tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-146772432013-05-06T14:04:16.797+12:00Pete lives in the Pohangina Valley, Aotearoa/New Zealand and writes about mountains and mountaineering, rockclimbing, photography, Aotearoa-NZ, natural history, people, travelling, thinking, a wee bit of politics, life in general and a swag of other stuff. Lots of photos, too.pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.comBlogger184125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-12957105400303965752013-04-13T21:36:00.000+12:002013-04-13T21:58:02.956+12:002013-04-13T21:58:02.956+12:00

In the article, Denis Healey talks about Thatcher. But what caught my interest wasn’t the subject — neither Healey nor, most definitely, the odious Thatcher — but Kalpesh Lathigra’s photograph of Healey. Dull, desaturated, drab, without a single strong or even definite colour, so flat that the light struggles to cast a decent shadow — and brilliant. I don’t need to read the article to get a

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-82042206067981201572012-12-06T14:34:00.000+13:002012-12-06T16:58:40.656+13:002012-12-06T16:58:40.656+13:00

[See Bolivia: La Paz to Uyuni for the preceding post.] The ruins of other moments At 6:30 I rise, sneak quietly out of the dorm and head to the lounge to write. Sunlight cuts through the silence, reflects from the varnished wooden table, bounces around in the cold, brightens black ink on cream paper, enhances the quiet. A woman walks into the

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-64249081537691173302012-09-18T14:23:00.000+12:002012-09-18T14:23:08.900+12:002012-09-18T14:23:08.900+12:00

No, the blog hasn't died. I’ve been stuck on this post for a long time, and have finally decided that whatever its faults, it needs to be out there. So, here it is, with the remaining half (approximately) of the account—the rest of Bolivia and on through Argentina into Patagonia and back up through Chile—still to come. The bus to Oruro smells like an old kitchen overdue for degreasing.

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-17715785413970715852012-06-02T16:55:00.000+12:002012-06-02T17:17:00.642+12:002012-06-02T17:17:00.642+12:00

Leonie has a new project over at Weekends Collected. Already the posts have begun to accumulate, building a collection of stories in words and photographs about "the times that are lived within the space of our arm’s reach… the places that are the source of our ‘humanness’… the foundations on which the rest of our life is built." I've contributed a short post; please

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-24454793224808724722012-04-01T20:57:00.000+12:002012-04-01T22:36:18.414+12:002012-04-01T22:36:18.414+12:00

The first scar left the most lasting impact — the tip of your left middle finger vanished when, almost as long ago as you can remember, the car door slammed on that tiny finger. You remember nothing of the pain, nothing of the trauma; you have a few mental images — vague forms, impressions — of the car, your parents, the house, the driveway, the garden and the ash tree that was always

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-56871837330263529522012-03-01T13:43:00.001+13:002012-03-02T20:16:44.014+13:002012-03-02T20:16:44.014+13:00

Driving home at night you see immense clouds piled up, illuminated by a hidden moon, and you think of alien planets; you think of places humans will never go. But if through some unimaginable process you stood on one of those planets, what would you feel, standing alone, looking up at a sky like that, as far from home as any human had ever ventured, impossibly far from anyone you

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-48834173202010320602012-01-03T23:30:00.000+13:002012-01-04T07:49:02.274+13:002012-01-04T07:49:02.274+13:00

Shortly before I left for South America, I stayed with friends in Wellington and attended a screening of Werner Herzog's film, Cave of Forgotten Dreams. Immediately after the film I had a few hours on my own, so I jotted down some thoughts about the film. Here they are. I'll resume the South American posts shortly. Thirty-two thousand years ago, prehistoric humans drew pictures of

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-55318151982788342302011-11-24T09:55:00.001+13:002011-12-11T03:20:08.753+13:002011-12-11T03:20:08.753+13:00

In Arequipa I rent a little room at the Hostal Regis [1]; cheap, comfortable with plenty of character (French colonial, apparently), and like most hostels in this range, slightly run down. A little wooden writing table sits against one wall; two simple chairs, the bed and and night table make up the rest of the furniture. The only thing on the pale pink walls other than the usual grimy marks

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-59600061613215938202011-11-04T02:38:00.000+13:002011-11-04T03:10:08.111+13:002011-11-04T03:10:08.111+13:00

