Two Phat Kiwis

The Little Patriot: Part II

2012-01-28T16:51:00.000-08:00

After a whirlwind month of chowing down on succulent bbq in Austin (the hour and a half wait is always worth it), staring down tigers at the Houston zoo, landing the Space Shuttle at the Johnson Space Center, and defying the incredulous stares of over-protective American helicopter parents at the Heights playground as he scoffs at gravity, this little guy's ready for a little rest and relaxation on the Mayan Riviera.

When you're the coolest gringo south o' the border you're way too cool for a hat.

Auntie Rachael manages to restrain the dynamo for a split second. Dial shutter speed to maximum.

Look familiar? Avid followers of this blog (a highly endangered species indeed) may recall that this very spot featured as a critical pit-stop in the Yucatan leg of the Race Around Central America some four years ago.

Secluded bungalows.

A private beach.

Uhm, colorful chairs. What more do you need. Just spot the Travelocity gnome.

Breakfast of champions and fat people the world over. Heuvos Rancheros just taste better in Mexico.

Good thing Sarah and Ross are moving to Cairns, the beachfront lifestyle doesn't have to end here. On the other hand we will have to make do with dipping our toes in the muddy Gulf and hoping the oil balls have killed all the flesh eating bacteria.

I don't like the view. It's distracting from my focus on the food.

The Mayans knew a good piece of real estate when they saw one. But even they underestimated the fatness of the tails. Big ships come in from the sea and annihilate your civilization - that's like the definition of a Black Swan event (actually that was Aztecs, or the Incas, or... never mind historical accuracy, one should never pass up the opportunity for a Wall Street analogy).

I eat gringos

Smart cookies these Mayans. If the world really is going to end in 2012, they chose the right place to see it out. Why not wait for your inevitable doom in the balmy waters of the Caribbean.

Morgan's been in the USA too long. All this end of the world talk has him building a secure bunker and stockpiling the 7.62 NATO rounds.

Last meal before doomsday?

The self-proclaimed Best Fish Tacos on Earth are a pretty darn good place to start (continuously eating for three straight days still counts as a Last Meal right?).

Even Texans need to take a brief digestion break, Shopping, step right into the gap. Here's the Tulum Galleria.

Straw hats may be practical but let's face it, nothing says gringo like a Hawaiian shirt and sombrero.

Downtown Tulum. Round here the siesta has right of way.

In this limestone rich land swimming pools come in underground caverns, or Cenotes.

Hartwoods, run by a NY couple, is foodie paradise in the midst of general paradise. Using only a wood-fired oven the husband and wife team whip up some of the freshest food around using only local ingredients.

Thankfully you'll be spared any further banal commentary, just looking at these pictures again is making me hungry. AFK: gone to fix a bowl of Milo cereal.

The Little Patriot: Part I

2012-01-28T16:08:00.000-08:00

Hide your balls and your planes, your trucks and your ducks. Hurricane Morgan has made landfall in the US of A, and he ain't here to passively take in the sights. This little ball of energy is ready to immerse himself in Americana, to make his mark on this great land, to bend it to his will. Wal Marts big enough to park a 747 in, tire-sized donuts slathered in maple syrup and bacon, trucks with a ride height that belongs in an open pit coal mine, freeways wider than a rugby field. This is America. And he's ready for the challenge.

Morgan may be ready, but for the sanity of his parents a carefully crafted Culture Shock Reduction package swings into operation. First stop, New York City. Sure it's loud, brash, almost incomprehensibly big, but as far as over-the-top American culture goes it's a tad bit more cosmopolitan, a tad bit more worldly, than the We-Love-Santorum heartland. In other words, not a bad place to ease into a month in America. I mean heck, they actually have like public transport here. Imagine that!

On top of the Rock (no, Jared, not that Rock). Wait for it..."Maaam, I'm really sorry but if you put your baby on your shoulders again we'll have no choice but to ship you out to Guantanamo".

I don't think we need Energy Markets' meteorologists to tell us the chance of a white Christmas is rather remote.

Ok math question (since even a math problem is more interesting than reading a blog from over a month ago). How many possible photographic permutations can one create from five people? Scroll down and find out...

What, I feel short changed! Either a number of the subjects fell from the precipice or too many Excel spreadsheets have dulled the photographers grasp of elementary mathematics.

The reason for the season if their Q4 earnings are anything to go by. Insiders tip: take advantage of the online boxing day sales and avoid being crushed to death in a suburban Wal Mart. Believe me, there are nicer places to mark your untimely end.

Christmas Eve at Columbus Circle. Forgive the rather drunken angle, someone must have slipped some whiskey in my hot chocolate.

Christmas morning in the biggest city of them all and Morgan can tell something is a brewing.

Gold, frankincense and myrrh - why I can get those from the local Wholefoods. What a real wiseman would bring to the table would be a taste of lands afar. Ah but I can almost smell the tang of salt air as the million dollar yachts cavort on a glittering Sydney harbor. Surveyed of course from the safety of a 9th story balcony as the Kings Cross riff-raff stumble home below.

This little guy doesn't need a care package from home. He is the care package from home.

If only a 99c rubber ball would satisfy her...life would be a lot cheaper.

Sure there's no snow but a gloriously sunny Christmas Day isn't all that bad a substitute.

In Dumbo, nestled under the end of the Brooklyn Bridge, even scaffolding is art. Clearly, up and coming.

On this fine Christmas morn, let us pay our respects to those who fell on this ground. The new 9/11 memorial is a moving tribute, despite being surrounded by an active construction zone, as the new world trade center rockets skyward.

Never forget. But preferably don't go invade countries on a whim just to prove it.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow...

2011-12-13T20:29:00.000-08:00

...or failing that, just turn those snow makers up full blast. It's a glorious day on the slopes of Keystone, Colorado where the TwoPhatKiwis ski team has convened for pre-season training camp in preparation for another epic La Nina winter. What's lacking in snow is made up for in Christmas cheer, and hey, icy slopes are just an excuse to ramp up the apres ski right?

I don't think my hair is long enough to rightfully belong on this board.

It's a long way down from here. There is a short cut. It's called an avalanche.

Action shot of the year. The expansive terrain park captured in all its sparkling glory from my helmet cam as I execute the never-before-performed 360x(N+1)-Triple-Whopper-with-Fries-AND-a-Milkshake (where N is the number of rotations Shaun White can do) to perfection. Funny how the intense centripetal force of three rotations while eating a Whopper feels remarkably similar to sitting in the comfort of a high speed quad lift...

Hmmm, I seem to have gone so high I landed in the chairlift. Mental note: next time ensure sufficient vertical clearance before executing awesomeness. Although this trick of landing next to a chick is pretty smooth and could come in handy since I lack the chick-magnet locks of the Flying Tomato.

What's with people wanting to tear headlong down a near vertical slope. With a view like this wouldn't we all have a lot more fun building snowpeople (who said TwoPhatKiwis wasn't politically correct?) and making snow angels?

Proof that even patches of ice cunningly hidden beneath the manufactured powder can't stop us from getting to the bottom. It may not be on a board the whole way, but what are butt friction burns and blue knees if not a mark of respect?

What back for more? I picked you to be in the spa hours ago. Like around the time the lifts opened.

It doesn't get any better than this.

Actually it can get a whole lot better. Just add powder.

Hey, watch where you point that thing.

Look at that beautiful lake. Isn't it stunning. Uh, how do you stop this thing again. Oh crud, is that a cliff ahead...

Uh oh...world's biggest ski jump here I come...

Mmm, mountain tucker. Generic cafeteria food tastes so much better when it's been earned.

Eat up, it's all downhill from here. Literally.

Rock on team Phat.

