Phil Moore's Travel Adventures...

Shivering violently with enough force to shake the nuts and bolts loose from the ice-clad chair lift and my bones within, I clunk and grind my way into the driving wind that bites into my Queensland tanned façade, feeling like a dog on the back of a speeding ute. The salty surf spray of Western Australia, transported on a westerly wind across the baron red Martian landscape of the Australian Outback, is frozen mid flight and dumped onto The Great Divide, morphing into ice needles that slice into every inch of my exposed skin. “Am I still in Australia?” I begin to question myself, and moreover “why did I choose this place over the tropical paradise of Queensland?” As I reach the crest of the chair lift, the cloud and my doubts clear as the mountain once shrouded within an impregnable white veil is revealed and the exhilaration of the adventures to come brings adrenalin to cause through my veins. The freezing cold is forgotten and replaced with a feeling of elation and euphoria as I slide down the in-ramp to commence another run.

Just 3 hours drive north of Melbourne through lush green farmland lies another one of Australia’s great surprises in a land of contrasting environments and ever changing climates. The ski resort of Mount Buller, nestled on the Western Fringe of the Great Divide, has been serving up the Australian alpine experience since Helmut Koffler first opened the Junior Ski Club here in 1929. If you thought Australia was only about babes, beaches and surfing, think again.

Mush akin to the cultural diversity of Australia, Mount Buller attracts a broad demographic from the jackaroos of the nearby farming communities, city slickers from the metropolis of Melbourne, and visitors from far and wide across the globe including Sri Lanka, India, Japan, Vietnam and China, for many of whom is their first contact with snow.

Gazing up Bourke Street (the main piste at the heart of the resort) from the village square, it’s clear that the lions share of visitors are jean-clad, snow virgin day trippers, ill-equipped in both clothing and competence, who undoubtedly selected the mountain experience from a brochure nestled between the Ned Kelly Last Stand and Melbourne Zoo experience in the Melbourne tourist office.

To expatiate the calamity, an alarming number of guests deem a lesson from the Ski & Snowboard School surplus to requirements (perhaps de-motivated by the escalating cost of their trip) and as a result spend their day sliding around on their derrieres as opposed to the base of their skis. Luckily for their bruised behinds, Mount Buller offers a selection of quaint cafes serving a selection of food including scrumptious soups and ‘glue-vine’ (or Vin Chaud as I prefer), paralleled with stunning views to warm the aching bones and rejuvenate spirits.

That is not to say Mount Buller attracts only first-timers as a large number of highly competent skiers, snowboarders and telemarkers dominate the mountain. Perhaps testament to Mount Buller’s own university which specialized in Outdoor Education (sadly the university closed in 2005 due to lack of funding), the exemplary Mount Buller Ski & Snowboard School or simply a wealth of knowledge learnt and shared amongst the local Victorians - whatever the secret is these Aussies command respect as a force to be reckoned with on the mountain.

With a total of 58 runs spread over a skiable area of 300 hectares, Mount Buller (and Australian ski resorts in general) simply cannot compete with the worlds great ski hills as found in North America and the European Alps but what it lacks in challenging terrain and size it more than makes up for in charm. A plenitude of pisted runs have been carved into the hill, accessible through a well maintained lift system, which whilst rarely exceeding a 25 degree incline on even the black graded runs, provides a wide selection of high-speed, snow gum gladed skiing and some fun bumps and mini cliff drops for the more adventurous rider.

The weather is a little hit and miss with a mixture of glorious blue-bird days quickly followed by icy cold, winds that make it a struggle to free yourself from the comfort of your bed; days of heavy snowfall which can be immediately followed by driving rain which can demolish the shallow base. The 2006 season was a dismal year with at best only 50% of the runs skiable, but with the bumper start to the 2007 and record snow falls received in the first 3 weeks of the season it looks set to be a cracker.

In addition to the pisted runs, Mount Buller hosts a World Cup class half-pipe and a total of 3 terrain parks offering a broad selection of rails, fun boxes and kickers to suit all abilities. This is undoubtedly the focus of the Australian snowboarding, reminiscent of the UK dry slope scene of the early 90s, being heavily influenced by urban skateboarding. I witnessed first hand beginner and expert alike attempting to ride the rails to varying degrees of success, some even before they could successfully initiate a turn which demonstrates the focus for these wannabe gnarly jib kids. Without the deep and steep terrain that makes all-mountain freeriding a possibility, the urban ised focus is hardly surprising.

With all these gnarly young folk about, the après ski scene is vibrant as ever with most descending on the local meat market known as ‘Hoo Hars’, though the sign above the door reads ‘Karura’. For those seeking the quieter life, the nearby villages of Murimbah and Merrijig nestled at the foot of the hill offer more sedate entertainment including hiking through the bush, sampling the local fungi and relishing in the abundance of wildlife including kangaroos, wallabies, wombats, parrots and cockatoos.

