Schladminger Hike

Schladminger Hike: the time we hike the beautiful Alps and it was the most harrowing experience of my life.

Blog post by big sister Hazel Ho:

So on Saturday Sept 13th Vanessa and I (and Tereza/Martin/Carolin) almost died. True story.

We organized a hiking weekend starting in Schladming, a village 90km SE of Salzburg. When we checked the weather forecast for the weekend we knew to prepare for a rainy trek, so I purchased Goretex hiking boots and a waterproof knapsack. A gondola helped us up a little (500m I think?) and we started off the hike on a good note - free apples were given to us! Vanessa was happy. It was a bit drizzly and I could tell that if it weren't for the thick fog we'd have a beautiful view of the Austrian valleys. Everyone was in good spirits initially and when I first saw snow I was giddy with delight. I even wanted more snow to appear so I could make snow angels! 

But the snow didn't stop and neither did the altitude. As we continued our climb up to the peak the weather conditions worsened and we ended up hiking through rain, hail, slush and snow. It wouldn't have been too terrible if we had a safe path to follow but unfortunately that wasn't the case. We ended up clmibing rocks, wading through streams, and Vanessa and Lu practiced rock-climbing techniques on more than one occasion. The scariest part was being surrounded by fog and not being able to see what was below us. The terrain was precarious and a few of us had slips and falls that could have resulted pretty tragically if we were unfortunate enough to lose our balance on a part that had a steep drop down. 

We had three pretty experienced hikers with us (2 Czechs and one German) and I'm happy to say that I wasn't a wimp for being a little scared to continue on. They all said that if they'd known the conditions were going to be that terrible they wouldn't have proceeded with the hike. And before you can say anything else in regards to our lack of preparation, we did go to the information desk to let the people there know what hike we were planning on doing and besides a 'you'll get a bit of snow' there were no other warnings regarding the hiking conditions.

Vanessa edit: Even though the hike was incredibly treacherous and slow-going, and the nightfall was quickly approaching, Hazel kept stopping and pointing out every single flower that was poking out of the damn snow.  I think she was delirious.

Anyway, long story short, we FINALLY made it to our hut 6.5 hours later (wet and cold) where we were met with one of the most inhospitable people I've ever encountered! Our hut was only accessible by foot so maybe the owners aren't used to socializing...but the lady there seemed to enjoy yelling at us in German (knowing full well we didn't understand a word she was saying) and didn't want us showering until after we had dinner even though we were chilled to the bone due to wet clothes. Showers, we found out later, were charged at €4 a hit. 

Vanessa edit: How do we describe this woman? Surly comes to mind.  A surlier woman I have never met.  You would think after 6 hours of seriously treacherous hiking, she would have asked about our journey, how close we came to not making it to the hut before sundown.  Wrong.  Instead, she seemed annoyed that 6 travellers who made reservations to pay her exhorbitant prices for food and lodging had actually arrived at her doorstep.  It's not like business was booming at the mountain hut - aside from our group, there was one other person who had been there for days... and he was a bit off
.

I was looking forward to a fantastic home-cooked Austrian dinner but my pasta was so salty I couldn't finish it. Neither could the two others who ordered the same dish, but the owner didn't seem to notice/pay attention/care that we all half a plate remaining. Maybe she thought we were all on diets. Vanessa didn't seem too particularly fond of her 'authentic Austrian meat' dish, which was just spam. Lu's dish was good...he ended up sharing a lot of his dish :D

Cracking the coconut

Many years ago, on the night of my 15th birthday, my father came home from work and grinning ear-to-ear, presented me with my coconut. I stared at him, confused. What was the significance of this round, hairy, foreign object?

'It's a coconut', my father explained. 'Instead of a birthday cake, you get to have something different!'

Right. So instead of getting a delicious vanilla cake frosted with cool whip and decorated with strawberries and kiwis (the only cake my grandma has ever been known to make, and so she makes it very, very well) I was getting ... a coconut?

I thanked my dad, still baffled, and told him that I didn't know how to open it. I guess this was something my overly enthusiastic father had failed to consider. We all stared at it, puzzled - me, my dad, and my best friend Kim. Thus began the night's labor of opening the most bizarre birthday cake I've ever received.

