As April draws to an end we are definitely entering into winter here in the Southern Hemisphere.  The days are getting shorter, the temperature is dropping and the jandals (kiwi for flip-flops) have already been relegated to the back of the wardrobe. This time of year is referred to in Queenstown as ‘shoulder season’; the frenzy of the summer is over but the snow season tourists are yet to arrive.  Town feels quieter, the bustle has has gone and the pace of life has slowed.  The air is crisp, the leaves are an astounding array of incredible autumn colours and there is no one crazy enough to swim in the lake.

But, despite the sleepy town feel, there is a buzz in the air. Each rainfall in town leaves the mountain tops dusted in a a little snow, tantalizing us about the season to come.  The shops offering summer activities are disappearing overnight and being rapidly replaced by the snow rental providers.

The autumn rain envelopes our town like a chrysalis. Come June, Queenstown will emerge, spread it’s wings and the ski season will have arrived.

In my last post, Too Much Travelling, Too Little Writing, I realised that the demanding schedule of our travel through South America meant that finding the time and patience for blogging was simply pushed to the back of my mind.  Attempting to sit down and write became something i resented and resisted.  This feeling persisted for months until, somewhere around March, I just stopped worrying about it.  I didn’t have the urge to complain about my situation anymore, in fact, despite months spent on foreign soil, i found myself in the most unfamiliar territory of all: contentment.

We settled ourselves in Queenstown, New Zealand at the beginning of January after a month of travel around the country with family and friends.  Over a sunny Christmas spent in Queenstown, we decided this would be the place we’d start our working holiday.  We signed a six month lease on a beautiful little apartment looking over the lake and crossed our fingers that we’d be able to find the necessary jobs to pay for it.  The day after moving in, having only just waved a tearful goodbye to my family we took a ride up the Skyline Gondola to look out over what would be our home for at least the next six months.  The ten minute ride was a quiet one.  Alan and I sat contemplating as we began to rise above Queenstown.  Our new reality hit us: we knew noone in the entire hemisphere and we were under pressure to find those jobs.

The view from our apartment

Over a year later and our situation is very different.  We both found jobs within two weeks of starting our search and we literally now have more friends than we are able to keep up with.  We luxuriated in a summertime spent by the beach and easily transitioned into a winter spent on the slopes.  Of course, nothing is perfect and even living in an apparent paradise can have its downsides.  This town is renowned for low wages and, as a seasonal town, hours can be inconsistent.  Perhaps, hardest of all though is trying to get used to always having to say goodbye to friends as they move on.

But, despite some of the shortcomings, we love our lives here.  We have some amazing people around us, we have learnt new skills, taken on new challenges and come to an intriguing conclusion: we can live somewhere we love.  Sad, perhaps, that this was, and to some extent still is, a novel concept but one I’m pretty sure I can live with.

Blogging spot in Patagonia

This last month has been unbelievably busy.  We’ve travelled fast, squeezing in as much as possible on the way and using any spare moments to try and get some rest.  In the last four weeks we’ve travelled across the border into Bolivia, ridden a mountain bike down ‘The World’s Most Dangerous Road’, seen Mars on Earth on the Bolivian salt flats, crossed into Chile, turned up at the airport and bought a flight in cash, cycled the streets of Santiago, celebrated Halloween with Pisco Sours and a Beer Pong tournament, taken a bus across the Andes to Argentina, taken a Vineyard tour in Mendoza, sampled copious amounts of red wine, drunk champagne and reclined to 180 degrees on a bus, resisted the urge to burn down the building of Aerolineas Argetinas, seen the Perito Merino glacier, camped in front of Cerro Torre, enjoyed the Patagonian countryside with my Dad, sailed on the Beagle channel, Canoed from a lake to the sea, stood at the ‘end of the world’, hung out with penguins and seen Tango dancers in Buenos Aires’s La Boca.

Perito Moreno Glacier

Looking back on that list, it’s hardly surprising I’ve not found the time to write up my experiences.