The evenings can be spent relaxing in front of a wood fire, or venturing to the Mill Inn and the recently renovated Merrijig pub, which if you believe local legend is said to serve the best steaks in the world by none other than the Cherie Blair. Having sampled their 14oz Porthouse Rump I have my doubts as to the dexterity of the UK premiere’s wife’s palette.

Aside from booze-riddled antics, Mount Buller offers a packed calendar of entertainment on and off the hill for all ages with activities ranging from tobogganing to live music to indoor climbing. An exciting prospect approaches in mid-July for the up-and-coming jib kids with a few wild card places up for grabs in Mount Buller’s own star-studded snowboard rail jam, which is set to attract Australia’s best riders to dazzle the crowds with their well-dialed nose presses, board slides and other mind blowing tricks. An impromptu session in the park this week brought out the best in the local riders – amazing what the presence of an impressive looking SLR camera can do to install the ‘Kodak Courage’.

A worthy note for the more eco-minded visitor, a rather damning report on the ski hill’s environmental footprint has prompted an investment in excess of $5 million AUD in the worlds first class A water-from-waste recycling system. Once the project is completed in 2008, it will deliver up to 90 millions liters of water for a range of uses including an ever expanding snow-making operation and for use in the countless hotels and lodges dotted around the village. The project is already delivering huge benefits with a significant reduction in the use of piped and natural spring water, something which the residents of the local area and further a field will be overjoyed to see having lived through a 7 year drought and ever pressing water restrictions. It makes you think twice before taking a mouthful of snow to quench your thirst but I am assured it is quite safe, in small quantities at least.

The only downside to visiting Mount Buller for the tourist is the cost. For the same as one weeks skiing at the resort including the Park entry fee ($29 plus $6 per night), lift pass ($92 per day), ski rental (approximately $40 per day) and accommodation (available from $50 per night), one could take a trip across the Tasman to the Southern Alps in the South Island of New Zealand which boasts more challenging terrain and a significantly better snow record. Perhaps the multi-millionaire property tycoon owner should consider reducing his profit margin, though the ski industry is a capitalist business like any other so expect no compromise.

Will Mount Buller ever feature on the international ski map? I doubt it. Yes it rains, yes many days will be spent scraping across bullet-proof blue glass ice, and yes you might find yourself at times dodging patches of grass and out of control Sri Lankans but given it’s day (and 2007 has already delivered 2 powder days of 20cm plus) the mountain opens up with some superb quality runs and off-piste action. And if all else fails you can go hit the park! What it lacks in vertical drop and the ‘deep and step’ terrain typical of the North American resorts, it more than makes up for in rustic charm and a friendly down-to-earth attitude that is sadly lacking in an industry tainted by snobbery. If that’s not enough the sheer convenience of being located just 3 hours drive from Australia’s 2nd largest city will ensure Mount Buller will continue to grow into the 21st Century. Bully for you, Buller!

Haere mai! Yet again, I'm back in Aotearoa, I just couldn't stay away, such is the draw of this green and pleasant land. How only a 6 month stay in a country can create such attachment I don't know.

Anyhow, this is a fleeting visit for only 1 month to see some friends (specifically Heike) and fill in the gaps that I missed on my previous visit, a short stay partly because there's a whole world afresh out there to be explored but mostly down to NZ Immigration who weren't playing ball at all by initially refusing entry into the country as no record of my working visa could be found, further they had not seen or heard of an electronic visa document before and practically accused me of falsifying an official document - not a great start. To rub salt into the wounds they then flatly refused to extend my work visa as apparently once you have the visa beit for 6, 12 or whatever months it cannot be extended. Bah humbug! I took this as an omen that it was time to make this the final goodbye (for the time being atleast) and set about enjoying myself instead.

So I lived in a campervan for the first 3 weeks, back to the familiar ground of sleeping where you choose, but seemingly no matter where you park you awake in the glare of the midday sun, the van super-heated such that you can feel your fat slowly bubbling under the skin, internal combustion just around the corner.

We kick off with a bang with the usual hedonism of Auckland at the Fat Camel; times have changed and there are many new faces but still the same old antics. To my dismay spanking has become a faux pas which used to be the bread and butter of a good session in the bar - bringing the old world to the new it seems has its challenges, times change and the rules of engagement with it. I feel like a relic of the past despite the fact it was only 3 months ago - how fickle the hostel lifestyle is. (I'm sure there's a valuable metaphor in there somewhere.)

