Islands in the Stream

After a dateline crossing mix up and some delays, Luke and I arrived into Aukland airport, dazed, confused -and I imagine looking a little worse for wear. We were delighted to arrive at the luxury and comfort provided at the house of the lovely Jen.

Arriving in New Zealand instantly resulted in a feeling of confusion. Having spent the last seven months travelling round distant and foreign lands, it was quite crazy to arrive in the most distant of all lands -in fact, the furtherest I've ever been from home - and feel like you are back into familiarity. Brand names like home; speaking English like home; TV shows like home; cars stopping at pedestrian crossings like home... and yet it's not home! This confusion resulted in me speaking in Spanish to a baffled imigration officer and Luke baffling car drivers with his strange pedestrian ways.

After 12 hours on a plane that appeared to be held together in places by black tape and string (after 7 hours in Buenos Aires airport waiting for the delayed said-plane and 22 hours on a bus from Patagonia) we were hoping for a pretty laid back and relaing time in Aukland. And in what better city to relax than this laid back metropolis? Aucklanders (and quite fankly Kiwis in general) are happy, friendly and so laid back they are barely standing. Walking through the financial district and high street in the city centre, I - being from London - expected to find people dashing around in suits, looking serious and slightly agitated, with a look that imediately reads "get out of my way, I'm rushing to do something very important."  Instead you find people in shorts and flip flops, dawdling along without a care in the world.

Auckland isn't packed with touristy things to do, but is lovely to wander around. Drenched in sunshine and surrounded by sea it's an incredibly scenic city, complete with two harbours. Sitting as it does inside a ring of volcanoes it is also surrounded by majestic volcanic hills and islands.

A great introduction to New Zealand and all things Kiwi is the Auckland Museum. The highly aclaimed display on Maori artifacts and culture are brilliant, and give a newcomer to New Zealand a good overview of Maori life. There are also some really informative history sections covering New Zealand's history -both white and Maori. Unusual for me to say, but more fascinating still is the natural history sections which explains how and why New Zealand has such unique wildlife, and illustartes evocatively New Zealand's earthquakes and volcanoes. The museum itself is in a beautiful park and the walk from there to the skyscrapers is enjoyable.

Auckland is New Zealand's biggest and most vibrant and mutlicultural city. Ok its not New York or London or even Mebourne, but then it doesn't pretend to be. It's a great place for eating and drinking -I imagine it would be even better if you weren't on a tight backpacker budget. Due to its proximity to Asia it does have a prolifertion of good and cheap Thai, Vietnamese, Malayasian and other Asian food. Aukland, like the rest of New Zealand, also has great coffee and an array of great coffee shops. We stayed in Ponsonby which has a mouth-watering array of of cafes, bakeries and restaurants as well as a selection of beautiful, typically New Zealand, wooden houses.

The best thing about Auckland is its position as a vibrant city in touching distance of countryside, beaches and beautiful islands. Its good for the city lovers and outdoorsy types in one.

A must do in Auckland is to take a ferry either over to Davenport or to one of the many surrounding islands. Thanks to our lovely Kiwi host Jen we had a great day out on one of the less touristy and clearly underated islands (Tiritiri Matangi Island) with Jen, Richard and Nathan. Not only was Nathan lovely, he had a fantastic knowledge of native birds and a good eye for potting them -something Luke knew little to nothing about.

New Zealand has no native mammals and before the arrival of humans was a land of birds. It really was like the land that time forgot, with a variety of unique birds -many of which were  flightless -the largest of which was the giant moas which were three and a half metres tall. Sadly, like other native birds moas are now extinct, due to hunting, destruction of habitats and the introduction of unnatural predators, like dogs, rats and possums to New Zealands. Many more of New Zealand's birds have become endangered for the same reasons including the famous kiwis. Being two remote islands, New Zealand has a very delicate and unique eco system which can be easily damaged by the introduction, not only of predators but even ants, fruit or soil -New Zealand has a constant battle to protect its natural habitats and its farming industry -hence its strict custom and excise on the importing of foods or soil.