So much for Mr I'll be on the Last Lift Down for a quick bite before I gear up for night skiing. Someone showed up for fall training out of condition.

Spot the cheapo rental board on the designer catwalk.

Keystone Village has a perfect solution to limited open terrain - drink up!

Quick detour to Breck for brunch. Thank goodness they have donuts. It's always a good idea to blubber up before the drive back to Denver, you never know how many weeks you might be stuck in the back-to-reality traffic and I believe cannibalism breaches a number of UN conventions these days.

Why are we walking around historic Breck when we could be up on the glistening slopes? Oh that's right, because my muscles are screaming. Unworthy. No wonder the snow gods chose to look the other way this weekend.

Even Denver has put on her festive spirit. What you mean we haven't missed our flight for a change? Learned to say no to one more plate of nachos on the slopes? Who says you can teach Phat Kiwis to fly.

Heights Mafia: New York Chapter

2011-12-06T17:10:00.001-08:00

Texans, ya'll swap those boots and ten gallon hat for some impossibly skinny jeans and an organic alpaca wool beanie now, this is hipster central. This is the entire world conveniently packaged into five bite-sized boroughs. This is bagels and pizza pies, yellow taxis and dilapidated subways. Christmas trees and candelabras. This is the greatest city on earth (sorry London, you were the appetizer this time around).

When in New York...don't even think about cooking at home.

Tube, subway, metro - doesn't matter, the baby accessory is universal.

The visionary High Line just got extended and we're here to find out if longer really is better.

All aboard. The Jrod express, non-stop service to the nearest purveyor of thin crust pizza-by-the-slice, is about to depart.

If there's something deep I could say about fading autumn leaves providing a stark metaphor for America's slow decline I've forgotten what it was.

Chop chop team, the next meal is right below you.

All this architectural excellence has inspired us to devote two precious images to a study of light and dark. And for once we're not talking the two sides of the Force.

Tip for increasing property values, build an elevated railroad through your neighborhood and convert it into a park a few decades later. Somehow I don't see that one getting past the Heights Association.

Is that organic mistletoe or chemically mutated poison ivy?

Why this must be Manhattan, Kansas.

Dang it, where's Buffalo Bill riding shotgun when you need him? How can I achieve Shinkansen punctuality with all these annoying pedestrians milling about.

Thanks for travelling with TwoPhatKiwis rail. Please remember to take your iPad when leaving the train and avoid falling in the water while in possession of a brand new iPhone. Yes, you.

High Line, the most direct route to really expensive fashion. Welcome to the Meatpacking district. Screw the one of a kind designer gears, where's all the meat?

Appropriately, finishing where it began - at the brunch table. Which tastes even more scrumptiouslicious when you have to wait an hour and a half to get a table.

No Euros here Old Chap

2011-11-29T15:59:00.001-08:00

Continental Europe may be spiraling towards a bleak winter of financial turmoil and the once mighty Euro may stand on the brink of oblivion, but the sun is still shining in Londontown. Sure, it's cold and austerity may be the catch cry of the day, but with a holiday buzz in the crisp air, the pound Stirling still ruling the waves (thank you parochial bull-doggedness!), and the Olympics just around the corner, it's a good a time to become Londoners again.

There's a new star in town and it's not Rachael.

The ever vigilant tabloids are quick to spot a FenMan reunion. Could the legendary swashbuckling, trash-talking (darn right, because 'come on, you can do it', 'one point at a time' are so intimidating), mask-throwing Manawatu musketeers be plotting a come back? Unlikely considering execution of The Move is likely to split more than a pair of kevlar breeches...

Perfection in a cup.

Sure didn't take us long to remember what you do in the UK when it's dark at 4pm. Warm ales all round.

Eclectic SoHo is always rocking after dark as cosy watering holes and funky bars come alive with the pre-show crowd.

Cookies, cake, and...yep, definitely in SoHo.

Ah, the perfect accessory for a jaunt around Wimbledon. All you need now are some London Eye sized sunnies and a fully tinted Range Rover and the tabloids will be hacking your phone in no time.

The London iteration of the Commies with Nothing Better to Do with Their Dole Money (aka Occupy) has parked itself in Finsbury Square in the heart of The City. Seems like they're just crying out for a little Texan justice. How bout you occupy the end of my shotgun.

Borough Markets is a staple on any trip back to the old stomping ground. The line...sorry, queue...at Monmouth Coffee is as long as ever. Always comforting to know that even in this volatile world some things never change.

Less overwhelming than the flagship British Museum, but with an equally world-class collection, the Victoria and Albert museum on Kensington's museum row is worth more than a few hours ramble.

London's answer to New York's 5th Ave is the imperiously curving Regent Street. Christmas crowds and walking on the American side of the sidewalk prove a bruising combination.

For the culturally challenged (i.e. Essex folk), the name of this hip new Mexican spot in the West End has been phonetically spelled out - Wahaca (wait that assumes they can read...). Fortunately some Latin American cultural advisers who recently studied under star Oaxacan chef Alejandro Ruiz have been specially flown in to provide in depth commentary on this UK take on Mexican street food.

Uhm we flew you here to provide unique insight into the cuisine of the Land of the Seven Moles, not to get into soccer vs football bar fights.

No trip to London would be complete with a trip to Feast London. Nose to tail eating is not something you have to sell to this human garbage disposal unit, it's simply a way of life.

The Old is something of a misnomer considering the Spitalfields market has had a significant makeover since we last passed through on route to Brick Lane. In fact, everything east of Liverpool Street station seems to have gone all hip(ster) on us.

(Less than) 36 hours in El Salvador

2011-11-15T17:15:00.001-08:00

When you're constantly flicking the thermostat between heating and cooling, when it's shorts and a t-shirt one day and a wool fleecie the next - why that's called fall in Houston. Which means winter is just around the corner. Winter? Yikes! Time to migrate south o' the border.

Ok no one told me that the La Cocotera ecolodge was a three hour drive from the San Salvador airport, but with a pad like this any complaints are silenced rather quickly (actually the complaints never really started - past experience suggests complaining when you don't do any of the organizing tends to result in sub-optimal outcomes).

It's all about the details.

With only six palm thatched cabanas nestled in a remote corner of El Salvador between the crashing waves of the Pacific and jungle-clad volcanic peaks, La Cocotera really is getting away from it all (especially after an un-named guest drops herself...oh did I just give it away...and a one week old iphone 4S in the estuary whilst attempting to trespass...)

Tsunami warning means rushing for the surfboard.

Boy I wish I had more than 36 hours here...what was that about complaints?

Survivor El Salvador kicks off with a tough opening challenge - find the beach.

Dang it, why do the women always outsmart the men?

Isn't it obvious, because the guy's one track mind is already wistfully contemplating this inviting set of goalposts crudely constructed on a pitch of sand so soft that it's just begging for a totally unnecessary dive and accompanying agonizing (for the spectators) writhing.

La Cocotera is part of a government conservation program that buys sea turtle eggs from locals (who would otherwise sell them as a delicacy on the black market) and then hatches them for release back into the sea. Rachael ponders just how much of a delicacy they might be...

Each guest gets to release one of the baby turtles into the ocean. Careful, don't squish them before they even get he chance to swim from the sharks.

The odds of survival aren't good. 1 in 100 they say. But hey, that's better than the odds on most of my power trades. I'm long this little fellow.

The resort is located on a peninsula between the Pacific and a slow moving estuary that features a wildlife friendly mangrove swamp.

I wonder if there be piranhas here. Rachael, stick your hand in and find out. It's safe, I'm sure they're too busy feasting on a tasty iphone.

A few locals quietly go about their business, unaware that the usual outcome of getting this close to a Texan is ending up in a vat of boiling oil stuffed inside a turkey.