First we tried scraping open a hole with a paring knife. It failed to make a dent. Then we tried smashing it against the kitchen counter, again, to no effect. We soaked it in water, thinking maybe it would soften the outer shell. Nothing. Finally, my dad took matters into his own hands and retreated into the garage with the coconut. We could hear sounds of heavy machinery being used. A few minutes later my father triumphantly emerged with a freshly drilled hole in the coconut. He emptied the contents, which amounted to half a glass of cloudy coconut milk, and gave it to me, 'Happy birthday!'

I was less than amused, but Kim was highly entertained by the entire process. 'Your family is so random,' she said. Sigh... this is true.

Since that day, I've always been a bit wary of coconuts. That is, until I came to the Cook Islands. Since then, I've discovered the taste of freshly opened coconuts, and I can't get enough. This week I finally learned to crack the coconut. It's amazingly simple.

Step 1: Husking the coconut. The husk is the big green or brown shell encasing the coconut and takes some effort to remove. Most people pry it off using a traditional metal pole with a pointed tip to get it under husk.


Step 2: Cracking the coconut. This part is the most fun. See that red line I've drawn around the middle? You have to strike that imaginary line with a blunt object while rotating it to get the weak points. Eventually a crack will show and you can pry it open. A professional can do this with just three strokes and under 2 seconds. I'm working on it.


Step 3: Enjoy the coconut!




I can't get enough of Henry Nilsson this week. I wish I grew up in an era where songs like these made Billboard Top 100.

Click here to listen to 'Henry Nilsson - Coconut'

Working with water

Ahh.. the end of another working week in the Cook Islands. I guess I should explain what it is that I'm doing here. Still finishing up the last semester of my program, I'm interning with one of the government ministries in water resource management, which is relevant to my studies. Basically I'm trying to engage with people from all over the island to talk about what the future of water and health will look like for the Cook Islands, and what we need to start doing now.

Holding a workshop on the future of water, health and climate change

The interesting part of managing natural resources in a small island setting is that any changes you make to the environment has an immediate impact. For example, if there's an unusually heavy rainfall and papaya plantations are laying fertilizers on their fields, it gets washed into the lagoon, causing a spike in algae blooms, threatening beaches and livelihoods because the country is so dependant on tourism. That's why its essential for people across different sectors communicating so they realize how their activities affect, or are affected by, their neighbours. Fortunately this is a place that has close community ties, making this easy to do, most of the time.

Meeting people from all different backgrounds is the best part of my job. Where else in the world can you call up a department minister totally out of a blue, and then sit down for a meeting with them later that day? People here are just so approachable and friendly. I get to talk to schoolchildren, traditional leaders, landowners and lots of other people working in government. Water is important to different people in different ways, and everyone is more than happy to share their point of view.

One thing I didn't expect is how my job would continue to follow me after working hours. Being a tall asian girl with a Canadian accent makes me stand out here, a lot, so people are always asking stopping me to ask what I'm doing here. There have been instances where I'm picking up something at a local shop, and the owners will take me to their house to show me the discoloured water and low pressure coming out of their taps. Other times I will explain what I'm working on, and people look at me and think I'm just attached to another aid project, paid to give their opinion and leave. I've talked to taro planters who have thrown f-bombs at me, telling me that no government should ever tell him what to do with his land. All of these opinions are valid though, and its mostly good-natured. Sometimes I'll be walking along the main road and people will ask me if I've fixed all the country's water problems yet, and I'll laugh and say I'm working on it.

Looking into the island's water sources and reservoirs

I know that the time I'll spend here is relatively short, and realistically maybe I won't have that much of an impact. The one thing I try to do is keep an open mind and try to listen (harder than you think, consider how much I talk!) and appreciate this experience.

Cook Islands

I've been pinching myself every morning for the past month. I've been waking up to sunrises like these, thinking its too surreal to be living in the Cook Islands.

I'm staying on the main island of Rarotonga, which has the only international airport, and the most tourists. With ten thousand people, its the most populated of the 15 islands that makes up Cook Islands. We have two grocery stores, one bookstore, eleven fish n' chip stations and fifteen churches. Perhaps that gives you an idea of the girth and the religious fervor of the people of the Cook Islands. To get an idea of where the country is located, find Hawaii, then head south for about 7000 km. Those tiny dots are the Cook Islands.