Tiritiri Matangi island is a protected reserve which has only native trees and birds -no dogs, rats or even ants are allowed to travel to the island and visitors are asked to ensure their shoes and clothing is clean. As a result this tiny island has birds  and wildlife you don't see anywhere else.

We had a great day on the island, enjoyed a picnic down on the beach, and topped the day off with a kiwi beer (as in a beer made in New Zealand -not with the fruit or the bird) on the quays looking out at the harbour. Could it get any better? How about a great Thai meal, New Zealand wine and fabulous Italian ice cream and tea back and Nathan and Deborah's.

A big thank you to Jen, Nathan, Deborah and Richard for a perfect Aukland day!

And what these four all have in common with other Kiwis we met later on our journey is their enthusiasim for New Zealand and all it has to offer. The really love their country and were bubbling with good ideas for a great road trip.

So having introduced us to the food, flora and fauna of New Zealand, as well as the very lovely Kiwi film Boy, Jen took us to pick up our spaceship campervan -a converted people carrier, loaded up with a DVD player, a fridge, cooking facilities and a very comfy bed.

And from there we headed North...



Until next time, stay warm!

Luke and Louise

Posted by Louise

Every day when I wake up, I thank the Lord I'm Welsh

"You’ve got to go to Patagonia when you’re away. It’s full of Welsh speakers, just like a little Wales.” (Spoken by a London-based work colleague who had self-evidently never visited either place.)

Long before we set out on our travels, the lion’s share of which we’d planned to spend in South America, Patagonia had already begun to annoy the shit out of me. We were heading to a continent unlike any other, fit to burst with complex and varied histories, cultures and peoples. We planned to visit emerging democracies and glorified dictatorships, view unparalleled natural wonders – and some unspeakable ecological travesties. Our trip was also to be a culinary adventure, from the thick soups of Ecuador, via the one-pot wonders of Bolivia, to the meat-eaters’ Mecca that is Argentina.

So why were so many of our family, friends and casual acquaintances so fixated on our travelling half way around the world to eat Welsh Cakes and hang out with some people who were… er… a bit Welsh? More to the point, why the hell would I want to? I’d already spent enough time doing just that as a kid – it was called going to my Nan’s. It seemed to me the very worst sort of safe, narrow and ultimately pointless travel; seek out the familiar, squint your eyes a little and wish really hard, and you could almost be back home. Worse still, the whole concept of Welsh Patagonia, so savage and beguiling in itself, had to me become all too often a lazy reference point for those looking for a knowing, slightly-exotic-Welsh badge to stick on their book, restaurant or (most horrifically) film.

Of course, as is so often the case when travelling, the reality of the place turned out to be a million miles away from the Wikipedia-based recommendations we’d received. The Patagonia that Lou and I visited was an indisputable highlight of our time in South America, but for precisely none of the reasons that had been urged upon us back home.

But history class first, with a disclaimer that this is a travel blog and not a University thesis. Dates may be a bit out, orders a bit skewif. If you want comprehensive accuracy (and some pretty fine turns of phrase), look here. Anyhow, for anyone who doesn't know the story, back in 1886 Welsh settlers on the ship Mimosa arrived in what is now Puerto Madryn (named after Love Jones-Parry Baron of Madryn) with the dream of setting up a new Welsh speaking colony – again, a handy history here. The Argentine government encouraged immigration of Europeans to settle outside Buenos Aires, as this chimed with their wish to expand the country.

The Welsh settlements of today are a few towns in the Chubut region which now have a distinctly Argentinean flavour, and of course the official language is Spanish. However, the town and street names remain as Welsh as they come, along with indisputable dashes of Welsh culture, some preserved in aspic, some with a keener eye to the future. Indeed, following the centenary celebrations of the first Welsh settlements in 1965, there has been a revival of the language with as many as 1500 people now speaking Welsh in the area today, thanks in large part to some savvy investment by the Welsh Government. The annual Eisteddfod, a major event in the locality and widely participated in, is also a unique testament to the area’s Welsh heritage.