Back at the lodge it's feeding time at the aviary.

I wonder if eating upside down increases one's stomach capacity.

36 hours? More like 24 once you subtract snoozing time.

Still, there'a always time to squeeze in one more tropical cocktail at the bar before that alarm clock buzzes.

College Game Day: Tigers and Longhorns

2011-11-08T16:58:00.000-08:00

Look who's back in town sporting the gaudy apparel of this year's anointed team - it can only mean one thing, college football is back! Can The Professor make it two from two and pick another national champion? We're in the deep south to come a little closer to answering that question.

Down in the swamps of Baton Rouge, Louisiana they sure do know how to prep for a big game. But wouldn't a higher ride make crushing Gators a little easier?

Spanish moss, southern belles, jambalaya and gumbo. Surely the soul of college football is rooted here in the South.

Somehow Death Valley doesn't look quite as intimidating in the broad daylight. Must be because the students aren't completely sloshed yet.

I dare Corso to don blue and orange around these parts...

...my guess is this t-shirt would no longer be wholly factual if he did.

Hey who said the south was full of uneducated hillbillies? The Golden Band from Tigerland would beg to differ. They have clearly achieved proficiency in spelling three letter words.

Some might uncharitably call this garish mosaic an eyesore. Others would call it passion. Hey - I just came up with a new HSBC add.

Are your sunnies 1080p HD?

My how the mighty have fallen. Don't worry Florida, I'm sure you can pick up Tebow from the Broncos in a few weeks for little more than the cost of a PhD scholarship in Applied Missionary Studies.

The eye of the tiger is upon you, all the live long day...wait, wrong week, wrong team.

99,994 screaming fans...

and six pretenders...

Mmmm, nothing like the smell of Gator in the deep fryer. It's party time as LSU annihilates the hapless Gators 44-11 to take the pole position in the race for the national championship.

The sun's setting, shouldn't the game be kicking off about now?

Kickoff? How bout kicking off with some southern sized frozen margaritas...and lite beers for the guys.

Another weekend, another game. The Professor's college football circus rolls into rocking Austin in time to see if the Longhorns can bounce back from their all out drubbing against the hated Oklahoma Sooners at the Cotton Bowl.

No gator here. Just impossibly tender mesquite smoked beef brisket crudely wrapped in simple white bread.

Is this what happens to Mack Brown if the the horns lose consecutive games to Oklahoma?

Gosh durn it it's good to be a meatavore in Texas.

Darrell K Royal Texas Memorial Stadium brought to you by Two Phat Kiwis - 'It's not terrible, it's just not that good' - and by The Internet - 'Making bad blogs possible in every way possible'.

Don't look so bored. The game hasn't started yet.

Everything is bigger in Texas. Including the self proclaimed Biggest Drum ion the World.

The Showband of the Southwest is wondering what it takes to get a free trip to a bowl game these days.

Just in case you don't know what to do, here's a jumbotron tutorial.

If you have time to look at the camera you're not focusing on the game.

Let's just leave the result for the history books and hook 'em horns. We'll just have to wait long enough for the inevitable recruiting improprieties to emerge and force those pesky Oklahoma State Cowboys to vacate this win.

India Part VIII: A camel to jeep to a train to a plane

2011-11-03T16:43:00.000-07:00

Well look who survived a third class train trip through the endless Thar desert. Actually sleeper class is a lot more comfortable than driving. Welcome to the end of the line folks (thankfully for this blog as well as the railway line).

The desert oasis of Jaislamer close to the Pakistan border is just about as far west as you can get in Rajasthan. Any further and you might wake up in a training camp of the type that predator drones look unfavorably upon.

If it wasn't for the thunder of MiGs patrolling the border and the 'Recommended by Lonely Planet' signs adorning every shop you could easily imagine you'd just been teleported back to the middle ages.

Inside the old fort, tiny streets zigzag through a maze of ancient sandstone houses. This is the sand castle every kid wanted to build at the beach but quickly gave up on because playing Mario on the GameBoy was a lot more gratifying.

2 for 1? That a rip off. Here, I make you good price. 5,278 for 1. I don't think some of these vendors understand that if you don't want one of their product it is rather unlikely you want ten.

A heroic effort to keep the streets clean in the face of overwhelming odds. Every time you sweep up the mess another cow comes lumbering along just looking for a clean paving stone to adorn with a steaming patty pie.

The city fathers were wise to create streets so narrow even a motorbike can barely squeeze through. It's a refreshing change not to have to worry about motorized rickshaws hellbent on turning the roads into their personal street circuit.

None shall pass! Literally because this cunning guardian came up with the perfect tourist barrier. Blast diarrhea all over the pavement and then nonchalantly lap it up. And to think, that's where your morning lassi came from...

From atop the central palace a you get a sense for just how remote this place is. Beyond the compact cluster of sandstone buildings the vast Thar desert stretches to the horizon in all directions.

Hmmm, the elevated vantage point does not lend any insight into an escape from the maze. The good news is the fortified citadel is so small if you walk for five minutes in any direction you'll reach the surrounding wall.

The city literally glows in the dying rays of the setting sun and as if on queue the whisper of an evening breeze signals respite from the blistering desert heat.

Day two in Jaislamer and it's time to conquer the ship of the desert. But first a stop at yet more cenotaphs enroute to an overnight camel safari.

Desert? But there's grass everywhere. Why drought stricken Texas is drier than this. Apparently the monsoon rains were excellent this year and the usually barren desert has been transformed into a surprising green grassland.

Ty's favorite part of the whole trip.

It's hot, it's bumpy, it's...well...riding a camel.

Pit stop at a desert oasis. Convenient of them to schedule a stop right at the point where the thigh's of the average tourist start screaming in pain.

This guy knows how to cool down.

Mmmm, rice snacks warmed over a crude camp fire. Why is this the first non-curry lunch in two weeks?

Funny, no one seems that eager to get moving again. Do I sense the novelty of plodding along on a smelly beast is wearing off?

That's more like it. Is it too much to ask that a desert actually has some sand?

Point that thing someplace else. Give a camel a break, I just hauled your overweight ass like a Disneyland mobility scooter.

"I don't like sand. It's coarse and rough and irritating and it gets everywhere." Single worst movie line ever in the history of bad movie lines?

Untouched by mankind...since the wind removed the traces of last night's tourist hordes.

The Dune Sea. Let me practice my Kryat Dragon call.

They can use this photo in the Two Tourists Missing in the Thar Desert newspaper article.

Woah dude, I'm like really, really tall. Did someone slip some bhang in my lassi?

A cliff. A soft landing zone. A bunch of guys with absolutely nothing else to do.

Equals inevitability.

Devan illustrates the Dumb Tourist Face Plant Technique from the Unco School.

Graham, a friendly Brit (we didn't hold it against him) on our tour, illustrates the potentially explosive consequences of Delhi belly.

A infinite source of almost perfectly spherical, fist-sized wild watermelons. An empty metal cup. A bunch of guys with absolutely nothing else to do now that they've filled their only clothes with sand. Equals a game of H-O-R-S-E for the ages. In a thrilling final, America defeats Great Britain in a back and forth battle for the ages. The Revolution was just a warm up.

More fried goodies straight off the camp fire. Why does camp tucker always taste so much more satisfying? Maybe because it's earned by leaping wildly from a sand dune instead of following the Lonely Planet to yet another curry joint.

Sunset over the Thar desert. Or is that Pakistan conducting an above ground test?

Cheers India! Jolly good show.

The scourge of the desert. Pesky dung beetles come out in force as the sun sets.

It's a good thing the stars are spectacular because it's hard to get much sleep when dung beetles are crawling all over you. Is there a lesson in the fact the dung beetles seem to congregate on us?