Despite the feelings of guilt which have been hanging over my head about my failure to keep my dedicated reader up to date with my travels, I’m glad that my trip has not suffered due to a rigid posting schedule.  It’s not unusual to see travellers glued to their laptop or only viewing the world through their camera.  I don’t want to be one of those travellers, the blogging is simply not that important to me.

The Tierra Del Fuego National Park

However, that doesn’t mean that over the next couple of days I won’t be trying to catch up on recording some of the stories.  As our trip draws (incredibly rapidly) to a close, I’m beginning to feel that anxious panic.  There’s a flutter in my chest that’s reminding me that this experience is coming to an end and urging me to cling to it.  To try to commit the stories, images and people to memory.

Hiking towards Cerro Torre

Somehow, perhaps I’ll be able to bottle up the feel of the Argentinian sun on my shoulders.  Maybe, I’ll be able to preserve the magic of watching a penguin waddle up the beach to it’s home.  I’ll try to recreate the feeling of wrapping my tongue around unfamiliar Spanish syllables and the absolute joy of being able to make myself understood.  And I hope to always be able to summon to mind the sensation of looking out over Machu Picchu after walking for four days along the Inca Trail.

El Chalten

But, despite my efforts, my trip through South America will pass into memory.  And then, my blog posts and my photos will be all I have left.  I should get writing…

Yet, sometimes, the hype is founded.  Sometimes, as a fellow backpacker shares their experience, a far away look appears in their eyes.  And sometimes, the photos just can’t do justice to what you’ve seen.

Locomotives at The Train Graveyard

Salt pyramids drying, ready for collecting

Salt

Salar de Uyuni

The Cactuses on Fish Island, in the middle of the Salt Flats

Trick Photography on the Salt Flats

Travel - a balancing act

Blown Away by the Salar de Uyuni

Run Away!

Sunset on the Salt Flats

Pink Flamingos

Ice Formations in the Middle of the Desert

Volcanic Formations

El Arbol de Piedra

The Red Lagoon

Standing in the top of a Volcano at Sunrise

The Salvador Dali Mountains

Our Path through the Desert

Hot Springs at Sunrise

Kicking up dust in the desert

The Green Lagoon

The map of the trail ahead of us

Our breakfast was as equally impressive as dinner the night before with offerings of toast, fresh fruit, cereal and thirteen (simultaneously served) hot pancakes. Chock full of energy-giving carbohydrates we started apprehensively on our way. On the way out of the camp we passed other groups who were only just beginning to stir themselves into liveliness. After only ten minutes of walking we passed our second checkpoint and got to add another stamp to our passports.

After our experience hiking to Laguna 69, Sam and I were nervous of pushing ourselves too fast for fear of making ourselves ill again. We set a steady, even pace right from the beginning which we stuck to all the way to the top. Not long into our walk a guide from another group pointed out the peak we were aiming for. Far into the distance and snow-capped was an apparently unattainable target. How our little legs were going to carry us that far and that high up was beyond me.

Ponchos on the Inca Trail

The rain started about half an hour into the trail. Not heavy, monsoon-like rain, but light-gets-into-every-crevice type rain. We all pulled out the brightly coloured ponchos we’d been instructed to buy (stopping for a picture opportunity, of course) and continued on our way. The number of people on the trail meant that there was an endless stream of hikers traipsing up the side of the hill. As we looked back at them, all wearing the recommended brightly coloured ponchos, we appeared to be moving as part of a giant multi-coloured caterpillar.

As a believer in technical clothing, the ponchos had, at first, seemed ridiculous to me. After all, what benefit can a large piece of plastic provide over Gore-Tex? The answer, I discovered, is consistency. Despite a newly purchased pack cover and Sea to Summit e-vac sacks protecting my clothing and sleeping gear, the rest of my backpack (the part in between the pack cover and me) was not protected. The poncho added and extra layer of protection against the rain blowing every which way.

Second Breakfast before the pass

We were aiming for a stop point, 800m up, which would be the location of our ‘second breakfast’. Despite having filled up the first time round, the concept of a hot drink and some snacks was certainly appealing. By the time we reached the temporary campsite, the novelty of looking like large-multi-coloured berries had begun to wear off and the altitude and rain were beginning to take their toll. The wind and rain blustered around us as we snacked on cheese sandwiches, popcorn and hot chocolate. The weather tried it’s best to rip our tent out of the ground, causing us to have to leap to catch flapping panels and peg them back into the tough ground.

