. Each one had a happy smiling tourist, often girls, grinning and making peace signs or giving thumbs up. The names were all western and signed in different pens; I was greeted by “Lisa” and “Tiffany from Texas”.

All fake.

Over my time in multiple Tuk Tuks in the last month I had been handed many of these books. The names were all similar, the writing familiar and the photos just as jolly and happy. The clue is in the detail; not one of the photos had this man in the shot.

“But surely!” You might say, “he may have been the one taking the photos!”

Perhaps, but I think not. We had so bad experiences with drivers using these books to gouge and pray on us that I began to suspect that there is a company somewhere in India that makes these books, writes the names, copies the photos off the Internet and pastes them in. Why? Because of the Westerners fear of the unknown.

Psychology is an interesting science. Its central tenant is that human beings need filters. There is so much information, so much data, coming into our eyes and ears at any one time that the brain has trouble processing it all. Therefore it looks for patterns amongst that information that it can use to categorise the data into known types. So, a man can look at a forest and see the leopard in the tree. It is a way of making sure that he grabs the branch he leaps for, catches the fish he darts after and hits the target he shoots at. This skill has consequences for society as we actively look for these patterns and when we are worried, such as when we are in a new and very foreign place, we find comfort in them.

How can a Tuk Tuk driver be trusted? Surely by reputation above other indicators. We look for something, anything that gives us the ability to trust this man. Is it his English good? Is he well dressed? If we are female, do we find him rakishly handsome? These are all indicators, but should they fail then he pulls out the “big gun”; the Great Book of Recommendations that is full of such indicators, such known patterns, and they are an attempt to disarm us from listening to our senses. To invite our rational side to override our instinct.

It didn’t work on me.

“Thanks, but just take us where we want to go.”

He shared a look with the man hanging on the front of the Tuk Tuk and drove on in silence. Eventually we arrived at a busy looking road where he pulled into the pavement.

“Over there is the hotel I wanted to show you,” he said pointing over the road.

“And where is my hotel?” I asked.

“Down there.” He pointed to our left where there was a large and dark alley. “You will have to carry your bags down there”. The driver sighed, “Come I will show you.” He got out of the Tuk Tuk.

I eyed the darkness and turned to Cesca,

“Stay here, watch the bags, I will check it out.”

“Are you sure?” she asked looking worried; the alley was pitch-black.

“Yep. Just wait.”

The driver led me into the gloom. It was very dark in this long alley and my senses immediately went into overdrive. As we walked along I noticed shapes along the floor; people lying on the path and the unmistakable smell of human excrement. I realised that I may be about to get mugged. I have walked down dark alleys in many cities from Rio to Barcelona, but this one had a palpable air of danger. Like that part in a horror movie where the victim does something stupid and you find yourself screaming, “Don’t go down that alley! Are you nuts?” As the gloom enveloped me I reached into my trouser pocket and silently took out my folding knife and held it against my leg. The man led me down three or four winding and dark alleys and after another narrow alley full of cows I began to wonder if he knew where to go. Eventually I gave up trying to remember the route and then we came to what looked like the back end of a large building.

“There,” he said. “There is the hotel, up those stairs.”

I walked up the staircase, more a fire escape, and around a bend. At the top was a glass door and I knocked, very conscious of the silence. The door opened and a smartly dressed young man stood in the doorway.

“May I help you?” He said.

“I have a reservation.” I said.

“Mr Bell?”

I relaxed. “Yes?”

“Come in sir! We have been awaiting your arrival!” He said happily with an Indian head wiggle.

I entered and found myself in a very smartly converted large townhouse. It was home to an entire family running the hotel part as a business venture where they live on-site. I counted five members of the same family, three girls and two men, who all welcomed me in with genuine smiles. I had a vision of what I must look like to them; a tall strange white man looking like Jack Bauer having a rough day. I tried to lower the shields and relax.

“May I see the room?” I asked as politely as I could.

“Of course!” The man led me up a few flights of stairs and showed me our room. It was one of the best room I saw in the entirely of India; large and welcoming. It looked over the Ganges and had a small balcony set outside high windows.