The results of a night's work. Four bite sized balls of dung packed for future enjoyment.

The good news is the camels stayed around to save us from the beetles. The bad news is the camels stayed around so now we have to get back on them.

15 hours on a train back to Delhi? No problem. This second class sleeper carriage is a lot more comfy than an economy class seat. Until the snacks run out less than an hour into the journey...

Time to kill in Delhi before the flight home means the chance to pack in one more sight. Oh goodie.

This is Humayun's tomb, the father of Admiral...I mean Emperor...Akbar. Remember that chap? Didn't think so, that was so many blog posts ago it might as well have been The Journal of World Travel.

And that's that folks. Epic trip. Amazing country. Spectacular food. To steal a trademark. Incredible India.

India Part VII: Forts and temples - so what else is new?

2011-11-02T17:06:00.000-07:00

The remote hill-top fortress of Kumbhalgarh (now there's a name lifted straight from Middle Earth) is the first rest stop on the never ending journey to the next and final 'pur (Jodhpur).

And a worthy stop it is indeed. Massive walls over 36km in length encircle the entire mountaintop (according to Wikipedia the second longest continuous wall in the world after of course China's Great Wall) and within this mighty embrace hundreds of temples cling to the jungle clad slopes.

The inner keep towers over the temple-strewn grounds.

Naturally demanding a hot, sweaty ascent.

Why we must have stumbled on the set of Indiana Jones V. Duck, here comes an alien mothership and some pretender giving the real Indy a bad name.

Forget defense, the real reason to put you palace way up here is the free air conditioning.

The hazards of the road. Hey, I'll take swarming monkeys over near head on collisions with cars driving the wrong direction on divided highways.

Speaking of monkeys, I believe we have just found the missing link. The elusive intermediate step between jabbering primates and that homo sapien species they've managed to devolve into.

The little town of Ranakpur nestled in a verdant valley boasts one of India's most important Jain Temples, and arguably one of the most impressive of the entire trip.

The intricacy of the stone carving is simply spectacular, as is the beautiful use of natural lighting.

Dude! I'm almost certain a pose this gay is blasphemous within this place of worship.

Now don't both lean on the same side...

Bloody tourists always spoiling the shots.

Whew, now there's a sight I thought I'd never see. With the last hour of the long drive to Jodhpur in the pitch black, the odds of ever laying eyes on Jodhpur's mighty Mehranghar seemed to reduce with each near miss of a headlightless truck or near-invisible donkey cart.

Sitting imperiously on a rocky outcrop high above the 'Blue City' (so named for the numerous blue whitewashed dwellings of the old city), Mehrangarh is the most impressive fort of them all, not an easy feat in a country where every hill seems to boast its own variant of the garh.

After the relatively tranquil streets of Udaipur, its back into the thick of it. Crazy drivers. Check. Marauding cows. Check. Lurking cow patties just waiting for an unsuspecting sandal. Check.

All elephants in the slow lane please.

Up close, the towering battlements of Mehrangarh soar into the searing desert sky. At least it's only ultraviolet rays and not boiling tar pounding down on us.

The prize for breaching the battlements (I mean forking over the 10x local rate tourist entry fee) is a glimpse at the luxurious gilded lifestyle of the maharajas. Don't let the Occupy Wall Street folks get a glimpse of all that gold.

Why from up here all my citizens problems just magically disappear. Who said being a ruler was tough work.

So this whole Blue City thing is more than just tourist propaganda after all.

Excessively frilly. It must be the ladies courtyard.

Ok it may be a little bizarre to allow someone to set up a zip-lining operation on your historical monument, but gosh darn it, what an awesome setting.

A series of six zip-lines criss-cross the lower reaches of the fortress offering stunning vistas of the battlements and city far below.

Sure beats the flying fox at the Palmy esplanade.

Uhmm, isn't the elite infiltration squad going the wrong way? The castle is behind you.

Seal Team 5.99.

The final flying fox is the most epic of the all - hundreds of meters in length across a deep ravine to the outer walls of the fort. Unless you get stuck short of the end and have to ignominiously drag yourself to the finish. Not naming nay names here...

Rock on! Even after 1.5 weeks of three creamy curries a day the lines held firm.

Sick of monuments? Sick of this blog? I sure am.

This is a tomb of some sort. I think someone famous is buried here.

Umaid Bhawan Palace is the largest private residence in the world. Part is a Taj hotel, but part is still used by the royal family.

Evening means two things. Curry time and of course the nightly dose of Twenty20 action.

Moooove over.

The clock tower in the middle of the market square harks back to the days of the British Raj.

Three guys and one chick do not a romantic dinner make. Fortunately the setting is irrelevant to the act of stuffing one's face with curry.

Sometimes the most unexpected events make the most memorable travel experiences. Trying to find a pub to kill time waiting for the overnight train, we convince the hotel staff to open the closed bar just for us and fire up the cricket on TV. Why it even comes with our own dedicated waiter.

Decorated like an old English hunting lodge, the bar is the perfect place to psych each other into a state of dread over the upcoming third class rail experience.

Howzzzzaaaaatttt!

India Part VI: Tandoori chicken and rugby...say what?

2011-10-26T16:59:00.000-07:00

What are the odds in India of a) arriving at your destination on schedule, b) finding the electricity on, c) happening to be at the only hotel on the entire trip to have the one channel in India that shows the Rugby World Cup, and d) all of this happening on the day of the most important pool match of the cup - the All Blacks vs the Evil Eye Gouging Frogs? About the same as the All Blacks winning a world cup at a guess. Sometimes miracles happen.

It may not be a 52" LCD in glorious high definition, but boy as the camera pans across a gleaming Eden Park and the boys in black - our boys - march down the tunnel...that's the stuff of travel legend. Those indelible memories that burn bright long after lists of monuments and city names fade.

Tender tandoori chicken straight out of the clay oven, ice cold Kingfisher, and a whole stack of garlic naan. The way rugby was meant to be watched. Well when the electricity doesn't decide to fail just as the French launch another probing attack...

I'm high. On the glory of victory and maybe one Kingfisher too many. Who would have thought after that clinical display against Les Bleus that they would meet again in a final for the ages.

Brief interlude over, now it's back to temples, palaces, and cows. Feel free to close your browser now.

Where are we anyway?

Ah, the floating palace gives it away. This must be the lake front city of Udaipur, without a doubt the brightest jewel in Rajasthan's already very well endowed crown.

I know crushing the French always puts one in a festive mood, but seriously people it's time to focus, sightseeing is serious business.

A body of water without any trash in it. That would explain the excess of photos.

The spin cycle in super slow motion.

Dude, this was my bath first! Go find your own lake.

The breezy waters of Lake Pichola make for a pleasant change from the incessant sweat and bedlam of the historic streets.

The legendary Lake Palace Hotel. Sure this is as close as we'll be getting, but they can take their five stars and eat 'em for all we care, our hotel has Neo Sports and beer, and on this day that's all that matters.

Jag Mandir, or the Lake Garden Palace (I'm still not sure whether something is lost in translation on these place names or if Indians are the most unoriginal and boring namers of things ever), seems to float upon the tranquil (and did I mention trash free?) waters.

One more step and you can vividly illustrate the old cliche 'sink like an elephant'.

No dear, of course I wasn't talking about you!

Looking back towards Udaipur, the vast City Palace (there we go again...can't fault the accuracy of the description) complex dominates the lake shore.

Trying to prove that I can fit more lake shots in a blog than there are pubs in Udaipur showing Octopussy on the big screen (apparently the Roger Moore Bond 'classic' was shot here which naturally means that the way to suck in the tourists is to show eight puss...erm the movie on the big screen nightly) And btw Indians, take note of the title - now that is the way to pick a name that isn't straight out of a government procedures manual.