Our Second Breakfast Tent Billowing in the wind and Dead Woman's Pass behind

On the recommendation of our guide we decided to try chewing some coca leaves to help with the altitude. I can testify that it is absolutely disgusting. Very quickly the bitter flavour begins to fill your mouth, concentrated at the nook in your cheek where you hold the leaves. The dried leaves then start to fall apart sending bitter, sharp pieces of leaf floating around your mouth and sticking to your teeth when you inevitably try to spit them out. Won’t be trying that again.

From our ‘second breakfast’ spot, we could see the path we would need to take winding up the side of the mountain. The pass seemed still impossibly distant, appearing and then disappearing behind the wall of cloud bringing yet more rain. Yet, still we set out to reach it, maintaining our steady pace and sipping on the bottle of Gatorade we had brought specifically for this section of the trail. Alan, with the leg muscles of a mountain goat, strode off ahead apparently unhindered by the entire lack of oxygen. He would go on to reach the pass half an hour before us ladies and the campsite nearly an hour before.

We, on the other hand, found the section to be tough going. The stone path laid 500 years ago became slippery when wet and, despite our pace, we had to step out of the way each time a porter ran (yes, ran!) past us carrying a ridiculous load. The poles we’d bought in Ollantaytambo were vital here and I don’t want to imagine how much harder it might have been if we’d not had them. After two hours of solid uphill struggle I finally reached the top, greeted by cheers of encouragement from some others from my group. Minutes later, it was my turn to pass on the favour as Sam and Alison fought their way the last few meters.

The top of Dead Woman's Pass

The top itself was underwhelming as the clouds prevented any sort of view and the weather continued to batter at us, sneaking dampness in at any opportunity. Rather than feeling a sense of achievement we looked over the the other side to see a steep downward path disappearing into the clouds and all we felt was dread. The wind whipping over the top very quickly had us feeling the cold and as we began to descend, I found myself near running to try and get myself warmed up. Just as I was thinking how much I could use the toilet, a wooden cabin appeared to my right offering those very facilities. Completing my task in there took nearly fifteen minutes as I tried with entirely numb fingers to peel off the layers of waterproof clothing. Trying to get them back on again was an even bigger struggle. By the time I’d gotten myself sorted again Alison and Sam had caught up and we continued down the hill together.

Descending from Dead Woman's Pass

An hour and a half later sporting very sore knees, we made it down the steep flights of stone steps leading to our campsite. Once again our porters greeted us with a round of applause and a hot drink. Whatever these guys are getting paid, it isn’t enough.

Despite the seven hours of walking it was still only lunchtime and after yet another filling meal we had the afternoon to ourselves. It was about this time that the clouds began to part and a blue sky peaked a look out at us. The beautiful mountains surrounding us were revealed; if only it had happened two hours earlier and we’d have had a wonderful view. However, the brief burst of sunshine did give us a chance to try to dry some of our soggier clothing. Thankfully, my Berghaus Gore-Tex trousers had kept me almost entirely dry and my Sea to Summit sacks had done their job and kept my sleeping bag and change of clothing dry.

Drying out our soggy clothing

We kept ourselves awake for a dinner no-one was hungry for and as the temperature rapidly dropped we climbed into our sleeping bags and fell into a fitful sleep.

Bus rides in Bolivia

We were more sceptical than we otherwise might have been due to a tough journey from Arequipa into Copacabana.  We were sold tickets for the second leg of the journey (Puno to Copacabana) which needed to be collected from a  guy in the bus station.  Predictably, when we arrived, no one had ever heard of the guy and the company we were expecting to travel with didn’t even have a bus running due to the elections.  But out of nowhere a friendly man offered to call our contact for us.  Hurrah!  Someone who knows the guy!  But wait, apparently he’s  not in Puno at the moment.  That’s ok, our new friend has a bus going that way and is happy to sell us three of the last five tickets.  How convenient.  Starting to get suspicious, I asked if he’d phoned the contact number given to us.  ”No es funciona” (It doesn’t work)  Hmm.  ”Puedo usar tu telelfono?” (Can I use your phone?)  Apparently that phone only connects to one service provider.  Sceptical, off I hop to a payphone to discover that out contact is on his way and has our tickets for the very bus we were considering paying again to get onto.  Lying bastards.