The sheer isolation of the island geography was initially daunting, but its hard not to be charmed by the small community feel to Rarotonga. In my first days walking around the main town area, random people on the street approached me saying 'hey you're the new intern from Canada? Welcome!' and there are always open invitations to family birthdays, community socials and dinner parties from virtual strangers. It's easy to feel like you're cut off from the rest of the world, but the sheer generosity, friendliness and amazing hospitality of the Cook Islanders have made me feel like I have a home in the middle of the Pacific.

Tally-Ho!

One of the best things to happen during our stay is that in mid-January my parents' visas expire. What does this mean? Turkey requires visitors to leave the country every three months in order for their visas to be renewed upon their return. In other words...the Ho's are going on Ho-liday! Okay, sorry, I'll stop with the ho-rrible Ho-jokes.

So what does a Ho family vacation entail? Well, lots of eating for one thing. My father measures time in intervals of snacks and coffee breaks. This will give us ample opportunity to sample all of the deliciousness that Istanbul, London and Rome have to offer. Ho trips also require lots of walking. Endless hours of walking. Some of our friends who have accompanied us on past family trips have discovered this the hard way. We walk everywhere, rain or shine. Some may argue that this is because the best way to discover a city is on foot; I argue that my father is cheap. Only under certain conditions will we take public transport (free being the major factor) and under no circumstances will we ever take a taxi.

We will see if these traditions will continue to be upheld for the next few weeks as we traipse through select cities in Europe and technically Asia (Istanbul is half Europe, half in Asia).

Tally-Ho!

Mutlu Yillar

Translation: Happy New Year (in Turkish)!

For the past few months the family has been scattered across the globe; with me studying in Brisbane, Australia, Hazel in the south of France, Victoria at Ottawa U and, finally, my parents in Turkey. It hasn't always been easy communicating in four different time zones, but somehow we managed to get ourselves organized for a long-awaited family reunion over the Christmas holidays aboard our floating home for the next few weeks, the Three Rivers.

My sisters and I wearing the matching shirts that our parents gave us. Apparently buying your kids matching outfits never gets old.

I must admit, the thought of cramming all five of us together in fairly confined conditions for several weeks had me a bit, shall we say...concerned. We would literally be in each others' faces all day, every day for the duration of our stay. Add that to the fact that its been half a decade since we've all lived under one roof and it sounds like we've got a recipe for disaster (my specialty). Well as it turns out worries were unfounded, and it wasn't long before we settled into some kind of family routine again.

So what it is like living with three sisters and their parents on a 43 foot sailboat? It means that when one person gets up in the morning, everyone has to get up. I used to wake up to the sounds of my father making coffee and talking to our cat Smokey. Now I wake up to the sounds of my father loudly hosing down the boat, directly overhead of my cabin. It means that, instead of having the smallest room in the house, I now have the smallest cabin in the boat (think the length and width of a coffin, except with a height of 6 feet). It means that from 3pm to 4pm, we all have to be very, very quiet, because that is prime napping time for my father. At any given time, you know exactly where every member of your household is, and what they are doing. It also means that the only alone time you will get during the course of a day is when you visit the bathroom, and when you're asleep.

Ho family at Christmas dinner (we're not really orange, its just my sub-par camera)

All joking aside, the town of Kemer has a lot to offer and I can see why my parents love it here. The Mediterranean coastline is breathtaking, especially against the backdrop of the recently snow-capped Taurus mountains. The biggest draw is the marina itself, where there's a great liveaboard (people living off their boats at the marina) community who are spending the winter sailing season in Kemer. Because the average age of the liveaboards is about 60, you can't help but draw comparisons of Kemer marina to that of a retirement community. A very active and structured retirement community, at that. Monday nights mean board games, followed by Tuesday choir practise, Wednesday movie nights, Thursdays line dancing lessons and Friday nights out at the symphony. It may not be the most exhilarating place I've traveled to, but I can't think of another place I'd rather be than here with the Hos.

Another beautiful day at the Kemer Marina

Intense outdoor ping-pong tournament

Freshly squeezed pomegranate juice at the market

Happy Father's Day

This post is a tribute to my dad who is, in some ways, largely responsible for the existence of this blog. There's a reason why me and my sisters all have an insatiable wanderlust, and I think it traces back to the family vacations we used to take together, criss-crossing much of North America and racking up hundreds of thousands of kilometres on our trusty dodge caravan. Every summer my dad planned to take us somewhere different. Sometimes the kids were allowed to have some input (Disneyworld!) and sometimes we were not (Dayton, Ohio).