What better way to celebrate your arrival with a mash-up of Brazilian junglistic beats courtesy of DJ Marky and some melodic vocal tones of the UK's own Stamina MC. Before you question it, I'm proud to say Auckland is a leader in the southern hemisphere for drum and bass with low frequency rumblings coming from clubs like Fubar, 4:20 and The Studio cranking out the wibbly-wobbly, poo-tish rhythms on a weekly basis, attracting big name DJs like Marky, Andy C, Ed Rush & Optical as well the local talent. The kiwis go mad for it and the party rocks on till the early hours, so much energy generated from Marky like I'd never seen before - this guy truly loves his dnb and was dancing harder than anyone in the club and performing gravity defying scratch antics that bamboozled the glazed onlookers

Perhaps the readily available supply of legal party pills caught him by suprise

I needed some quick cash to fund the next couple of weeks ventures and luck would have it I stumbled across a job prepping a yacht The Irishman for charter - scrubbing the decks, loading boxes, erm eating pizza & drinking beer.

The Irishman, picture courtesy of http://www.centralyachtagent.com

The Irishman like many others docked in Auckland harbour is registered to the Marshall Islands- a little known archipelago about 2,500kms north-east of Papua New Guinea. It has an interesting history that I thought appropriate to share...

Initially occupied by the Micronesians and since governed by Spain, Germany, Britain and Japan, they eventually became a U.S. trust territory after WWII. In their wisdom, the U.S. conducted a total of 23 atomic and hydrogen bomb tests between 1946 and 1958 on the islands of Bikini and Eniwetok (the inhabitants were generously relocated to another island first). Despite cleanup attempts, the islands remain uninhabited today because of nuclear contamination.

In 1986, the United States and the Marshall Islands signed a Compact of Free Association, which meant the islands became self-governing but would receive U.S. military and economic aid, roughly $65 million a year. In return for this support the region hosts a large US military base which allegedly still conducts weapons testing in the area, and the islands have become a tax free haven with an unknown number of US individuals & businesses (including the Irishman's yacht charter holding company) hosting their accounts here. I wonder if the local people with a per capita income of $1,600 see much of this benefit. Keep an eye out for this flag:

The job on the irishman led on to bigger and better things as I embarked on a short-lived career as a maritimer, working for Global Yacht Finishers sanding, painting etc. It was hard work but very rewarding being outside on the harbour and working on some truly magnificant boats including the pride of Team NZs race fleet NZ41, and the America's Cup competitor BMW Oracle. I felt truly part of the City of Sails for the first time.

NZ41 & 42, picture courtesy of http://www.sailnz.co.nz

BMW Oracle, picture courtesy of http://bmworacleracing.com

For any traveller needing some quick cash on arrival in Auckland, I'd recommend trying the docks (no hello sailor euphemism implyed) - simply walk around, ask anyone and everyone for casual work and you'll find something will turn up if you're persistent, plus most of the work is cash in hand, no questions asked, wink wink, nudge nudge, know what I mean, say no more etc etc.

So on to the travel......

Raglan

Nestled on the Waikato coast west of Hamilton, tiny Raglan has achieved legendary status as a surf mecca. Ever since Manu Bay featured in the 1966 surfing movie classic Endless Summer, surfers have made a beeline for Raglan’s south breaks with their perfect peelers and long joyrides. Just 8km from Raglan, Manu Bay is claimed to be longest left-hand break in the world, where on the right day when the breaks are linking up, you can cruise for up to 2km. Neighbouring Whale Bay, once a peaceful sanctuary for Maori warriors, also boasts a fine left-hand point break with great hollow waves. Head a kilometre offshore and you’ll find The Indicators, another superb left-hand point break that serves up the area’s largest barrels. Besides the excellent surfing Raglan has breathtaking scenery and dramatic coastline with some great fush and chups shops in town making it a top place to visit.

Piha

Just north of Auckland in the Waitakere Ranges is another beautiful surf town called Piha. A 10 minute drive to south of Piha brings you to Karekare Beach, New Zealand, where 'The Piano' directed by Jane Campion and winner of the Prix d'Or at the Cannes Film Festival was filmed. The surf was cranking on the day of my visit with even some barrels up for grabs. There's a nice little trek onto the rocky point towards the Piha end of the beach where you can soak yourself in the waves that erupt through a gully. If you do visit here, beware of sandal thieves as some desperate sole (hee hee) stole mine that I left outside the van whilst taking an afternoon nap - I do pity the thief as they smelt worse than a stagnent pond.