Anyway, that experience out the way, we were approaching buying bus tickets with a little more cynicism.

We arrived at the office half an hour before our departure time to find a group of gringos already in the office.  They were going to La Paz too it would seem.  The guy who had sold us the tickets not 24 hours beforehand asked us where we were going.  When we answered “La Paz” we got a lovely grimace which let us know we were in for another interesting afternoon.

There is, we were told, a strike taking place and the road to La Paz has been blockaded.  The bus will not be going. Excellent.  Here we go again.  Interestingly, getting our money back was simply a case of asking.  After that we needed to find a way to get to La Paz.

The Blockade

The only option open to us was to get into a minibus to the blockade, walk the half an hour across the picket line and pick up another bus on the other side.  Sounds dodgy right? That’s what we thought, but without any other options available we set about negotiating the best price to the blockade.  By this point we’d accumulated more gringos and were now an easy-for-bargaining group of nine.  Interestingly, I was the one who spoke among the most Spanish and got to play the part of negotiator.

Beyond suspicious at this point, we refused to pay anyone but our driver (on arrival) and wouldn’t agree to a price before we’d seen the transport.  We ended up with two taxis taking us the 30 minutes to the blockade for 10 Bobs each (£1).

The blockade was, quite literally, a blockade across the road of hastily piled up soil and rocks strewn in awkward places.  Our taxis stopped to let us out, we piled on our luggage and started the hike.  The scenery was absolutely stunning, as was the impromtu company, but our bags started to feel very heavy as we trudged along in the afternoon sunshine.  Did I mention we were carrying nearly 30 kilos in 26 degree heat at 4,000m for 45 minutes?  We passed the village who had started the strike where all the residents appeared to be enjoying an afternoon picnic in the sun and finally arrived on the other side of the blockade.

Walking past the blockade

We were overjoyed to see two minivans and their drivers sat waiting there.   Our joy vanished when we were told that they were waiting for a pre-arranged pick up.  The next place we could get a ride would be a three and a half hour walk further on.  However, as by this point we had grown to a group of thirteen, the drivers couldn’t pass up the opportunity to make a quick buck by taking us to the next point and returning for their booking.  5 bobs a piece got us to the lake crossing point.

Our teeny tiny boat

We’d expected to have to cross the lake at some point and had we been with a bus, it would have gone across on one of the barged while we took the passenger boat.  We piled onto the tiny little boat, luggage and all and tried not to breathe in the exhaust fumes coming from the spluttering engine.

The ten minute crossing had us battered about by the choppy water, several times looking like we might capsize.  Sam spent the journey gripping tightly to my hand and praying we reach the other side without needing to swim.  We did of course and we all scrabbled to get off the boat and onto dry land.

Squeezed into our minibus

From here finding a minibus to complete the last 120km to La Paz was easy.  The thirteen of us fit nicely into one minibus and the driver only asked 10 bobs each to get us to the centre.  The journey’s difficulties seemed to be behind us and we broke out the snacks and cheesy 80′s hits to supplement our good mood.

We started coming into the city and the driver pulls over.  The one Bolivian lady in the bus started to shout at the driver about how she didn’t know where we were and we couldn’t get a taxi from here.  Here, wherever that was, was apparently as far as the minibus was going.  What we didn’t know was how far that was from anywhere else.  It turned out that we were still 10km from the centre and the driver refused to go any further.  When we refused to pay, he refused to let us have our bags back from the roof.  Stalemate.  Not wanting to see our bags drive off into the distance we paid, he drove off and we’re left standing in the middle of a busy intersection trying to negotiate with various taxi drivers and minibus drivers who have conveniently appeared.

After much back and forth the three of us jumped in a taxi and reluctantly paid a further 40 bobs for the pleasure.  It was only as we continued to drive that we realised how very far away we’d been left and how reasonable this taxi ride really was.