“Brilliant” I said. “But, I must ask, why is it so hard to get here?”

“What do you mean?”

I explained how the Tuk Tuk driver had led me through all those dark alleys to this place. The man was shocked and shook his head.

“Why didn’t you just park outside?” He asked, pulling back the curtain and showing me the road right outside the front of the hotel. Clearly I had been led in the back way.

“Thank you, we will.”

He took me back down and I left to return to Cesca. At the bottom of the stairs was the driver. He looked up at me and I gave him 100% of “The Look”.

The Look is something you need to practice to be able to pull off. It doesn’t matter who you are, what size you are, or your age, The Look is almost magical. It is one of practiced pure malevolence.

It is The Man With No Name pissed off,

“You gonna draw those pistols or whistle Dixy?”

Kaiser Sosa being in a line up,

“Hand me the keys you f*cking cock sucker”

Butch being called “paunchy”,

“What did you just say?”

My wife knows it as “my killing look”

I gave him the look and he had the good graces to shudder slightly and bow his head in shame. In silence we walked back through the alleys to my, now worried, Cesca. She visibly sighed in relief when I came out of the shadows.

“You were gone ages! What is it like?” she asked.

“It’s excellent, and this bastard has been mucking us around. The road goes right there, right outside.”

“This other guy has been trying to talk me into the other hotel,” she said, “amongst other things…”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Jade Goody. He thinks she’s great.”

“An amazing women!” Exclaimed the man hanging on the side of the Tuk Tuk. This was the first time that I had heard of the late Jade Goody outside of the UK and I was a bit shocked. It wasn’t until much later that I learned about her “visit” to India in the wake of the “bullying” allegations on Big Brother. Whatever she did here, it worked. I now suspect that a lot of Indians never liked Shilpa Shetty anyway. I shook my head to clear out of the madness and maintain my righteous anger. I turned to the driver.

“Take us to the front of the hotel right now.”

“Cost extra” He answered sourly.

Cesca made to complain but I stopped her with a raised hand.

“Just do it!”

He started up the Tuk Tuk and we pulled back onto the road. About 25 meters ahead the road curved to the left and we wheeled around it towards the river. Another 25 meters and we pulled left again and there was the hotel on my left. It was right around the corner!

“You’re kidding!” Said Cesca flabbergasted.

“Now,” the driver said, “pay extra, parking here cost me money.”

“What?”

“To come down here I have to pay those guys over there.” He pointed at a group of men lounging at one end of the street.

I turned to Cesca, “Baby, lets pay these guys and forget about them.”

“But, we already paid! She protested.”

“Come on” I insisted. We got out of the Tuk Tuk and I extracted a small note and gave it to the driver. “Now go away” I told him.

He went without comment and we entered the hotel.

And that was my first hour in Varanasi. Not the most auspicious of beginnings and I wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake incoming here.

Our experience is not uncommon all over India and indeed all over Asia, but here there was something else, some sense of menace in the atmosphere, in the air of the driver. Something was pulling at my senses and demanding that I pay attention. It was saying to me to be on my guard, not rely on the pattern recognition response that could lead so easily astray and be manipulated.

I decided to listen, and in a strange way that is probably why Varanasi was to touch me so deeply. Because I was listening to my senses, paying attention to all that was around me; not simply matching it to a type and filing it away.

In Varanasi I was awake. I needed to be: I was to witness my first dead body the next morning.

Regards,

Basho

I have always loved mountains.  Either looking up to their framing of the valleys below or being able to stand on their summits and view the distant vistas they offer.  New Zealand has offered some of the most amazing mountains I have seen outside the ski fields of Europe and I share with you now some of those discoveries here.