Taranaki

Next up a visit to one of New Zealand's most understated and consequently under visited regions - Taranaki. It's curious as to how it has reached this position as the enigmatic images of the region dominated by a forbading dormant volcano Mount Taranaki (or Mount Egmont if you refer to it by it's given name by the imperialist European invaders) are iconic to New Zealand. Even the dizzy heights of Tom Cruise coming to town in 2003 to film The Last Samurai (in which Mt Taranaki stood in as a stunt double for Mount Fuji) was not enough to put the place on the map. (Incidently, Mr Cruise did a lot of good in his 4 months stay, raising $14,000 for a local school shelter and a donation to an Auckland youth drug charity, such that he was adorned with the loving title Tominaki.)

Warnings cast aside, I headed off to New Plymouth trying my hand at hitch hiking which turned out to be a breeze and a great way to meet local people. En route south from Auckland I passed through Te Kuiti which is the self-proclaimed sheep shearing capital of New Zealand. To prove this point if the constant stream of sheep transporters passing down through wasn't enough, they have constructed the world's largest shearer - a seven metre high monument depicting what I think is a man decapitating a sheep with some kind of medieval torture device.

Just opposite the petrol station on the junction is Te Tokanganui-A-Noho marae which has some stunning carvings on the facade.

Heading further south, I caught a ride with some young surfers from Tauranga to the next main town en route and the base for my stay - New Plymouth. Rumoured to be a troublesome town with problems with alcholics and an active division of the Mongrel Mob, I found New Plymouth to an attractive, laid back and friendly town. All over town can be found work by Len Lye, a local artist who made his name creating kinetic sculptures. The highlights include the infamous Wind Wand - a 45m lamp post that bends and sways in the breeze. Well worth a visit to the Govett-Brewster Art Gallery where you can find more of his creations. warning - do not attend the sound exhibit with a hangover!

January marks the annual Festival of Light and the town becomes alive at night with free concerts in the park and a dazzling array of fairy lights, lazers and displays adorning the local park. (Not that they forgot to take the Christmas decorations down as I first thought.)

and now for the real reason I came.....

Mehema koe ka tuoho, meinga ki te maunga tetei.

If you should bow to greatness, let it be to a lofty mountain

Standing at an impressive 2,518m, the volcano of Mount Taranaki dominates the entire region and is visible on a clear day (which is rare) from as far away as Tongariro National park in the east and Waitotara in the south. The peak is seemingly always shrouded in cloud however this tends to hang on one side meaning if it's hidden from the north, the chaps in the south have a clear view. The last evidence of volcanic activity on the mountain occurred around 1755, more than 250 years ago.

I was always enjoy the Maori version of the shaping of land, Mount Taranaki's is a sad yet romantic tale....

Te Maunga o Taranaki (Mount Taranaki) once lived in the centre of New Zealand's North Island with other mountain gods: Tongariro, Ruapehu and Ngauruhoe. Nearby stood the lovely maid Pihanga with her cloak of deep green bush, and all the mountain gods were in love with her.

What had been a long, peaceful existence for the mountain gods was disturbed when Taranaki could no longer keep his feelings in control and dared to make advances to Pihanga. A mighty conflict between Tongariro and Taranaki ensued, which shook the foundations of the earth. The mountains belched forth their anger and darkness clouded the sky.

When peace finally came to the land, Tongariro, considerably lowered in height, stood close by Pihanga's side. Taranaki, wild with grief and anger, tore himself from his roots with a mighty wrench and left his homeland.

Weeping, he plunged recklessly towards the setting sun, gouging out the Whanganui River as he went and, upon reaching the ocean, turned north. While he slumbered overnight, the Pouakai Range thrust out a spur and trapped Taranaki in the place he now rests.

source: http://www.newplymouthnz.com

Any attempt to climb this beast is an arduous affair as any who have climbed a volcano can testify with a relentless 30 degree wall of scree that covers the upper slopes. In addition, the potentially icy conditions and fast changing weather systems make the climb hazardous with a slip at the wrong moment resulting in a ride down one of the many cliffs and gullies - many ill prepared climbers have met their maker as a result.

Departing the DOC center at the lazy hour of 9am, I'v reached the 'mid point' by 10:30 which commands a stunning view across the Taranaki plateau across to Mount Ruapehu in the distance.

As expected, the climb gets much more difficult on the upper reaches and on clearing the well maintained wooden tramping boards which protect the fauna, it's up onto the pumous scree slopes for some one step forward, two steps back action. With lots of atino rangatiratanga (self determination), I harness the power of Taranaki and power through, scrambling over the razor sharp lava flow that covers the upper cone and to the summit. An exhilerating climb and what a view.