  The dueño at La Familia Meza shakes my hand and mumbles something sincere and incomprehensible in Spanish. I manage to make out something about recommending the hostel to people I meet in Lima, and I'm more than happy to do so. The hostel's been a wonderful base: the people welcoming, kind and helpful; the rooms simple but comfortable; the showers as good as I've had in South America;

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-63478307409283658322011-10-21T10:59:00.000+13:002012-02-17T21:16:48.957+13:002012-02-17T21:16:48.957+13:00

A note: these posts are selections from a substantial amount of writing by hand. I trust they convey something of the ‘flavour’  of the journey, but they certainly don’t amount to a comprehensive account — I simply don’t have the time, nor the energy to attempt that. Consequently, I’ve skipped substantial periods and will probably continue to do so.   October begins — that strange,

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-69804293660681623792011-10-11T09:04:00.000+13:002011-10-11T09:10:37.197+13:002011-10-11T09:10:37.197+13:00

After a night of rain, the river is a strong brown god [1]. A rat scampers along the lawn-like grassy banks where a stormwater drain discharges into the turbulent water just above an arched bridge paved with rain-slicked dark wood. A few people walk, jog, are led by dogs or just sit by the river, but in this still-early morning the town seems only to be waking. Metal roller doors close most

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-88080477679638981662011-09-27T02:36:00.001+13:002011-10-21T10:33:49.856+13:002011-10-21T10:33:49.856+13:00

Puerto Ayora, Santa Cruz At the end of the wharf just beyond the sleek sea lion sleeping on the wake-washed steps, a turtle slowly descends into the depths — a glimpse; nothing more. A yellow warbler flits a few paces ahead, tantalising, never quite allowing the opportunity for a photograph, and above the bay frigate birds circle incessantly: looking, waiting, patrolling. I know of no

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-59592996828662374572011-09-15T08:05:00.000+12:002011-09-15T13:38:04.540+12:002011-09-15T13:38:04.540+12:00

  What can one say about the Galápagos [1] that hasn't been said so many times before, sometimes by far better writers? The guide books rave; the coffee table books filled with spectacular photos project endless variations of the same images of a place the way it might have been before human ascendancy; occasionally someone mentions the impacts of tourism. This is one aspect of Eliot's "

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-12609176267821376782011-09-11T14:23:00.000+12:002011-10-21T10:34:23.328+13:002011-10-21T10:34:23.328+13:00

A bird flies across the evening sky some distance away; Miguel calls out to Jairo and revs the outboard motor, steering the canoe towards the tree where the bird landed. Another of the birds crosses. In silhouette, it looks a little like a small, heavy-billed stork, but the identification doesn't click until Jairo tells us — it's a white-throated toucan, the largest of the toucans in

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-66901880042078728852011-09-05T04:42:00.001+12:002011-09-05T04:57:25.096+12:002011-09-05T04:57:25.096+12:00

At the little museum beyond the entrance to Cotopaxi National Park, Pedro gives us a brief tour, speaking in Spanish, which I mostly can't follow, and skipping the tattered, stuffed condor with its outstretched wings. The enormous bird saddens me — dispossessed of its life in every sense. I've seen animals mounted so expertly their eyes seem to retain the memory of life, and although

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-24365238832974197242011-08-26T01:24:00.001+12:002011-08-26T09:17:56.977+12:002011-08-26T09:17:56.977+12:00

Near the summit of Rucu Pichincha, after the hard, slow slog up the soft sandy ash scree — each step a fight to stop from slipping back — I reach solid ground and the walking becomes easier. The man a little way ahead leans on his poles, then heads left, but to the right, splashes of paint suggest a marked route. A small cairn confirms the way, and even if leftwards might be easier, this

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-5567203004135800322011-08-17T00:32:00.001+12:002011-08-19T08:17:34.396+12:002011-08-19T08:17:34.396+12:00

At the Cascada de Peguche on the outskirts of Otavalo, people swarmed everywhere along the foot-polished trails; they scrambled over the worn-down rocks edging the big pool and stood triumphantly with upraised arms in front of the waterfall to be photographed; they jammed the wooden bridges. The place seethed with humans, or so it seemed to me. Perhaps I'm too used to places where