The Real Kiwis charge into the setting sun, safe in the knowledge that French demons have been well and truly slain...Yeah Right.

Sick of dirt, trash, cows, and hawkers? Like a good urban planner, the easy solution is to head up. Every Indian town worth its cumin features a plethora of rooftop bars simply begging tourists to come up and escape the sticky heat. And maybe catch a showing of Octupussy one the side.

And then before long coke turns to lassi to cocktail and the tandoor oven fires up. Life is good on the tourist trail.

The fancy hotels are just as unobtainable by night.

Here's your chance to create your very own gratuitous Bond girl emerges from water moment.

Whoever came up with the idea of lying down whilst eating must have owned a restaurant. Do you know how much more you can fit when you don't have to maintain a sitting posture?

I guess we managed to roll back from dinner after all.

I won't even go there...I will merely suggest that elephants aren't as easy as sheep. Too late, I went there.

These cenotaphs are where the royalty were buried. Apparently they don't hold all that much sway anymore because to enter, all you have to do is bribe the guard.

The inside the sprawling City Palace complex boasts some spectacular ornamentation, well spectacular if you aren't palaced-out that is.

High in the mountains overlooking Udaipur is the evocatively titled Monsoon Palace (no sarcasm, this is one of the better names out there).

If it's not cows it's monkeys.

Dang monkeys always spoiling my shots.

You don't have to pay five star prices for five star views in this city. Of course this being the hotel room there's no need to worry oneself with biews because the nightly dose of twenty20 Champions League cricket action is on. After all, 'don't be late o'clock'.

Things are looking up. The boxes are ticked and it's once again time for the real reason we travel.

India Part V: Deeper in the heart of Rajasthan

2011-10-19T17:04:00.000-07:00

Pushkar may have been off the tour bus circuit, but it still features firmly on the backpacker trail judging by the number of 'special' lassi cafes and northern European accents. But while it's always nice to have an internet cafe and an espresso machine at one's finger tips, more often then not the coolest destinations require just that little bit of extra work. Like a seven hour drive over the kind of roads that make a camel the express option. Still for a gem like the town of Bundi it's more than worth it (trust the obligatory curry and coke hit to revive the weary travelers).

The Bundi Palace may not make many guidebooks' 'must sees' and hopefully it stays that way. Because what makes this palace and accompanying hill top fort so unique is its complete desolation. Even in the middle of the day there isn't another tourist in sight. The partially restored, weed-covered battlements and echoing, bat-infested passageways exude an eeriness that is lost at the more well trod tourist destinations.

War elephant or western tourist to the top of the hill first? Even odds.

Like a scene from one of those plague movies where, save for one unlikely hero and a conveniently attractive love interest, the entire population is wiped out and the world's great cities start going to pot (parsimoniously conveyed via a quick succession of panning shots of decaying global landmarks), the crumbling fortress is eerily quiet.

In case you weren't sure if your elephant would fit through the gate, some life-size replicas illustrate the scale.

That's a very small...uhhh...trunk you've got there.

From high on the soaring battlements the ancient town of Bundi is a patchwork of colorfully painted houses and satellite tv dishes.

As if a deserted palace clinging to a cliff face isn't impressive enough, the imposing Taragarh fort dominates the hilltop behind.

With so few human visitors the local wildlife (and not just talking cows this time) have the run of the state rooms.

Spectacularly painted vaults seem incongruous against the somber defense oriented exterior.

Beneath the palace a labyrinth of narrow streets make up Bundi's old town, where life continues much like it must have when mighty rulers occupied the hill side bastion.

Bundi is famed for its many step wells, sunken pools that once formed the towns water supply but now unfortunately are all too often little more than rubbish tips. This glorious example one of the few that hasn't succumbed to the scourge of the plastic water bottle.

According to Devan's fear mongering travel doctor you can catch rabies from bats simply by breathing in their saliva. Fortunately this camera has a decent zoom.

Life in the slow lane. Wait, that's driving. Life on the streets is a continuous buzz of activity as the locals do their shopping against an enticing backdrop of exotic aromas and whirling colors.

Seen from across Nawal Sagar lake, the palace and fort complex is resplendent in the rays of the afternoon sun.

I wonder which god is lucky enough to lay claim to this fetching little water temple.

Just when you think you're starting to unwind and be absorbed into the rythm of the local lifestyle it's time to hit the road again. Dang, I really do hate the traffic...

India Part IV: Deep in the heart of Rajasthan

2011-10-17T18:27:00.000-07:00

When the pothole union decides to sacrifice individualism for collective bargaining and a merely pockmarked road becomes one nightmarish picket line of contiguous potholes working in unison to make one's journey miserable...well the simple things in life like a cold shower and a dust free room start to look mighty fine. With the bright (intermittent) lights of Jaipur far behind us, rural Rajasthan lies at our doorstep.

Or more accurately our windowsill. Which fortunately comes equipped with fly screens. Not quite ready to go that rural just yet.

But with a pad like this there's certainly no need to rush back out into the dusty streets to check out the holy town of Pushkar. Actually there is, naturally our stomachs are demanding another curry feast. Clearly it's been over two hours since we last gorged ourselves on obscenely rich curries.

The local girls high school illustrates how to wear a uniform with a modicum of modesty. Skanks here expose their ankles.

Pushkar is one of five sacred pilgrimage sites for devout Hindus and supposedly one of the oldest cities in India. If you judge holiness by the temples/sq km metric this place already has one foot in heaven's gate.

These scheming little fellows just want to work out how to be reincarnated as a cow.

Ghats, or bathing pools, give pilgrims access to the sacred waters of Pushkar Lake. It had better be pretty darn holy because judging by the water quality it would take something close to divine intervention to stop a lazy western immune system from succumbing to whatever nasty bugs are hiding in the murky waters.

Dang, I can't find 'will someone kindly remove the cow from my bath tub' in my phrasebook.

The colors of India come in rather suggestive shapes.

Narrow streets (rather redundant adjective round these parts) swarm with pilgrims and tourists alike. The pilgrims seek enlightenment, the tourists seek another bhang lassi - which to be fair is a religious experience unto itself.

No takers for a dip in the big communal toilet...sorry, I mean bath tub? Here - I'll squeeze a little hand sanitizer in to make a bubble bath.

That's funny, it doesn't look so holy from up here. Maybe if I look hard enough someone will chuck me a sword out of the mysterious depths.

Stealing naans cannot be a particularly safe occupation in a city teeming with all-seeing, all-knowing gods, demi-gods, and jealous cows. Odds of reincarnation as a fat western tourist 5:1.

Three domes for 100 rupees. I make good price just for you.

It's ok to hate camels once you've ridden one.

Good day fine sir, can I help you achieve enlightenment? Or do you just need some more milk for a lassi?

The face of heat stroke.

Sure there's a fine breeze at this rooftop cafe, but what good is aircon that doesn't guzzle the MWhs? I'm long for size damn it. Turn those machines back on!

Naturally, the temple on the hill in the picture above proves an irresistible challenge.

It's hot, hard work, but watching the sun set over the dusty plains of Rajasthan is reward enough.

The holy city glows with an ethereal light as the sun slips behind the hills.

Sun Gate MkII.

Ah, remember a simple game of chess (what's simple about that?) was enough entertainment to languidly pass the evening? Boy, those sure were the dark ages.

You don't need an MBA to work out that this is a winning proposition. You've got a captive customer base of hot, thirsty tourists. You've got a grand vista at the foot of a mysterious hill-top temple. What connects the dots? Simple - a little stand dishing out ice cold coca-colas and a few wicker seats on the edge of a shear cliff. Go you good thing.