Unimpressed, hungry and in real need of a cold beer we arrived at our hostel. In the end the journey which should have taken 3 hours on one bus at a cost of 30 bobs took 5 hours, six mode of transport and 40 bobs.

After such an amazing time in Peru, Bolivia is, so far, not endearing itself to us.

What nightmare journeys have you endured?  How much have you paid to get yourself out of a sticky situation?  Is Bolivia worth more of our time?

Reluctantly putting our boots on...

Back in April, we had booked ourselves onto the famous four day, three night Inca Trail trek to Machu Picchu. We did have plenty of other options to get ourselves to the famously ‘rediscovered’ historical site (aside from the afore-mentioned train). These days there are a plethora of tour options including mountain biking, white water rafting and zip lining. We had decided, though, to go with the traditional walking route as taken by the Incas all those hundreds of years ago. This is the most touristy and therefore the busiest and most expensive but, if we were going to do it once, we wanted to do it properly. So, six months previously when we signed up for the four day experience, it seemed like a grand idea. However, flash back to Friday morning and our 4am wake-up call (to the sound of pouring rain) and we weren’t so sure anymore.

Our pick up time would be between 5:20 and 6:00, so we were ready for 5:15. Our pick didn’t arrive until 6:05, by which point we were considering going back to bed and forgetting about the whole thing. The route we were dreading would take us through the sacred valley, over 35km and three passes. The first pass would be no small feat with a 1,200m climb to 4,200m at Dead Woman’s Pass. We would be dealing with changeable weather, altitude, questionable toilet facilities (if any) and unknown terrain. We would also be spending the next four days with eleven other people we’d never met before. This was all lining up to be an interesting experience.

The start of the trail

We had booked to go with Peru Treks, a well established tour company who promised the best food and porter welfare for the money. They also quoted a complete price which would include all of the transportation we would take throughout the four days, starting with our, now late, early morning pick up. We were driven first to Ollantaytambo for a breakfast stop. Apparently, Lonely Planet describes this town as a quiet little hamlet which hasn’t changed in 700 years. The hordes of little Peruvian ladies clamouring to sell us ponchos and walking sticks makes me strongly disagree with this assessment. However, on the advice of our guides we did buy Ponchos and walking sticks and we were so very glad we did.

From Ollantaytambo the bus took us fifty minutes further along the valley to the start of the Inca Trail, otherwise known as kilometer 82. Here we finalised packing up our bags and those who had reserved the sleeping bags and roll mats could struggle to fit them in their already over packed bags. All geared up and raring to go, we then had to queue for half an hour to have our permits stamped and to be allowed onto the trail. We crossed the bridge over the River Urubumba and we were on our way.

The first day’s walking consisted of gentle rolling hills interspersed with lessons from our guide, Will, on the history of the Inca Trail and the various ruins we saw along the way. In the first two hours of walking we passed a snack stand every ten to fifteen minutes.

Inca Trail Snack Stands

Several entrepreneurial residents had set themselves up, what was a probably a lucrative business, offering their toilet for 1 sole (25p). As much as I scoffed at the idea of paying, this area of the trail is so busy with villages, snack stands and other walkers that there really was no other option when the need struck. Although it had been raining when we started our walk, the sun soon came out and we were forced to de-layer. Just as we were beginning to burn in the strong mountain sun it was time for lunch.

Arriving to our catering tent

We’d heard good things about the food provided by Peru Treks, but couldn’t believe the catering tent we arrived to at the lunch stop. As we put down our bags (on the pre-prepared tarpaulin) a cold drink was placed in our hands by a helpful porter. We were then led to the designated hand washing where we were given soap and paper towels. Lunch itself was incredible. It started with a small fresh salad presented on little metal plates.

Starter salad

The second course was a soup (strong in coriander, but still lovely and hot) after which we were mostly full, but there was still the main course to eat. For the meat-eaters, battered trout served with rice and fresh mixed vegetables. And for me, a vegetable omelette. Everything was superb and they were able to get food out to all thirteen of us, still hot. We set off for the afternoon’s short walk, full and content.