Getting there was half the adventure, of course, especially when we did the 24 hour drives to Florida. It was those trips that instilled my love of road trips today. Sleeping in the airport because we left the car keys in another suitcase, getting food poisoning in the car and throwing up all over my sister's Berenstein Bears books, locking the keys in the van a thousand kilometres away from home, all of these instances were the beginning of my disaster travels.

We learned a lot of life lessons while we were on the road. Traveling with a family of five is expensive - I now see the logic in my father having us choose whether to stay in a motel or have a nice breakfast (breakfast won and we slept in the parking lot of Walmart). Traveling also builds character. We always had a full itinerary for every city which we covered mostly on foot, often walking for hours each day. Taxis and other forms of transport that required paying were not an option. Sometime we were allowed to bring friends on these trips - friends that wore platform thong sandals - and they learned this the hard way. I also learned about the logistics of traveling. Even at the ages of 5, 7 and 10, respectively, my father had us converting US to CDN currencies to see if activities we wanted to do fit into a pre-determined budget.



Gradually though, as we grew up, got summer jobs, moved to different cities, the trips became less and less frequent. Dad discovered sailing, and soon every possible weekend, weather permitting, he and my mom were either at 'the cottage' where we stored the family sailboat or exploring nearby lakes. But there are only so many bodies of water in southern Ontario and the opportunity for sailing has maximum a 5 month window each year. My father wanted to do more, he wanted something bigger, more of a challenge.

Which brings me to this post. About a month ago, my parents packed up their belongings, purchased a 46 ft ocean-going sailboat and started a journey around the world.

How cool is that?

They started in Turkey, then continued to Cyprus and the last I heard they had arrived safe and sound in sunny Syria. My parents are giving blogging a try, and you can follow their travels at http://3riverscruising.blogspot.com/

Happy fathers day! To my dad, who continues to inspire me everyday :)

Beijing, the original Chinatown

After experiencing delays in takeoff, landing and layovers, I finally arrived in Beijing at 2am. The airport is some distance from the city centre, so I expected the city to be asleep as my taxi drove the 40 minutes to reach my hostel. What I found is true of every Chinatown I've ever visited. The city never sleeps. We passed by fields with kids playing soccer, brightly lit restaurants filled with families still eating and vendors hawking their wares on the streets. It was a stark contrast to Brisbane, where the city shuts down when the sun sets at 5pm, and banks close their doors in the late afternoon.

I opted to stay at Happy Dragon Hostel, not to be confused with the nearby New Dragon Hostel and International Dragon Hostel nearby. The Chinese hospitality industry is not the most creative when it comes to names. The next day I wandered around the Dongcheng district, the historic inner area of the city where my hostel was located. One of the first things I noticed was how the Old World integrated with modern conveniences and new structures. Wide city streets crowded with taxis, cars and buses share the road with a steady stream of bicycles. China was once known as the Kingdom of Bicycles, and today Beijing still has 4 million cyclists.

The fastest way to get around the city is underground. The subway system is clean and efficient, and rediculously cheap. At 2 RMB, the equivalent of 30 cents, anyone can afford to take transport in Beijing. The subways here are infinitely better than the TTC in every way. They're frequent. They're on time. They make sense, meaning there are signs that tell you what stop you're at and which stop you will be heading to next. Also, there are no drunk people yelling at fellow passengers, sleeping or defecating in the subway. All of which I have had the good fortune to witness in Toronto.

Beijing: proof that cleanliness and promptness can coexist in a subway system

The next-to-nothing subway fare also meant that I could visit any of the attractions spread through the city, and some I revisited several times. One of my favorite places is Wangfujing, a buzzing street in the heart of the city that representative of the clash between old and new that I see throughout Beijing. Noodle stalls and spice stores are crowded between giant department stores with huge flashing billboards. Established stores selling jade jewelry and fancy oriental rugs share entryways with tacky souvenir shops. Barely visible in a sea of massive gleaming new storefronts is the entrance to Wangfujing market, an old-fashioned pedestrian alley remnant from the Ming Dynasty era. Although it is crowded and noisy (what Chinatown isn't?) the offerings of countless vendors make this spot a delight for all the senses. Food stalls offer everything from fried crickets to sea horses to candied fruit on skewers. Regular fare like steamed pork buns, sticky rice wrapped in lotus leaves and crispy tofu attract the less adventurous tourists.