North Island – Mount Tongariro

Mount Tongariro is actually an entire volcanic complex and World Heritage site.  It is located 10 miles southwest of Taupo, and comprised of three active volcanoes dominating the landscape of the central North Island.  We first saw the complex from the van on our arrival at lake Taupo.  Its snow caped peeks were visible in the far distance over the lake above the shoreline.  The park itself is roughly split into two parts.  The main mountain town of Whakapapa is half way into the mountains and the base of the ski fields that sit atop its leading road.  It has all levels of accommodation and comfort but we made tracks straight for the DOC campsite that sits between the road and a river.  The average DOC site is a simple affair, but this one was much more.  It had hot water – one of the few! – powered sites, a laundrette and a shop.  All unlikely findings in a DOC camp.  It also had one of the greatest views in the world. 

Or at least it should have…

The fog was in the day we arrived and not a mote let alone a mountain could be seen. 

“There is actually a mountain around here?” Cesca asked the DOC shopping assistant as he took our camp fee’s. 

He laughed, “Yes, usually, its the big one just behind this building.  You’ll see it tomorrow!”

We did see it the next day… through the incessantly strong rain. 

The DOC have a large information centre in the middle of Whakapapa that dispenses advice about the famous Tongariro Crossing.  This crossing is actually part of a much harder 5 day walk around the base of the entire mountain range.  It is famous for two reasons, firstly it is possible – and recommended – to do the crossing in one day, making the walk the most tramped in the country.  The other reason is that because of the numbers of walkers (sometimes 2000 a day) many people drastically underestimate the difficulty.  High alpine walking is always dangerous as the weather is very very changeable.  The DOC info-centre has a sign board keeping the scores; 5 rescues, 2 broken limbs and 1 death already this year.  Given the numbers that undertake the crossing this was not a high percentage, but it was perhaps the reason for the moodiness of the DOC official at the info desk.  I asked her the weather and she almost sighed,

“Have you got mountain gear, ice axes and crampons?” she asked.

“Erm, no”

“Then its not possible today”

“How about guided?” I asked.

“There will be no guides who can take you, the weather is too bad”

She gave me a stern look, but I merely shrugged.

“Never mind then, we will do another walk, perhaps the waterfall.”

I moved off to the side and the very next man in the line  – who had overheard all of this -  said,

“What is the weather like today?”

The lady sighed again… She probably answered this question many many times a day. 

So instead of the crossing, we walked the fantastic waterfall route through the base of the mountains.  This was a 3 hours walk around a loop of very varied landscapes and well worth the effort.  Across the remains of prior volcanic flows we walked, over fast running rivers, past amazing plants and wildlife.  As for the falls themselves; they were lovely.  High in the distance the mountain played hide and seek with us and our cameras.

The crossing remained impossible the next day and so gave up on it and moved on to the other side of the mountain and Ohakune; another small village at the base of a road leading up to a ski field.  There we undertook the 3 hour Waitonga Falls walk.  This was another notable walk that passed many different types of view and terrain.  After a climb it opened over a sunken lava flow, which had a long snaking walkboard placed up on it.  It was a very clear day and we had great view of the mountains to our left as we crossed.

At the end of that section we again entered a forest and walked down for about 30 minutes before the path came to a end at a fast running river.  This river was fed by the large and beautiful Waitonga Falls.  But from our vantage point we couldn’t really see it as it was obscured by trees.  Cesca then had a brainwave and finding some timber (presumably put there to be built into a continuing path) threw it across the waters.  I looked at it balancing on two rocks.  Han Solo’s words came back to me;

“I have a bad feeling about this!” 

Falling in would not mean drowning (probably) but would certainly screw my camera and mean a one and half hour walk back while wet.  I placed a foot on the board, drew a breath and ran across.  The board twisted with my weight and then slipped!

I just made it.  Looking at the boards new position – it had somehow not fallen in – I knew that it would be a big challenge to get back.

But the better view was definitely worth it with the sun in a perfect position to highlight the spray coming off the rocks.  We stayed for lunch whilst we looked at the possibility of getting back over the river.  In the end we just went for it and my left foot only got a little wet, which was very lucky!

South Island.

Mount John. 