Meeting our Portering Team

Our evening’s campsite was at 3,000m in a sheltered valley which lost the sun early in the evening. As we arrived, the porters were ready to greet us with applause for our day’s achievements. Considering that they had walked twice our speed while carrying four times the weight, I felt it should be us that was applauding them. Our guide then got us all sat down and lined the porters up in front of us, giving them the opportunity to introduce themselves to us and afterwards we were able to repay the favour. It was a lovely touch as the porters are such an incredibly vital part of the entire experience. These guys are allowed, by the government to carry up to 25kg. However, it often appears that they are carrying far more than this. Yet, despite their load, they are able to leave camp after the guests, run the trail to arrive first at the next camp and have all the tents ready set up and the food cooking. All this for very little money. And so, to acknowledge their presence and contribution heartening.

Our Chef providing an after dinner surprise!

Dinner was once again an impressive affair, this time with a chicken stew and rice (soya for the veggies). Even once we thought the meal was over, the chef arrived with a surprise which turned out to be flambeed bananas with rum. Suitably satisfied, we found our way through the pitch black to our tents and quickly fell into a deep-therma-rest-aided-sleep.

First Night's Campsite

It was an early six am start, but we were glad that the minibus not only arrived on time, but that it was new and comfortable.  To get to the trailhead we were to be driven for 3 hours.  What we hadn’t realised was that an hour and a half of that would be on an un-paved road. It wouldn’t have been so bad had we not all been so desperate to pee for an hour and fifteen of that.  As it was we were unceremoniously bounced about until we thought we could take it no longer when, thankfully, we pulled over for a photo opportunity.  Oh look, is that a tree over there?  I’m just going to go and investigate a little further…

When such distractions were taken care of, we looked about and realised how stunningly beautiful our current location was:

Only ten minutes further up the road we arrived at the trail head.  We would have, our driver told us, seven hours to make the walk up (3 hours at a slow pace) spend some time at the lake and descend again.  This sounded pretty reasonable because, after all, this is graded as an easy trek.  This is the walk that people do to acclimatise before going on a real hike.  As three reasonably fit individuals, we couldn’t imagine that it was going to pose too much of a problem for us.

The trail head is at 3,700m and the lake is at 4,600m.  We didn’t know this before we set out.  We didn’t know we have 900m of vertical climb to achieve (at altitude) in only 3 hours.  And we certainly didn’t realise how steep it was going to be.

The driver accompanied us along the valley floor to the start of the trail.  The scenery was beautiful but even along the relatively flat path we were already getting out of breath.  No problem, we can take it at our own pace.  Our own pace had us quickly left behind the rest of the group.  The driver left us once we reached the steep section of the trail.

Looking up the steep mountain side at the series of switchbacks we would need to take, it became clear that Sam was starting to struggle.  She’d spent a day longer than me recovering from the altitude sickness and her weariness was palpable.  One hour into the walk it was becoming clear that we’d entirely underestimated the difficulty.  We stuck to our steady pace, taking frequent breaks and forcing ourselves to drink plenty of water.  The others in the group were moving further and further in front and we could begin to see members of groups behind us starting to catch us up – not exactly a morale boost.  We did try bribing a pair of donkeys with some jam sandwiches to carry us up the rest of the way, but they just weren’t having it.

Up ahead we could see the crest of this particular hill and the scenery beyond appeared to level out.  Add to the fact that a glacial waterfall was running off of this plateau and I figured that the lake could only be just up and over the top.  I hung on to this idea and used it to encourage Sam up the toughest part of the climb.  ”You’re 95% of the way there, you’ve done most of the work, just this one last push.”

Rather predictably, I was wrong.  The top of the ridge presented us with a large open valley surrounded by steep craggy mountains.   The rest of our group had disappeared beyond view at this point and we looked around in vain trying to work out where the path would take us.  It couldn’t possibly require us to walk up one of those steep craggy faces.  There is no way this ‘easy’ path would ask that of us.  Besides, it had already taken us two and a half hours to get to this point,  we couldn’t be expected to scale that in only half an hour.