Wangfujing alley

Dumplings, buns and pineapple rice

Vendor pulling dragon floss candy

After having our fill of sweets and dumplings, some new travelling companions and I decided to try some tantalizing new dishes. First on the menu was deep fried scorpion. My friend selected a healthy looking specimen 4 inches long with huge pincers. It tasted like popcorn. Then we tried the silkworm. After debating the best way to approach the bulbous cocoon, I went and bit it in the centre. The innards squirted all over my glasses. That's when I decided to call it a day.

Tasty offerings at the night market

Deep fried scorpion

Fried silkworm
Didn't go over so well.

Identity Crisis

I recently paid a brief visit to the homeland to take part in a wedding. No, not Canada (which, unfortunately, looks like it won't happen in the near future due to my family being scattered across the world), but China. China had never been at the top of my list of travel destinations. It seemed too vast, too congested, too intimidating, with too many people. But when my friend Yuanyuan told me she needed me to be in her wedding party, I jumped at the opportunity. When else would I get to take part in a Chinese traditional wedding?

Despite the fact that both of my parents were the first in their families to emigrate from Hong Kong, and enrolled me in Chinese school for 8 years, I know embarassingly little about Chinese history and culture. This played a large factor in my hesitation in seriously considering visiting the country. I guess what I was really afraid of was the frustration and humiliation of not being able to navigate in my own home country. My Cantonese is conversational at best, and my spoken and comprehension of Mandarin is nonexistent. My Chinese writing is atrocious. For some reason, both of my sisters are much more fluent than I am. Although I find written Chinese characters are beautiful, the language is awkward and difficult to learn. The subtle inflections of each syllable means that one word can have five different meanings. I think my difficulties began when I was four years old, my grandma asked me to fetch her oranges for her and her friends. I misunderstood and instead brought her a dust pan, and the image of her and her friends bent over with laughter still haunts me.

Determined not to let it happen again, I tried to teach myself Mandarin and learn as much about Chinese culture as possible in the weeks leading up to my China trip. However, starting a new masters program this year with a 40 hour work week made it difficult. In the end, I thought I had learned enough phrases to get by, and boarded by flight from Sydney to Beijing filled with confidence. The air hostess examined my boarding pass and asked me a question containing three words in Mandarin. I gave her a blank stare, and it felt like admitting defeat when I told her I didn't speak Mandarin. This was the first of a thousand similar interactions throughout the duration of my trip. The following posts will be about my observations of what it feels like to be a foreigner of Chinese descent traveling through China.

Air China's mystery lunch. Top 3 worst airplane meals ever.

Westward Ho!

Even though I promised myself no more traveling due to rapidly dwindling funds, I couldn't resist a spontaneous roadtrip to the outback during our mid-semester break. With only a vague itinerary in mind, five of us packed into a Wicked campervan that was in questionable condition. Carnarvon gorge would be our eventual destination, but getting there and back was an adventure in itself. Located 800km northwest of Brisbane, the gorge is an oasis in middle of central Queensland's notoriously dry highlands, with springfed crystal clear waters feeding the surrounding tropical rainforest, enclosed by towering sandstone cliffs. As we drove further west, the towns grew smaller and the townspeople grew wider. My doubts of Australia having the world's highest obesity rates have since been put to rest.

We pulled into Carnarvon National Park late in the afternoon, found that the main campgrounds were full but we could take the trail to Big Bend, where campsites located 10 km away were still unoccupied. So, with only a few hours of solid daylight left, we packed up what we need for the night and hiked. Quickly. The trail was relatively flat, but very tricky terrain because we were basically following the riverbed. Even when it hasn't rained for months, Carnarvon Creek still flows steadily, as rain throughout the year percolates slowly through the sandstone and seeps out into the gorge. We passed Cathedral Cave, which houses some of the Australia's most well-preserved rock art, showcasing work by aboriginals over 3500 years old. We reached our campsite at dusk, a fabulous site with our own personal pool and cliffs that provided great acoustics for our iPod speaker setup. We were the only ones around for miles, and we celebrated our good fortune with cold beers. From the case that I carried for 3 hours.