South island is almost one giant mountain range.  Or at least that’s how it felt to me driving around it.  We drove up to Tekapo, which lives at the base of the mountain, through the wilderness of Burke Pass.  This leads up to a large beautiful lake surrounded on all sides by mountains and forests.  On one edge is the closest of these; Mount John.  Atop this stands the Earth & Sky Observatory, which is New Zealand’s largest and most impressive.  By this point in our journey we were joined by Francesca’s older sister Arabella and had picked up a small camper to squeeze ourselves into.  Arabella has more get up and go than perhaps her small size belies.  It was the work of a few moments for her to have found a bike hire shop and have hatched the plan of getting to the top of the mountain where there lay a nice cafe in the observatory.  The bike hire guy gave us an appraising look,

“Bike much?” he asked.

“Not many mountains in the UK, but I do bike around Epping forest.  I have a Marin and Cesca has a Specialized Rockhopper” I answered.

He nodded, “Cool, ok you can take these two for the ladies and you yourself can have my bike.”

He wheeled out a very nice bike and I eagerly jumped aboard.  Then he gave us some advice about tackling the mountain,

“Head out along the rivers edge,” he said pointing to my map, “then it gets a little steep.” He looked at me.  “Then it gets bloody steep and you’ll have to walk for a few hundred meters until you meet the main road heading up the mountain.  From there its a ride to the top.”

“Sweet!”

We started the journey as proscribed by zooming down through town and passed the campsite at the mountains base.  Thence we were into the track leading around the lake. 

The colour of the water amazing.  Still waters here all exhibit some levels of volcanic residue and this lends the most beautiful spectrum of colours and hues.  I had often thought that – in this photo shopped world – New Zealand could not be the colours the adverts portray, but I was wrong.  It is.  The greens of trees and fields are brighter than in the UK, the blues of waters and lakes are either crystal clear or a wonderful mixture of blue and cyan.  Mountains are many shades of white and silver.

We made our way up to the road.  This was as windy as hell and made the ride up to the top quite dangerous and almost impossible as the many winding turns all played close to a serious drop off.  However, once to the top we all found the challenge had been worth it.  The top of the mount breaks into a collection of domes that house the telescopes.  These were amongst a low set of buildings and, up a small wooden path, the cafe.  This was a fantastic place to have lunch and we tucked into our scroggin’, which was much deserved after all that exercise. We eventually ran out of scroggin’ and so went inside to have a coffee. Our server turned out to be a university student who was one of the guides for the nightly star gazing tour.  I love star gazing and the chance to gaze through telescopes of that magnitude was not to be missed.  We signed up to the 10pm tour.

Coming down from Mount John was a contrast to riding up and took mere minutes on the tarmac road all the way down. At one point I got up to 55Kph on my odometer – breaking the speed limit!  We then rode around the base via the road and back into town to hand the bikes back.

That night we met up with the bus in town that took us up to the observatory.  Lights are banned at night due to the work of the telescopes, which are looking for new planets around distant stars.  We were driven up the same dangerous road that we had biked that day in total darkness.  We all exchanged worried looks but our Japanese driver had the measure of the feat. Atop we had a fantastic glance through the lens towards such delights as the Tarantula Nebula and Jupiter (I could count the brown rings!).  For me – perhaps more than for the others – this was a magical visit.  After – I swapped news of the possible discovery of Dark Matter (which I had read in New Scientist that morning) with the staff.

Mount Cook

This tale of New Zealand mountains has saved the best till last.  Mount Cook is the highest mountain in the country and a famous sight with its curved peak.  Generations of Kiwis have visited the mountains base, which is all DOC controlled parks, and wondered how you could possibly climb such a large mountain?  One such brave soul was Sir Edmund Hillary who used the Cook as a practice for the big push up Everest.  It is set amongst other large mountains all carved by the many glaciers that have retreated up the valley.

Getting to the park is good looking enough as you have to drive along lake Pukaki.  This lake is stupendously large and leads into one of my favourite parts of New Zealand.  Its amazing colour being a natural part of its glacial beginnings.