What happens on the hill stays on the hill.

Night time in India. Just because you can't see the cow patties doesn't mean they've magically disappeared.

Being a cow in India is like being a Gold frequent flyer on Continental. It's good in theory until you realize you're really just another number.

The infamous bhang lassi. If you don't know what that is don't try it in a state that doesn't have liberal personal use laws... Needless to say, all post bhangage shots have been mercifully censored.

India Part III: Into Rajasthan

2011-10-12T19:18:00.000-07:00

Rajasthan. The very name conjures up images of gaudily colored saris and towering sand stone forts, camel caravans and heroic war elephants, billowing sand dunes and quiet oases - all enveloped in the heady aroma of a thousand and one simmering spices.

But before one can partake of the dizzying miasma of sights and sounds that is this legendary state, one must contend with that most contemporary of Indian issues - cows on the freeway. Fortunately the palace complex of Fatehpur Sikri, once the capital of Akbar's vast Mughal empire, is conveniently located en-route to break up the tedium of sub-40mph travel.

With a name that's just crying out for Lara Croft, the evocative Wind Palace, demonstrates the harmonious fusion of Islamic, Hindu, and Persian that is characteristic of Mughal architectural.

One gate to rule them all. When does a gate stop being a gate and become a skyscraper?

When the concept of a divided highway simply means twice the opportunity to crash head on into oncoming traffic, survival is a day-by-day pleasure. Fortunately our driver's last milli-second reactions see us safely into Rajasthan's chaotic capital of Jaipur. In stark contrast to the rest of the city, our pad for the next two nights is an oasis of calm.

Lassi Walla! The daily roulette game with E. Coli commences with a fine lassi from one of several identically named lassi shops. Blame Lonely Planet for this all too common phenomenon (and us for reading it and thus commoditizing the travel experience). As soon as somewhere makes the hallowed guide, two or three adjacent copy cats spring up all proclaiming that catch cry of riches 'recommended by Lonely Planet'. For the record, after some post-lassi sleuthing we established this was not the real deal. Nonetheless, the lassis were excellent and most importantly did not exit the digestive system prematurely.

Jaipur is a city bursting at the seams, a bustling capital stuck in the body of a medieval town. The ancient old town is a dizzying rush of motorcycles, wandering cows, and moto-rickshaws, all trying to squeeze through a warren of passages built for the pedestrian age.

Uhm, what color was my motorbike again?

That man deserves a DB.

And the color of commerce is...orange!

Hey look, Whole Foods has made it to India. Those veggies are so organic they've still got the cow manure on them. Can I have a soy milk double cinnamon non-fat, gluten-free latte to go with that please?

Life in the fast lane. Ok maybe an auto-rickshaw can't put up Sebastian Vettel numbers, but when you've got four people packed into a vehicle built for two and a driver engrossed in his very own game of Frogger (now all-new in hyper-realistic 3D) everything is a very bumpy blur.

The Hawa Mahal, of Palace of Winds, is one of the iconic images of Jaipur. Originally built so the women of the palace could observe daily life whilst maintaining the modesty required by Islam, it's actually little more than a false front hiding a series of narrow catwalks upon which the women could stand.

But times have changed (in most parts of the world at least) and now annoying specimens of the female gender (example shown below) have come out from behind the sandstone wall to out-perform us at high school and college, steal our jobs, lead nations, and generally make us look like the beer drinking simpletons that the beer ads make us out to be. But I digress, of note in the background is the spectacular Amber Fort, a formidable fortress cum palace that commands the hills outside of Jaipur and ranks as one of Rajasthan's top sites.

There are only two ways up. The tourist way atop a lumbering elephant, or the cheap tourist way atop one's own two legs.

As if there was ever any doubt about where on the poshpacking vs backpacking spectrum this trip sits.

Well it's more comfortable than a auto-rickshaw and you get the benefit of a fixed price (although that's no guarantee against the old 'i don't have change' trick).

I hope no one fancies a game of elephant tipping.

And now for the dismount. A hush falls over the crowd, flashbulbs still...

The vast central courtyard was built with elephants (and thus by extension - western tourists) in mind.

Talk to the pathetically under-powered fist.

Water was pulled up from the lake at the base of the fort via a series of water wheels and pulleys. Now I wish someone would haul up an ice cold coca-cola.

Enough with the accoutrements of defense. Leave that to the lower castes. Inside these mighty walls we can live the high life, far from the clutches of Dodd-Frank and Volker...I mean, marauding bandits. Care for a cocktail...errr...lassi in my private garden?

I shall call this the Mirror Palace and contrive a cunningly difficult puzzle in which the treasure hunter (thinking more the Indiana Jones and less the Putin caliber here) must utilize his knowledge of geometry, so carefully honed in the dusty university pool hall, to reflect the rays of the setting sun from his pocket compass at the precise angle required to light the Candle of Destiny which in turn will melt the wax on the Seal of the Ages revealing a cryptic anagram which only Tom Hanks or Google can solve.

Here's one for the ladies. You can see out but the hordes of guys thinking unholy thoughts can't see in. Think of this as the amoeba that evolved into wrap around sunglasses and 100% tinted windows.

It's cool up here. Naturally, because we're up here.

Is it an indictment on this country's infrastructure that this elephant is most likely faster than your car? No, it simply means you need to drive more maniacally.

The Jal Mahal, or (no prizes for guessing) Water Palace, sits serenely in the middle of Man Sagar Lake, mocking the hyper-active bustle of the nearby city.

In stark contrast to the hawker convention that convenes each time another tour bus pulls up.

Jaipur's City Palace (City Mahal perhaps?), part of which is still occupied by the current Maharaja, is located right in the heart of the old city.

See the thing about peacocks is the males are actually meant to be impressive.

This elephant is not certified tourist safe.

Fire at will commander! Apparently this is not an inverse Death Star although personally I find that rather hard to believe.

Turns out the Bothan spies didn't smuggle the plans to India is their desperate dash from the clutches of the Emperor after all, it's just that the dude who built this palace was big on astronomy and built one of the most advanced observatories in the world. NASA could probably learn a thing or two.

Not surprisingly for a place called Albert Hall, this elaborate building which now houses a museum is a weird mix of British and Indian architecture.

Indiana Jones get your whip ready. It doesn't get much cooler than a temple carved into a cliff face. Actually it does when said temple is called the Monkey Temple. I mean that just sounds plain cool

Ladies and gentlemen this is not a special effect, the water really is green. Which is made all the more eerie when suddenly the sound of hundreds of feet rushing across the crumbling facade breaks the utter silence of this near deserted relic.

A lesson in cost saving. Why build four walls when you can get away with one.

Escape route plotted. If the rabid monkeys come just jump.

The next stage in human evolution.

I see you and I don't think I like you.

India Part II: Agra, it's not tick the box tourism, it's tick the boxes tourism

2011-10-10T19:47:00.000-07:00

A long, hot, dusty car ride from Delhi to Agra, home of the fabled Taj Mahal, rapidly dispels any illusions about the transport infrastructure in this country. When cows, camels, goats, and elephants have right of way and even on divided highways drivers routinely choose to drive on the wrong side of the road, it's hard to get anywhere fast (much like this blog).

But we're here and while the fabled Taj Mahal is inevitably the finale, there are plenty of other...wait for it... monumental sights to check out as an appetizer. First, time to pay our respects to the great Mon Calamari leader, Admiral Ackbar, supreme commander of the Rebel Alliance fleet. Wait, wrong Ackbar. This is the tomb of Akbar without a C. Like the fish dude from Return of the Jedi, Akbar was a great leader, arguably the greatest of the Mughal (Muslim) emperors who ruled India throughout the 17th and 18th centuries.