Lush greenery in the Carnarvon oasis

Aboriginal stencil art with and handprints

Sandstone cliffs surrounding our campsite

The next couple of days were spent sweating, hiking, swimming or a combination of all three, and it was blissful. So of course we blew a tire on the way driving out of the park. Did I mention we had already blown the spare tire on the way drving into the park? Right. Did I mention we were in the outback with no cellphone or radio reception? Interesting. So we sat by the side of the road... and waited. After a couple of hours somebody drove by saying he could fix our tires, so he left with two of our friends while we waited at the van. 5 hours later... we were still waiting. It was growing darker with the setting sun and the rain was starting to pour down outside. Inevitably images of Wolf Creek began to creep into my thoughts. I was about to switch from mildly worried to deeply concerned, when we saw headlights in the distance. Our friends were back! With new friends! And beer! The tires still weren't fixed, but our night was salvaged. After an impromptu roadside party and a few angry phone calls, we were on our way home the following morning, only 30 hours behind schedule.

Still happy campers

One Hike to Rule Them All

After quick review of the New Zealand trip, I've roughly calculated that our journey consisted on 25% driving and 75% hiking. Despite some hairy experiences with tackling driving on the wrong side of the road, everything seemed to fall into place, with even the weather started cooperating after we arrived in Queenstown.

Okay so here I have summarized the best of the best of NZ hiking:

The Diamond Trek, just outside of Lake Wanaka. Often referred to as the prettiest short hike in NZ, we did this hike on a spectacular sunny day (the only one we had entirely without rain). We had the trail almost completely to ourselves, save for some curious four-footed onlookers.




Franz Josef Glacier hike. Definitely some of the most fun I had in the South Island. Every day the guides hack out a new trail in the stunning blue ice, a solid mass of more than a billion cubic metres moving rapidly each day. We spent a full day on the glacier, digging through ice caves, squeezing through tight crevasses and sliding down ice tunnels.





Tongariro Crossing. Renowned as the best dayhike in the country, this gruelling trail takes you through some beautiful and bizarre scenery. After walking through flat tundra-like landscape, you're faced with the Devil's Staircase - a steep climb up 1400m that passses lava flows and detritus from the still active volcano. We reached the 1900m summit in 3 hours, only to be surrounded by fog so thick you could barely see your hand in front of your face.





Fast forward to the Blue Mountains, a region featuring spectacular rock formations, waterfalls and bushwalks (the Aussie term for hiking trails). A blue haze hovers over the entire mountain range, produced from the oil of eucalyptus trees in the surrounding forest. It's here that we endured the toughest and longest hike yet. Some locals took us through a relatively unknown trail passing through rainforest, steep rock faces and abandoned mine shafts. After 5 hours of hiking, we thought it would be a great idea to tackle the Giant Staircase, an absolute nightmare consisting of a steel staircase winding up vertical 300m and leading to the peaks of the Three Sisters. Its like doing a full day of tough hiking, followed by climbing the CN Tower. Somehow we managed. Two weeks of trekking produces some pretty solid muscle.

A Ride to Remember

The ferry crossing between Wellington and Picton is one of New Zealand's most iconic tourist experiences, and supposed to be one of the most spectacular cruises in the world. Our journey began on a typical New Zealand morning - grey and drizzly, but still picturesque nonetheless, gliding past mountains reflected in the Picton's calm harbour waters. After parking their cars, families and travelers quickly found seats on the upper decks and settled in for three hour journey.

As the ship eased out of the sheltered harbour and entered the open waters of the Cook Strait, the winds began to pick up, and the seas began to get rough. Really rough. Although the ferry crossing only covers 92 km, it takes place at a latitude known as the 'Roaring 40s' because of its unpredictable and furious winds. The strait is located where the Tasman Sea meets the South Pacific, funnelling westerly winds and deflects them to the north, which in the right conditions can produce the perfect storm. On this particular day, it brought in winds gusting to 60 or 70 knots, and within a few minutes, we were sailing through blowing 6 m swells.