As any self respecting fan of the Lord of the Rings movie will tell you; the film’s climatic battle between the forces of Humanity and the Orcs of Mordor happens outside the gates of the city of Gondor.  Here the wizard Gandalf leads the Gondorians to defend their white city against 50 thousand Orcs and worse that are hammering at the gates.  It is here that the people of Rohan ride their 8000 horses down the mountain side to lift the cities’ siege.  It is a great moment in the film and it was filmed in this valley:

The Pelennor Fields themselves!

Once up to the small town of Mount Cook Village we ran into a serious rain storm and so spent the day investigating the Sir Edmund Hillary museum, which is based in the local hotel.  It had a short movie playing tribute to the Everest climb as well as the actual snow vehicles he used to race across the south pole.  Surrounding all this were many books written about the great man and smaller exhibits of his equipment.  Also on site was a small 3D cinema, which showed an interesting film about the stars (that the girls fell asleep in!) and a really cool movie about climbing the mountains (which used 3D glasses).  All in all, the museum was worth the visit – especially on a wet day – and got us all fired up about the possibilities of visiting the mountain.

The DOC information site here was especially large and took bookings for the many backcountry huts one can visit in this area.  It surprises me that DOC are so happy for people to just go wandering off into serious mountain wilds, but I guess this is the Kiwi way of things.  If you get lost and die, well, you were at least warned and given all the information you could have needed.  Arabella loves information sites like this and we spent 30 minutes or so checking that the walk we had planned was the best possible use of our time.

Braving the rain again we hunkered down at the local DOC camp site – at the start of the walk – and awaited the morning with the hope of a clear view.  When I awoke I tore back the curtains to see that our wait had not been in vain:

The walk up to the best view of the mountain is 4 hours easy.  known as the hooker Valley walk it meanders up the side of a river, crossing it once, and passed all sorts of special geological features.  We packed up lots of water, food and scroggin’ and got going.  Amazingly we received a phone reception on the walk and so I was able to call my brother back in London and describe the view.  As if my words would be enough.  I have felt small against the backdrop of nature before, but the extreme wilderness of this walk was intimidating as much as it was heaven.

It was about an hour into the walk before the river turned to face Cook itself, lending us a photo opportunity not to be missed.

The mountain holds sway over all others in this range as if it is lord over them.  Its great height is almost all in the face and so it imposes just as much as Everest would do.  As we regarded it, its peak was constantly being hidden and revealed by fast moving clouds.  Surely at the top it must be intensely windy! 

Our final destination was the iceberg rich lake at the base of the retreating glacier.  This opened up the view and gave us breathtaking vistas of the clouds playing across Cook. It was almost impossible to take a bad photo and even the iPhone’s 2 megapixel camera managed this shot:

We sat there and ate our lunch while gazing at the mountain.  To our right some kids played a game of trying to hit the small floating icebergs with the shore stones.  Eventually we went up to the glacial edge by wading through a scrabble of stones and pebbles, the pile up of which is the slope wall of the lake.  I found there some fantastic flat pebbles and took the opportunity to demonstrate my life-long passion for skimming stones.

This was not my first time at seeing a glacier, after all I have skied on top of three or four in Europe – but it was my first time of seeing the end wall of one.  They are extremely dirty at the ends – the mud and rock being crushed by its slithering splays across its face like chocolate cake on the face of a small child – but you could still sense the strength that bends nature to its will and carves whole ranges in its passing.  After seeing it I was looking forwards to visiting Fox glacier (a coming post).

Finally, having eaten our fill and taken our time – we started back along the path, back towards the starting point of our day.  Many a rearwards glance to Cook and many stops to take reflection photos in the pools lining the river broke the journey. 

However, I arrived back at the van both tired and happy.

The next day was great sunny weather and we headed back along the road we had driven up and thence off into the East of New Zealand.  Leaving the mountain behind us we could see it for miles and miles such was the clarity of the weather. 

I think Cook was my favourite mountain visit and one of my highlights of the entire journey to this wonderfully wild and very big country.

Regards,

Basho.