Outside of Wales, however, Patagonia is not synonymous with all things Welsh. Covering 1,043,076 km2 square kilometres of land and traversing the Argentina and Chile, the main reason so many people from across the world make the journey to this remote part of the world is for the magical array of wildlife and walks afforded by Patagonia’s vast, apparently desolate but most definitely enchanting steppe.

And so it came to pass that our Patagonian adventure was spent entirely in this Welsh region, ostensibly because of Lou’s love of penguins. I can also admit, though, that after seven months of travelling the world I was a more than a little drawn by the thought of this little bit of home away from home, a far and distant land so often talked about. Was I guilty of the travelling laziness that had so infuriated me back home, six months and a thousand years earlier? Possibly. Regardless, I could at least visit with the handy excuse that the nifty town of Puerto Madryn also makes an ideal base for exploring the area, and is only a 22 hour bus journey from Buenos Aires.

Though there are longer, more arduous and possibly even more rewarding ways to experience the landscape and its inhabitants, you’d be hard pushed to better a day driving around the Punta Tombo reserve for sheer bang for your Pesos. Only a couple of hours drive from Puerto Madryn, the reserve is one of the best marriages of sustainability and accessibility that we’ve experienced on our travels so far. Walking through the gates is like stepping into ‘Happy Feet’ – surrounded by penguins, all going about their business and oblivious to their uninvited guests. With their habitat largely untouched save for some sympathetically installed wooden walkways and bridges, the whole experience can be a little overwhelming, especially for those who’ve only witnessed these fabulous creatures in a Zoo before. It also makes other more hands-off ventures – like Phillip Island near Melbourne – seem overpriced and oversold by comparison.

Equally enchanting, though far grander in scope and scale, is the Peninsula de Valdes. A veritable cornucopia of fauna and – less obviously to the untrained eye – flora, it’s almost impossible to remember that you are in a reserve as you trundle along dusty dirt tracks. Armadillos, elephant seals, sea lions and yet more penguins abound, along with stretches of deserted beaches and rugged cliff-faces just waiting for to be lashed by frothing waves.

But what of the Welsh? Despite my earlier misgivings, it would have been wilfully contrary (even by my standards) to be in town and not scratch beneath the surface. And to tease out the most rewarding parts of today’s Welsh culture in Patagonia, you need to scratch a fair bit. Aside from the aforementioned street names, Puerto Madryn really doesn't retain much of its Welsh heritage, happy in its current well-established role as a visitor hub and port. To get a real feel for the Welsh heritage in region, we bundled into our entirely unsuitable three door and headed for the towns of Trelew and Gaiman.

In many ways, Trelew felt to me like the most ‘Welsh’ of any place we visited in Patagonia – it was certainly the place that reminded me most of home. Though destined to disappoint visitors looking for the green, green grass of home, its brutal industrialised appearance bore a remarkable resemblance to parts of the Valleys before the post-Thatcher regeneration schemes had made the slightest impression. Indeed, looking out over Trelew on the bypass road is strikingly similar to the Heads of the Valleys, complete with sculptures that are as vast as they are ugly, and gardens of garbage that seem as old as the verges they sit upon.

For the traditional Welsh money shot, however, Gaiman is the final destination. We arrived in the middle of a sandstorm, but managed to follow the bilingual signs to our first port of call, the Welsh museum. Once inside, I was immediately transported back to a childhood of day trips with my immeasurably knowledgeable – and with the benefit of hindsight hugely Welsh Nationalist – Godfather, Terry. It was Terry who started a lifetime’s fascination with steam trains and associated adventures by rail, which often took in many of the parts of Wales that he lived, worked or holidayed in throughout his life. (It was probably also Terry that helped invest me with an occasionally foul temper that still causes me problems today). But here I was on the Argentinean steppe in a small building so wonderfully, yet so intangibly, Welsh that I welled up with tears. I could hear Terry’s voice tell tale of the Gwalia Stores in the Ogmore Valley, see his rain-splashed face on the beach in Aberystwyth, smell the musty odour that the self-published volumes of Welsh history would carry whenever he showed me an article that he liked or had written.