....surfs up

Taranaki’s wild coastline dishes up some of the country’s best surf with epic drops, fast barrels and a host of adrenalin-pumping rides within an hour’s drive of the city centre. Just south of New Plymouth, the beautiful coastal resort of Oakura Beach attracts surfers with good sandbank breaks at high tide, while near the tiny township of Warea, Stent Road is one of New Zealand’s undisputed surfing hot spots. Heavy swells pound this boulder-strewn bay from most directions, creating consistently good surf and a superb right-hander that breaks over a shallow reef.

All these factors attracted the 2007 Hyundai National Surf Championships which as luck would have it started on the day I arrived in New Plymouth. The event was held at one of 3 breaks depending on the swell that day - Graveyards, Stent Road, or Rocky Point - all within 15kms of each other. Twenty eight year old maori Daniel Kereopa of Raglan has today won the Open Men’s Division which kept the east coast crew quiet for a change. A ery enjoyable 2 days were spent masquerading as Surf NZ freelance photographer sneaking free bbq food and a couple of beers.

On the way back to Auckland, I was lucky enough to be taken to a Maori tungi (funeral) by the chap who gave me a lift. Only first stopping off at his friends for a cup of tea and some spots (no explanation forthcoming). It was real honour to be able to attend this ceremony. I was asked not to talk about it so that tale ends here.

Rainbow Warrior

i te kore, ki te po, ki te ao marama

from nothing, into the darkness, into the world of light

One last burning desire to satisfy but this one lies not in the upper atmos but 27 metres beneath the waves. Located in the Bay of Islands close to the town of Pahia, the Greenpeace ex-flag ship The Rainbow Warrior lies upright on the ocean floor close to Motutapere Island. How it got here is an interesting tale and another test of Anglo-French relations....

On the 10th of July 1985 at 23:49, French Secret Service agents bombed and sank the Rainbow Warrior whilst she was docked in Auckland harbour. Greenpeace protestors had been preparing her for departure to Moruroa Atoll in the South Pacific where the French were planning continued nuclear testing. Two limpet mines were attached to the hull and exploded within two minutes of one another resulting in the death of Portuguese photographer Fernando Pereira.

The French initially denied any involvement even though more than a dozen secret service agents were in the country at the time. After increased pressure and a failed attempt to blame Mi6 for the attack, the French Prime Minister Laurent Fabius finally admitted that the French Secret Service had been ordered to sink the Rainbow Warrior. Two agents held in Auckland took the fall, and were charged with arson and murder and sentenced to 10 years imprisonment. The French were ordered to pay New Zealand $13 million NZ dollars and apologise. The two agents found guilty were sent to French Polynesia to Hao Atoll to serve their short sentences in paradise. These sentences were unlikely to have been completed and it's much more likely that these agents were back in France before the year was out.

The Rainbow Warrior was re-floated after the attack and finally transported to Motutapere Island where she has become an artificial reef attracting an abundance of wildlife and divers alike.

The ships hull is still remarkably intact with the bow rails provide a picturesque backdrop for photographers, the Greenpeace emblem of the white dove of peace still visible at stern and the blast hole in the keel is still clearly visible on the starboard side. Despite promises of other websites we found it impossible to fully penetrate the wreck to explore further as a tangle of wires and cables were criss crossed across the entrance to the hull on the upper deck making this a hazardous opportunity.

Now covered in colourful pink and blue anemones, the wreck attracks a great deal of marine life - leatherjackets, demoiselles, snappers and wrasses followed us as we headed from the stern mooring to the bow. The kelp gardens that covered the ship flowed back and forth in the surge and white growths like bonsai trees protruded from the hull and rails. A flash of colour attracted our attention and lights revealed purple and white Jason mirablis & Tambja Tambja verconis nudibranchs in the branches of the hydroids and on the rails.

So, with all the fun and adventure done, before I left NZ for Australia I finally completed and launched what I can only describe as the greatest job search website for backpackers on this earth that has ever been and ever will be - honestly, it will change your life AND make you more attractive to the opposite sex, check it out - http://www.joblink.net.nz. It was probably the poorest paid job I'd ever undertaken having earnt more as a butchers hand at the spritely age of 15 but I was happy to finally have it done.

E noho rā for now, see you in Australia.

Welcome to my paradise
Where the sky so blue
and the sunshines so bright
Welcome to my paradise
Where you can be free
and the party's never ending

Undoubtedly the anthem from Bali & the Gilli Islands, Steven and The Coconut Tree's UB40-styled reggae hit Welcome to my Paradise for me pretty much summed up the vibe of this party-party island - care-free, stress-free, relaxed, endulgence en mass, pelam pelam (slowly slowly) approach to everything - with the locals always on hand to see to your every need.