The top deck was closed due to the severe weather, and the decks below were lined with people looking out in awe of the huge waves below. Sprays from the bigger waves came up 20m high, completely dousing the unsuspecting onlookers, which made for a great show from my perspective at the rear of the boat. We sailed on, and the storm only intensified as the waves kept getting bigger. For some reason, the captain turned the ship parallel to the wind, which meant that the brunt of the waves was being felt, rocking the boat heavily from side to side. As a sailor and somewhat of a thrill-seeker, I was totally loving this weather... but inside was another story.


A crowd of people on the deck

Once I stepped inside, it felt like the remaining passenger decks were ground zero of a disaster scenario. Children, the elderly and entire families were laid low by seasickness. They held vomit bags to their faces, wailed for help from frantic crew members or just laid facedown on the ground, completely incapacitated by nausea. The halls echoed with horrible sounds of people vomiting and crying, dishes flying off the shelves in the kitchen and crashing to the floor, and chairs and tables scraping across the floor. Over the main intercom, the captain gave repeated updates on the weather conditions, and car owners were called to the parking lots below to shut off their vehicle alarm systems. I had to escape outside to the freezing decks in order to avoid being overcome by nausea myself.


Biggest waves I've ever seen

Finally, the rocking motions eased and we entered the North Island channel opening and safely docked at Wellington harbour. Only two hours behind schedule, and a little bit worse for wear. The pain will soon be forgotten though. Tomorrow is our most gruelling hike yet - a 6 hour hike up to the summit of Mt Tongariro, or perhaps better known as Mordor.

Middle Earth

Milford Sound, glacial valleys in the Fjordlands.


Field of lupins in front of Mitre Peak


Glacier and floating ice berg at Mt Cook

After the jump

So jumping out of a plane was probably the most expensive, and exhilarating 7 minutes of my life. It wasn´t until the tiny Cessna barely containing the 6 of us took off and started climbing towards the sky that I actually started getting nervous. The peaks of the freshly snow-capped mountains looked almost close enough to touch, and we climbed higher still. All of a sudden, the doors of the plane were thrown open and everything was chaos. Emelie was the first to go. Before she could even finish screaming "No I don´t want to.." she had already been tossed out of the plane. Phil, my tandem guide, yelled "Ready?!" And before I knew it, we were airborne and bombing headfirst towards the ground, the flipping head over heels. After a few seconds, I realized I was actually skydiving, and even then even the air ripping past me at 200 km/hr couldn´t wipe the grin off my face. Then, too soon, the parachute chord was pulled, and we slowed our descent. My instructor showed me how to control the parachute by yanking the right and left chords up and down, and we spent the rest of the ride twisting back and forth while admiring the scenery of the Remarkables mountain ranges. After 5 minutes of this, the ground rushed up towards me, and after a totally ungraceful landing, the dive was over. I´ll be back though. After all, New Zealand is the only place in the world that allows a 15,000 ft jump, which is now on my to-do list.

Adventure Capital

After just three days of travel here is New Zealand, I've already been rewarded some of the most breathtaking landscapes I've ever seen. It's impossible to take a bad picture here - every scene laid before you is a postcard-perfect view begging to be captured on camera. There are rolling golden hills dotted with herds of grazing sheep, snow-capped mountains and cascading tumbling into rivers below and valleys filled with fields of vibrant pink and purple lupins, all within a days drive.

By the way the driving here is intense. And so much fun! The roads are perfectly maintained, traffic is pretty much nonexistant, and the speed limits are ... shall we say, optional? Just as you finish one hairpin turn carved into the mountain, another one begins, and you have to fight to maintain control of the steering wheel. We have a '95 Nissan Sunny rented for the next two weeks and I intend to push it to to the max.

Of course the best way to take in the scenery is up close and personal - hiking. Every day of this trip has some hiking trails planned, and most are not for the faint of heart. Today there were severe weather warnings issued for the entire central and south island regions. We were told to expect freezing temperatures with gale force winds and driving rains, and flash flooding in some areas. In Lake Wanaka, we saw cars half submerged in parking lots that turned into temporary swimming pools. Still, the hiking continued.


The fellowship: Emelie, me, Teresa

Now we're in Queenstown, the adventure capital of the world, and I have more pressing matters on my mind than getting hypothermia. Tomorrow is the Big Jump. As in jumping 12,000 ft off a plane and plummeting towards the earth and terminal velocity until someone (hopefully not me) pulls the parachute open. I'm getting sweaty just writing about it.