Despite their grandiose exteriors, Mughal tombs always seem to be humble and plain on the inside.

Apparently the idyllic grounds of the tomb are a favorite place for lovers to spend a romantic evening. Which in this country means the possibility of holding hands when no one is looking - and that's if the date goes really well.

Next up is the imposing Agra Fort (Red Fort, Agra Fort - is the utterly uninspiring nomenclature a relic of the British rule perhaps?). Fortunately what it lacks in originality of name it more than makes up for in appearance. Massive red sandstone walls hide delicate marble palaces, while hidden gardens and ornate balustrades compete for memory card space.

Hmmm, so much for the mighty walls keeping the riff-raff out. The tourists seem to osmosis their way right on through the semi-permeable membrane.

What foresight, these walls were built to withstand the 300lbs human battering ram known as Homo Touristicum, a creature only recently evolved in the fat factories of the Western world but clearly a threat that the perceptive builders of this impregnable bastion anticipated all too well.

You aren't in Somalia anymore Dr. Shaw. Who let the pirate breach the battlements?

The good news for those who manage to penetrate the defenses, or fork over the 500 rupee entrance fee, is that there is definitely something worth protecting in here. Elaborate marble palaces and verdant gardens fill out every courtyard, and each twisting passage leads to an ever more spectacular vista.

Don't exhaust the superlatives just yet (too late, my descriptive prose ran out with 'very cool' and 'really awesome'), there's another contender waiting in the wings.

Queue rousing military fanfare as the A team strides out of fortress, another tourist site effortlessly conquered. Yes, that would be part of the very same 'A' team that almost committed harakiri via esophagus after one dodgy alpaca steak too many, yet somehow rallied against all odds to eat again...and conquer a 5,000m pass on the side. What doesn't kill you makes for a humorous story afterwards.

Ladies and Gentlemen, stand by for a Wonder of the World.

This has all the makings of a grand finale. Does that mean I'm done with the blog?

You've seen it a thousand times before, in pictures, in movies, paintings and words (and now below average blogs). And yet, you haven't. Because standing here it's different.

Standing here there's intangible magic that no photo can convey, a majesty that is lost in the millions of facsimiles propagating around the globe. Perfection cannot be copied.

It was peaceful. Then these clowns showed up.

Who look like saints compared to this joker. Where's Slumdog to steal some gringo shoes when you need him?

The Greatest Tomb on Earth (TM).

500 hundred years ago the forefathers of the Occupy Wall Street hippies camped out here. Why spend all this money on a dead person? Spend it on hand outs to the tomb builders union instead.

It takes a lot of zoom to capture a single person amid the sea of tourists.

Of course you can have a tomb like this honey. You might want to ask the Fed to print you a few billion first though. As long as you give it an impenetrable name like QEIII no one will question it. After all, building tombs is a surefire way to kick start the economy.

What's this? A five start hotel on a backpacking trip? Well if by backpacking you mean a pack on the back, I guess we qualify in the most literal sense of the word, but if you mean slumming it in an airless 20 person dorm while the stomach complains of yet another cut in the food budget...well there was some mythical blog called the Journal of World Travel...

What do you do when you've just splurged on a fine hotel complete with pool and renowned restaurant? Go looking for trouble of course. This couch is too soft. This beer is too cold. Let's go experience real India. Let's go get some cow crap on our shoes. Get that malaria pumping through the veins. Even worse, let's overpay for the Most Average Meal on Earth.

Next time, stay in the hotel.

India Part I: Delhi, the old, the new, and the dirty

2011-10-05T18:56:00.000-07:00

From the far corners of the globe the adventurers gather, a fellowship forged long ago in the ancient halls of Massey University, united now in this ninth month of 2011 with a singular goal - to eat their way across the arid plains and storied fortresses of the legendary Indian state of Rajasthan (and if it comes straight out the other end...well look on the bright side, that just means room for more...).

Globalization is when you stumble into a local dive bar in Old Delhi, jet-lagged and disoriented with culture shock of the cow and piles of garbage in the street kind, and ask for an icy Kingfisher only to be met with 'sorry, only Budweiser'. Ah well, after 15 hours in the air, the self proclaimed King of Beers is close enough - heck it's got King in the name.

A first look at the chaotic streets of Old Delhi. Dirty, yes. Smelly, yes. Hot and humid, yes. Enthralling, absolutely.

If one had to choose a single image to sum up the vast subcontinent this could well be it. The incongruity of this most genteel of sports played in a weedy field among wandering cows and meditating holy men is what makes this country so fascinating. Modern skyscrapers towering over festering slums. Highways brought to a standstill by a camel caravan. A land of contrasts, mind numbingly frustrating and yet utterly compelling at the same time.

Beautifully flicked off the pads. The next Tendulker perhaps? Why he'll only have to beat out a billion other hopefuls, how hard can that be really?

With a power grid like this it's no wonder electricity is something you stop taking for granted (especially when you're in the middle of a watching a critical rugby test on tv...but that's for later).

Marauding monkeys certainly don't help the situation.

Karims, a hole in the wall curry joint hidden down a dirty alley (really dirty becomes a redundant adjective in this country since it pretty much describes everything), is legendary with both locals and tourists alike. Ok, I'm just quoting the guidebook here, but let's face it, when has Lonely Planet ever been wrong?

Certainly not today. A feast marred only slightly by the fact that Pepsi conquered the subcontinent first.

Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India, is an oasis of calm amid the cacophony of old Delhi.

Scandalous! Rachael close your burqa at once before I call the moral police. Just because the Bollywood girls are allowed to gyrate in little more than panties all over TV doesn't mean you can show your ankles in public. What did I say - country of bizarre contrasts.

Here religion is an integral part of daily life, woven into the fabric of society in a way that a once a week commute to your suburban mega church for a self improvement seminar in the guise of a sermon ('Why God wants you to be rich and vote Republican') is hard pressed to match.

Monumental will become a very overused adjective over the course of this blog. That's ok, we've still got 'juxtaposition' and 'quintessential manifestation' up the sleeve.

Climbing a minaret sounds like fun until you realize it's H-town hot here without the 24/7 AC. At least the swarming hawkers can't reach us up here. Wait, the shoe watcher is demanding a tip.

Ah, natures air con. Lovely, from up here you can't see the piles of garbage on the side of the streets courtesy of the rather medieval approach to disposing of household waste.

Delhi's enormous Red Fort has something of a Forbidden City feel to it - vast spaces punctuated by diminishing courtyards and elaborate palaces.

Sorry, I can't take credit for this photo - I downloaded it from an Indian porno site. See Rachael proved a real hit with the gentlemen and their camera phones. Wherever we went there'd invariably be some dodgy Indian guy blatantly grabbing her picture on their phone. They didn't even bother being sneaky about it. I'm guessing those pics aren't destined for the Bollywood tabloids...

Last stop on the Delhi tourist trail (wait, that's the toilet...hur, hur, hur) is the striking minaret of Qutub Minar, built by the first Muslim ruler of Delhi*

*unless otherwise indicated anything remotely factual in this blog is straight from Wikipedia, we take no responsibility for any inadvertent educational value that may result

Get your hand off my tower...uhhh...don't take that the wrong way. Not that there's any right way to take that.

Just to prove it's something more than a pointy over-compensating-for-something-much kind of statement, it's actually got some nifty detail work.

Because the traffic isn't crazy enough watching from the sidelines. To truly understand the mesmerizing free for all that is an Indian road one has to jump right in the thick of it.