Along the avenues of Kuta, Seminyak & Sanur as far as the eye can see are touristic shops & markets, hotels & guest houses, restaurants & bars offering pure endulgence to anyone willing to part with their Rupiah. After the sun goes down, the party begins: cheap cocktails flow; live shows of once traditional now MTV-ified barong dancing dazzle the pinkish onlookers; commercial discos and nightclubs blare out duff-duff rythms; and the Balinese lady's of the night add their own wares to foray.

The ever-present cynic in me (that I can't seem to shift) tells me that something was up. It was almost as if the island had been fabricated by a Thomas Cook mastermind plan to create a Utopia for the package holiday tourist. Ingeniously, they had some how managed to brain wash the people of this undoubtedly once beautiful land into playing out this fantasy too. These was beyond the realms of any James Bond villain's evil plan.

Being 10 metres out at sea on whale-sized surf board for 3 hours a day was not far enough to escape. Fair enough if this is your idea of paradise but it sure as hell isn't mine - I felt claustrophobic and dirty, it was all too much, I had to escape - surely all of Bali can't be like this.....?

So I hired a moped and acquired a map. To the north it looked greener, they can't have concreted that far surely. I left Kuta with a shiver.

OK, so perhaps a little dramatic I know but after the isolation of Sumbawa & Flores I was not ready for this. Resort-style holiday has never been my bag and the whole sex trade thing just made me freak out, I literally breathed a sigh of relief as I escaped the city limits of Kuta. I instantly fell in love with my bike - a two-wheeled gratuity from the gods, a remittance from Rama, subsidy from Shiva or honorarium from Honda, whatever you want to call it. She was mine, and I was free....

The first stop on my exploration of Bali was Tanah Lot temple, Tanah meaning earth and lot meaning ocean. On entry to the site it felt like I was entering Alton Towers with a car park that could hold a thousand or so. Curiously, the majority of the people were Balinese here to attend the temple not tourists like it first appeared, all busily preparing themselves for the festivities ahead - burning incense, preparing offerings (a folded banana leaf adorned with flowers, rice and colourful powder) and decorating their faces with more rice and bindi's.

On clearing the car park, you descend towards the sea, passing through an endless sea of markets selling everything from sarongs to wooden penises. Once into the temple complex and making it past the security guards, the temple reveals itself consisting of a couple of shrines set on a rocky protrusion which apparently symbolises the balance between male and female; inner and outer world; which might explain the symbolism of the wooden phalices on sale.

A procession of people were wading out to sea fully clothed, hanging on for dear life to a guide-rope, with a brightly coloured basket balanced on your head which for me was a true sign of devotion. Without any real understanding of what Balinese Hindu is all about, this was a bizarre spectacle to behold. I had been told that Hindu is no casual religion in the same way as Christianity could be flexed (for example the commandment 'thou shalt not kill' which clearly Mr Bush's US government somewhat mis-read as devout Christians) but I wasn't ready for this. Without a guide as to why this bizarre event was occurring I was at a loss, but there seemed to be some kind of temple on top which 100 or so worshippers would enter for 30 minutes, say their prayers and trek back to shore.

The real draw for the tourists was the picture postcard scene of the temple silhouetted against the setting sun, an image I'd seen before but hadn't known where it was from. The dilemna of where best to watch the sunset was easily resolved when I stumbled across some subtle signposts advertising 'THIS WAY FOR POSTCARD SUNSET VIEW'. Indulging in probably the most expensive Bintang in the whole of Indonesia, I settled in my chair and as the sun began to dip below the horizon, I began to see why this was such a special place and I felt a connection with something spiritual that I couldn't quite explain. Either that or they put something in the beer. Great view mind you.

Heading in land I came across the town of Ubud, the island's preeminent centre for fine arts, dance and music. Undoubtedly the hub for tourists seeking souvenirs, there an overwhelming number of artisian shops selling locally produced arts, crafts and furniture and a thriving market place selling all and sundry imbetween. As you enter the area, the air becomes noticeably cooler and the sticky humidity that engulfs the coast disappears (backwards logic I know but that's the way it feels). This region of Bali has more rain than an English summer but it does make for a green and pleasant landscape.

Ubud is surrounded by some of the most aesthetically pleasing and productive rice paddy fields on the island, and there are many walks easily accessible from the town itself to explore the area. This hive of activity was viewed with great amusement as I battled in the midday sun doing my best to avoid dehydration and heat stroke, foolish tourist - the local farmers had the right idea....

Apart from the ever present mosquitos, I spent a very enjoyable few days strolling around, rolling in the hay, and meeting some colourful characters en route who were more than happy to pose for a photo if you crossed their palm with silver in return. The man below was legend - I've no idea what he was saying to me but he seemed very happy to meet me and even chucked in a Michael Jackson moonwalk to top off his show. Too much barum perhaps.