The brown-spined books, faded photographs, Welsh dressers and chairs and… out of nothing, a gentle questioning in a language I recognised but could not understand from behind me. I turned to find a hunched, shawl-wearing woman of at least 80 years of age speaking to me in a lilting, mellifluous Welsh. Unable to reply in kind, I tried English, but to no avail. We (almost entirely through Louise) eventually settled on Spanish, her other language, to establish that she was born and brought up in Gaiman, but was a proud Welsh woman and worked at the museum every day it was open. I was Welsh, I explained, from Cardiff. But we’d already lost her a little, a smile that struggled for acknowledgement turning instead to vague confusion. But her blue eyes, doubtless once piercing, were milky with age but still retained an enchanted sparkle. And I struggled to turn away.

But every silver lining has a cloud, and we encountered ours as made our way to the door. A heavily perfumed clotheshorse stopped us as we were leaving, asking where we were from. She spoke no Spanish, despite living in Argentina, opting for the “get in the locals face and talk loudly in English” approach so beloved of ignorant Brits the world over. After I explained that we were from Cardiff (Louise now being an honorary Welshie in most circumstances), she told us she was from Penarth and asked if we could speak Welsh. When I explained that we couldn’t, she remarked – in deadly seriousness – “Oh. So you’re not proper Welsh like me, then.” No I’m not, I thought. I’m from Splott – and a whole lot better than that.

But it was our time in one of the many Welsh Tea Rooms that things became properly bizarre. Gaiman has a multitude of Tea Rooms, all professing to offer a traditional Welsh tea and give the visitor a real Welsh experience. Well Louise and I certainly enjoyed the experience, but Welshness – like beauty – seems so often nowadays to be in the eye of the beholder.


And I am certain that the large Union Jack that greeted us at the Princess Diana Welsh Tea Room wouldn’t have gone down that well with everyone back home – though the even larger Welsh flag draped over the doorway did look damned fine in the Argentinean dusk. We filed past Welsh dressers filled with lovingly presented trinkets of the Royal Family, and ate plates after plate of cakes, scones and sandwiches. The Dulce de Leche pastries certainly didn’t remind me of home, but the pot of tea – knitted cosy and all – was the first decent brew I’d had since leaving Cardiff, and reminiscent of the dark brown elixir that I remember my Bop (granddad) drinking from the moment he woke up to the time he went to bed. And I was thinking about this weird cultural mish-mash while availing myself to the (very frilly) toilet facilities in the Tea Rooms when I found myself humming along to the piped music. And what were they playing? Why, Jerusalem, of course. As an unashamed and proud Welsh Brit, I found the whole shebang pretty damned amusing, though I can imagine that our friend from Penarth would have baulked at what she would have no doubt viewed as a lack of cultural purity.

So did Lou and I find the Welsh-speaking Mecca that our London friend had urged us to visit? Was it like a little slice of Carmarthenshire on the other aside of the world? No, of course not. Equally, it was so much more than I’d hoped for or expected, and an experience that will stay with me forever. I can only hope that the money that the Welsh Government spends on language and cultural programmes in this part of the world - relative chicken feed in the grand scale of things – survives any follow-on cuts as a result of the UK Governments slash and burn economic approach. In terms of 'bang for your bucks', it's delivering on the ground in a big way, even if the ground in question seems like a long way from Cardiff Bay. Former Culture Minister Alun Ffred-Jones wisely extended the scheme until the end of 2012, and I’d certainly advocate extending it again, if only to keep those milky blue eyes that so captivated us in the museum in Gaiman sparking for a few years yet.

Stay warm,
 
Luke and Louise
 
(Posted by Luke)