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-21369132836793826302011-08-15T07:16:00.000+12:002012-04-19T17:07:20.512+12:002012-04-19T17:07:20.512+12:00

Outside the El Colibri cafe last Sunday I took a deep breath and walked in, through the tree-shaded courtyard where apparently one could watch the hummingbirds (hence the name: el colibri, the hummingbird) and into the pleasantly cool main seating area. At the counter I explained in Spanish that I didn't speak Spanish; the attempt must have worked because the waitress said no more and slid a

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com19Quito Canton, Ecuador-0.20084264723041895 -78.4932727797775-0.3203226472304189 -78.5493717797775 -0.08136264723041894 -78.4371737797775tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-32032113974492701752011-08-09T10:59:00.001+12:002011-08-09T11:02:59.334+12:002011-08-09T11:02:59.334+12:00

Last Tuesday I caught a bus from Palmerston North to Auckland  — eight hours through the centre of the North Island, arriving after dark on the first stage of a journey that will return me four and a half months later to the country in which I've lived most of my life. Late on Wednesday afternoon I flew out of Auckland; eighteen hours later I landed in Quito, Ecuador. My first priority is to

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com16Quito Canton, Ecuador-0.1975408678869819 -78.49726927120969-0.3170208678869819 -78.55336827120969 -0.07806086788698191 -78.44117027120969tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-77304128716880958772011-07-14T20:30:00.007+12:002011-07-14T20:37:33.214+12:002011-07-14T20:37:33.214+12:00

When I was a small boy magpies terrorised me. After school the bus dropped me half a mile from home and I walked from there past a handful of houses with well established gardens, on past the old quarry and eventually to the short, gravel road that led past the row of old pines and macrocarpas to our gate. I began to get nervous as I approached those old trees. I hurried past, constantly

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-36104626265298739282011-05-29T08:31:00.001+12:002011-05-29T12:48:39.563+12:002011-05-29T12:48:39.563+12:00

I drink Pu-erh tea for the first time, fumbling in my attempts to work out a system that approximates the traditional gong-fu method. The first steeping's strong and powerful — probably excessively so, but perhaps that's not so bad: the distinctive flavours can't be missed and I'll look for them later as the steepings become more subtle, more what I'm used to. I lean in the doorway,

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-8027482822532382282011-02-22T20:16:00.001+13:002011-02-23T22:39:28.572+13:002011-02-23T22:39:28.572+13:00

I've found it hard to concentrate on finishing this post in light of the Christchurch earthquake tragedy. Fortunately, I know most of my friends are ok, but I think of all those who still wait for word and, particularly, those for whom their worst fears have been realised. But maybe reading about something enjoyable might provide some relief. In early January I did a three night trip into the

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-87588924626756246972010-12-22T10:30:00.001+13:002010-12-22T12:43:23.544+13:002010-12-22T12:43:23.544+13:00

A magpie flies low and fast across the paddock, through the early morning sunlight, crosses close to the verandah and disappears. I don’t know where it lands, but I can hear the harsh, demanding call of its youngster somewhere nearby. Those magpies have invested a lot in that lanky, scruffy kid. For weeks now the family’s been foraging in the front paddock, and before that the parents would

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-42912136025036370492010-11-27T22:36:00.001+13:002010-11-27T22:38:24.205+13:002010-11-27T22:38:24.205+13:00

Last Friday evening as I was driving to meet friends, the radio reported an explosion at the Pike River coal mine on the West Coast. While the news seemed disturbing I didn’t comprehend its significance — after all, mining accidents on any substantial scale didn’t happen in New Zealand, they happened in China or other countries with lax industrial safety, didn’t they? Even when I heard

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14677243.post-24305620300259089022010-10-31T15:38:00.000+13:002010-11-06T14:51:44.517+13:002010-11-06T14:51:44.517+13:00

A few days ago I finished reading Colin Thubron’s Behind the Wall for the second time, and began re-reading Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia. Yesterday, in one of those peculiar coincidences that leave one wondering whether synchronicity amounts to more than mere peculiar coincidence, I came across William Dalrymple’s review of Under the sun: the letters of Bruce Chatwin. Fascinated, and drawn in by

pohanginapetehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11463792721091291063noreply@blogger.com10