Here I met a good friend Catherine Charest from Quebec who had recently launched her own fair trade business designing jewellry for export to Canada. Heavily influenced in Balinese style, the collection is produced using local craftsman with the raw materials are purchased directly from the 'farmer' who works in an environmentally sound way - all very right on! It's quite a contrast to the mass produced jewellry, watches etc that you see for sale in all the touristic shops, which I'm told all are made in sweat-shop factories in Jakarta where trained monkeys are prodded with red hot pokers and forced to work 24 hours a day without food or adequate toilet facilities. Oh, and if you think you're getting a bargain for 30,000 Rp for a fake Rolex think again - you can buy a whole box direct from the factory containing 100 or so pieces for 100,000 Rp. Besides if it's that cheap, think about the people who produce them, how much they are paid and whether your need to aspire to an arbitary item of value justifies making a slave out of human being! Oops, wrong soap box . I do wish Catherine the best of luck with her venture.

Exploring around Ubud and with the help of many helpful locals all with conflicting directions, I came across the magnificent Gunung Kawi temple. (Not to be confused with Pura Gunung Kawi which is ofcourse a water temple located 2kms away - splendid in it's own right but not the meat in the sandwich I was looking for.) Anhow, Gunung Kawi, constructed along a river in the 11th century, it is a stunning complex of pavilions and rock-cut shrines carved into the hillside surrounded by rushing water. Instantly more accessible than other temples more active I'd visited (mainly because I squeezed in just before they closed for the day) I had the chance to fully explore this relic from the old days of Balinese Hindus. There was an unsettling chill in the air as the evening drew close yet I felt a warmth in the temple that begged me to stay.

It's a peaceful place, where local farmers harvest terraced rice paddies, co-existing with the temple and it's activities. It seemed bizarre at first to have a working farm integrated with the temple but then again why not - work, play and pray all in the same spot!

After chilling in Ubud for a few days, I headed further up into the highlands to check out the two largest volcanoes on Bali that dominate the skyline. First on the list was Gunung Batur (Gunung meaning mountain) in the Bangli District which measures 1717m in height. It last erupted in 1994 and is still visibly an active beast with vents of sulphur gas escaping from the crater created at the last eruption.

To be pedantic, the peak I refer to is not Gunung Batur at all - the correct name is Gunung Lebah but for some reason it adopted the name of it's much bigger and unwieldly parent. Gunung Batur was a much bigger beast alogether and would have made Lebah look a mere pimple in the landscape. For the entire 'valley' Lebah rests in is the caldera (crater) of the former giant which is now home to about 20 or so villages (including Toya Bungkah where I stayed), Lake Batur which measures 10km across, a 4000 ha farm and Gunung Lebah itself and it's trail of lava flows that spill from it's gaping mouth - and that's only half of the crater. The sides of the caldera were well over 500m in depth which my moped can testify to as it descended down whining like a disgruntled child from the main road into the crater bottom. It was huge, I simply couldn't comprehend that what I was standing in was a volcano crater, let alone imagine what it was like to be there when it blew 30,000 years ago. The pic below does some justice to show how big it really is, sorry for the shocking photoshop skills

Organised treks were avalable to climb to the peak but after the experience with Mt Rinjani I figured I'd go it alone. I was warned by a friendly guide the night before that the people in the hills were not to be trusted at at best I'd be asked to pay for the visit if not hung, drawn and quartered. I didn't believe a word of it so chose to ignore him. Besides, the peak didn't look too high plus there was only a wee bit of poisonous sulphur gas and only a slight chance of an eruption so the odds were in my favour.

I started the day with a trek to the crater rim of the true Gunung Batur on the far side of the lake to watch the sun rise. The route began with an impossibly steep climb up a road which the locals somehow managed to travel up and down on a moped, which then branched off along a dusty track through some small villages and farms. I was met by the most welcoming people who insisted in accompanying me on my journey at was treated to a splendid sunrise looking to the East over Gunung Agung and beyond to Mt Rinjani and a rather faint trace of the Gilli Islands.

After this triumph, it was back on the moped and I found my way round to the backside of Gunung Batur where the lava fields from the eruption of 1994 were to be found, dodging an endless stream of fully laden gravel trucks returning to civilisation with their precious cargo and wooping workers hanging off every available handhold. Once in the middle of the lava field which stretched for more than 2 miles across, I began my ascent of Lebah and after only 2 hours reached the summit. Happy happy days!

Moving on, I attempted to get up to Amed that night but bit off rather more than I could chew - after a minor crash on the bike I only made it as far as Padang Bai in the midst of a torrential thunderstorm. It was all a rather rushed affair (much like the end of this blog entry) and I only made a 2 hour stop at Pura Besakih Temple (gong) - the mother temple of Bali en route which really didn't do it justice at all.