As it turns out, we were.  We spent the next 45 minutes quite literally dragging ourselves up an incredibly steep, rocky path with no idea how much further we might have to go.   We were out of breath, headachey, nauseous and fed up.  It was at this point, when we really started to wonder if we might not make it to the top, that Alan came back to rescue us.  He’d strode off ahead and reached the lake half an hour before us.  After waiting for fifteen minutes and we still hadn’t materialised he came back to find us, carry our bags and offer much needed moral support.  With his help we made it to the top and were greeted with this view:

It was far more spectacular than I had expected and than my photos can capture.  It was absolutely worth the hike but, oh boy, was it tough.

Travelling around the world has taught me many things: how to cross a road through a wall of traffic, how to get by with the international language of pointing, and how elephant crap really isn’t the worst thing you can walk through barefoot. But most of all, it’s made me realise my obsession with the sea.

Longing to get wet

Obsession may be the wrong word. I suppose it’s more of an addiction. The sense of relief I feel as soon as I see the Big Blue again is overwhelming. Give me mountains, give me rock climbing, downhill biking, skiing, hiking and trekking, but a walk on the shore with the water washing over your toes is a feeling that can’t be beaten.

This affliction has been duly noted on our journeys. We’ve found ourselves addicted to scuba diving; the crystal clear (mostly!) waters and abundant marine life have been fascinating. Not to mention the underwater ship graveyards and giant transport vessels, forever sleeping on the seabed that we’ve explored. We’ve become so hooked that it only takes the mere mention of a NITROX course to make us get the credit card out.

Making new friends underwater

We’ve also found ourselves on top of the water, as opposed to under it. In our brief time in the UK this summer, we undertook our Day Skippers course. We’re now qualified to take charge of cruising yachts, be it on pleasure cruises, boat delivery work or crewing for someone else’s dream adventure. Our credentials have been expanded on this front too, by taking our VHF radio course, to put us further up the professional progression ladder. This is far from a fleeting fancy, as I couldn’t even wait until the end of the course to start eyeing up boats for sale and doing the sums . Coastal skipper, Yachtmaster and Open Ocean Navigation courses are next on the list to further increase our qualification level.

At the helm

And most recently, we turned our hand to surfing. After landing in the sleepy beach town of Huanchaco, we decided to give surfing a go. Now this is something I’ve been wanting to try ever since we set foot in Australia 3 years ago. Surf has been following us around the world, and for some reason or another, I’ve always missed out on the opportunity to get on the water and learn. But no more! After doing the research, we were out on the boards the very next day. And then the next. And even as I sit in a hammock overlooking the sea writing this, I’m extremely tempted to run down to the surf school and rent the gear for another day.

Getting ready to go pro

Chuck in to the mix the various other dabblings, such as knee-boarding and water skiing in a water park in Singapore, kite-boarding on Barry Island beach, and the general hysteria induced by the word ‘Splashdown’ (it’s a water park in Poole, UK, that consists solely of flumes and slides), and you’ve got yourself a fully-fledged water baby.

Don’t get me wrong, I still have equal love for the other 29% of the planet not covered in brine. A trek to Machu Picchu in a few weeks isn’t lessened by the lack of liquid, and some lessons in salsa aren’t subject to a scuba cylinder. I still go crazy over the idea of a casual stroll up a ‘hill’ in Boulder and a ramble on Dartmoor is a great way to spend an afternoon, as is hacking your way up a glacier at the end of the Earth (can’t wait!). It’s just that the sea has a special place in my heart. It always will. And given the choice, I will almost always run to the water.

It would be ideal if, when we get to New Zealand at the end of the year, there would be some work in one or all of these fields. On, in or under the water would suit me just fine. But even if there isn’t any work, somewhere I can carry out my water-based hobbies would be a happy compromise. But we’ll have to see what happens on that front.

Wherever the next few years take us, one thing’s for certain: If I can have the ocean as my office, I’ll be a happy man.

Has the sea or anything else changed your life? Maybe you’ve got an experience that made you think differently about the world around you, or perhaps you’re a natural born water baby too. What are your favourite water or land-based activities?