The next day I travelled up to (what do you call a man with a pig on is head?) Amed which is a peaceful beach retreat on the north eastern edge of the island. Its remote location keeps the crowds away and gives the place a super relaced feel - it's all still a tourist haven but the locals were so friendly and made me feel very welcome as a lone traveller. ighlights included:

- my room, costing 40,000Rp per night. OMG!!!!

- the wreck of the Japanese warship which lays only 3 metres below the surface easily accessible with only a snorkel & mask
- a superb little restaurant the owner whom had the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen
- and an unforgetable massage which cured a swelling on my foot from the bike crash in less than 24 hours

Nusa Lemboggan

With a few days before I had to fly out to Singapore, I decided to meet up with Catherine and take a Christmas treat break out to the island of Nusa Lembongan off the south-eastern side of Bali.

The islands main industry besides tourism is seaweed farming, something I'd never seen before on this scale. When the tide retreats, the plots of land are revealed, each marked out with individual fence posts. It seemed a strange thing but I guess owning a plot in the sea is no different from that on dry land. The sea weed was not eaten locally, all intended for export to Japan.

The island was stunning and offfered all you could need for a relaxed Chistmas holiday. There was no swell unfortunately so surf was out but atleast that eliminated any dilemna about what to do for the day, and the night, well they sold Bintang to wash down with the stunning sunset.

btw, the rubber rings are used to float the sea weed baskets

On a trek inland, I stumbled across an over grown cemetry and adorned atop one of the gravestones was a Swastika. How Hinduism relates to fascism I couldn't quite imagine as I couldn't think of more far removed if I tried. But apparently, the Swastika is a sign from days of old in the Hindu relegion representing peace and prosperity, a religious and astronomical sign linking the sun, moon, earth and universe, and is also held as a godly sign of eternity as an energy/fire source. Most common you will see swastika at the entrances of houses to bring properity and good fortune to it's inhabitants so I guess the chap that lay beneath was a lucky sole. A much more positive use than third reich employed - read more about the swastika on Wikipedia.

For a Christmas treat, I succumbed to the promises of my friendly neighbour from Drift Divers for some spectacular diving around the island, besides it was a locally owned company so atleast the money was going to the right people. Still a little sceptical after having my mind blown away in the waters around Komodo, we set off in hope of finding some Manta Rays and possibly a straggling Mola Mola (sun fish) that hadn't retreated to the depths yet. Alas, the diving was not all that spectacular and none of the big stuff were playing ball - I felt at times like I was clock watching until the dive was over. Truly spoilt I must be.

To make up for any disappointed the dive master brought along a spear gun to spice things up a bit so I tried my hand at some underwater brutally. It wa not easy with the complications of refraction of light making objects seem closer than they are, the current rediverting the spear in flight, the fish moving and above all me being a terrible shot. I handed over the reigns back to the dive master who quickly succeeded in empaling a leather jacket, a brutish looking triggerfish (payback from komodo) and a pretty little red thing. I would not recommend this for the squeamish as there's a mass of green blood (no red light gets down this far) and the chosen method to carry the fish is to feed a rope through the fish's eye balls whilst it is still alive. Gross! Anyhow, we ate like kings that night, les fruits de la mer, c'est formidable!

So, my time was about up. Just time for one last shopping trip at the market in Denpasar to send some (now belated) christmas presents back home.

fruit & veg

- mangustan fruit

One last drama before I left, having overstayed my visa by 11 days I was required to pay immigration $20US per day. Not so in Indonesia, the land where sadly corruption still rules - a back hander to the customs official of my remainding cash (a deal which was completed in the toilet of the airport) and I was allowed to leave, shaking like a leaf but nonetheless I was not in jail. Perhaps a hypocritical action and we should do our bit to stamp out corruption but it was cheap. Oh dear!

I'm not sure I'll return to Bali again until I fear the pinch of old age as it's a little too commercialised for my liking, unless it's a spring board to Java, Sumutra or Sulawesi that is (yes yes yes!!!). Don't get me wrong, the people are lovely and I had some special times here but it's a pretty screwed up place. I purposely didn't mention terrorism (oops) but the impact Osama (don't surf) and his band of merry distructioners has left a terrible scar. The crime you don't hear about is the impact of the lowly tourists - the resorts are now a far cry from the farming communities on the interior and the locals live the lifestyle of a tourist where money, alcohol and sex industry is a part of life. No going back to the old ways, but why should or would they want to. I felt dirty about the whole affair to be honest. Much better I go somewhere fresh and leave my mark there instead - oh dear, is travelling really selfish??