Dusk falls on day one and we're starting to find our travel legs. A herd of cows wandering down the street munching on the day's refuse hardly warrants a turn of the head. Instead of waiting for the non-existent gap in the traffic, we step confidently out knowing that somehow the hundreds of players in this daily dance with dismemberment will avoid us at the last possible second. A firm 'no thanks' becomes automatic as tout 1,001 sets a new record for number of postcards per 100 rupee note. Welcome to India folks. Let's rock n g...

And best of all, our ample supply of imodium pills goes unused. No Delhi belly to see here unless you count four stomachs filled to bursting point with another feast of rich, aromatic curries.

Because a liquor license is apparently prohibitively expensive, Kingfisher is often served undercover in a tea pot. And let's face it, there's just something so right about that. Like a game of cricket in a dusty paddock, beer out of a tea pot - that's India.

And that's stumps on day one.

10 years. Already.

2011-09-13T17:33:00.000-07:00

Looking across at Manhattan from Brooklyn a beautiful summer morning in NYC it's hard to believe it's been 10 years since that fateful day on September 11th, 2001 when so much of what many Americans took for granted came crashing down along with the thousands of tons of glass and steel. We here at TwoPhatKiwis are certainly grateful to have the opportunity to spend the 10th anniversary of the attacks in the very city who's resilience and optimism epitomizes everything that is still right about America. 10 years ago we were carefree students getting ready for another leisurely day of lectures at Massey University. We, like America, have come a long way in 10 years.

It's a small world. Rachael just wishes she had some streetlamp sized pins to mark her travel territory with.

Really? Roddick and Serena? I just didn't see it. I guess since they're now both losers they could make a fine couple.

The approach to center court is buzzing...with the drone of prayers in a dozen tongues beseeching the rain to stay away.

Look, it's just like a fencing DE chart. My name isn't in the top 8. With numbers 1, 2, 3 and 4 in the world all making it through to the semis, the day's action is shaping up to be either an absolute cracker or a rained out mess.

The locals try to show the country Texan how the folks roll. Unfortunately Rock got in the way.

In America this is the kind of digs bankrupt teams have. NY Mets - too big to fail. Sounds like Bud Selig has the perfect resume to be next chairman of the Fed.

Is this that elusive and exotic creature known as a hipster? Actually no, you have to be hip first.

I feel like they need a disclaimer on this one. An hour after a sudden downpour and the court is still drying out. Well at least it's cool...

Finally the court is dry, the sun is out, it's Texas hot, but most importantly the players are coming out the tunnel. Roger Federer, arguably the greatest to ever have played the game, takes on world number 1 and virtually undefeated in 2011 Novak Djokovic in the marquee semi.

Hey it looks just like my serve, only overhand.

Djokovic illustrates how he warms up for the post-match dance.

After an epic five setter ends with Djokovic overcoming two match points to wrest the match from Federer, the second semi was always going to be a little anticlimactic. So anticlimactic in fact that it lost out to Korean BBQ. Not to demean the match in which Nadal comfortably dispatched pretender Andy Murray - a lot of things lose out to Korean BBQ.

If this was ancient Rome me Disliking Murray's boring baseline play would result in his head coming off.

Gritty and artsy, the Dumbo neighborhood nestled at the foot of the Brooklyn Bridge is the perfect place for a morning wander on this most auspicious of days. September 11.

Across the still waters where once stood two pillars of the American dream now is naught but an empty void, a hole in the psyche so deep that a tentative nation is still grappling to fill.

We remember.

High in the Rockies*

2011-09-07T19:10:00.000-07:00

*Public disclaimer: despite the over-abundance of 'medicinal' dispensaries in this state we are of course referring solely to the elevation, unless Jared happens to get a wiff of beer.

Sure the Buff's may have fled the pressure cooker of the Big 12 for the style-over-substance Pac12, 13,...,N, but some things never change. Boulder, CO is still one of the top towns in America and the perfect place to start on assault on the mighty Rockies.

The historic Boulderado Hotel provides the forward base for a punishing hike into the high Rockies...wait let's not get ahead of ourselves, make that the perfect base for a Tour de Shots through some of Boulder's most infamous drinking establishments. When they say acclimatize to the altitude, I'm not sure twelve rounds of shots at 5,500ft is quite what they had in mind.

With the gleaming Whole Foods, cavernous outdoor equipment stores, and yuppie magnet organic cafes left some five hours back behind the belching exhaust of a very un-Boulder Chevy Tahoe, it's time for the real wilderness experience to begin in the historic town of Crested Butte. Ok, maybe not quite yet...if you don't need shocks on your front forks it's probably safe to say you haven't ventured too far from civilization just yet.

Nestled in a valley high in the Rockies, Crested Butte is about as perfect a mountain town as you'll find. From the historic main street that's stepped right out of a old school western to the eclectic dining scene, it's hard to find enough superlatives without resorting to thesaurus.com.

Mt Crested Butte, home to the town's ski fields, watches over the picturesque main street.

I'm not sure that cruiser will allow you to generate the wattage necessary to launch an attack over Independence Pass. Only a week after the inaugural Pro Cycling Challenge - a mini Tour de France through the daunting Rockies that attracted some of the world's top cyclists including the maillot jaune Cadel Evans and the Schlek brothers - evidence of the epic race was everywhere, especially on the roads where the motivational words splashed across the tarmac provided the encouragement necessary to get the sluggish Tahoe up another 7% gradient.

Rustic and real, this is no Aspen or Vail. Here a decent bike trumps a private jet every time.

Weather like this was invented for the beer garden.

The Fellowship of the Holey Dollar. Ok so one member of the party has not worked at Macquarie at some stage, but that's ok, you need one shining beacon of hope to balance all these minions of Sauron.

Let's get this show on the road.

Make way for the peloton. Darn it this is why Coloradans all look so fit and healthy, when they're not carving up the powder they're shredding the back country trails.

Officially Crested Butte is the wildflower capital of the state. For once the politicians appear to have got it right.

If this is the scenery on the hike to the trailhead, the mere prelude, I think we're in for quite a treat.

No we aren't at the top. In fact, we haven't even started climbing yet so yipe those grins right off and put your game face on.

The peaceful meadows do little to foreshadow the punishing climb ahead.

13 miles and a 2,000ft climb over the West Maroon Pass await the unsuspecting victims. But hey, if you can down twelve shots at altitude I'm sure you're ready.

This isn't so hard. The floweres are blooming, the sun is shining, never mind that the Houston heat has followed us and we're through half our water supply before we even start climbing.

Before this day's out you'll swear those wildflowers are mocking your aching muscles and blistered feet.

Pit stop. Why this is a rather scenic gas station.

After a precarious, lung busting ascent up scree slopes, West Maroon Pass yields to the methodical assault.

Hey, you can't tell me that view wasn't worth it.

Unless you're scared of heights that is...

Now that's a lunch spot worthy of the fine gouda and ham sandwich I'm constructing.

This is kind of like the continental divide, if I take a leak at the very top which way will it flow... Oh what honey? Smile for the camera? Sorry, I was just thinking what a romantic spot this is and how...uhmm...happy I am to share it with you. Of course I'd love a picture with you.

The hard part's over, the long descent down the valley towards Aspen will be easy right? Why are my knees telling me otherwise.

Darn it, why do I keep seeing mirages of icy mountain streams with cases of frost brewed Coors Light (cold strip activated of course)? I blame the negative impact of TV on my generation.

At last, the cool shores of Crater Lake offer brief respite from the relentless heat and dusty trail.

We must be close now. It's those white trees that are named after the town. I wonder how much Aspen paid to get naming rights.

But wait, there's more. Stunning Maroon Lake, supposedly one of the most photographed lakes in all of America, marks the end of the road, literally. From here it's a 15 minute shuttle bus ride to glitzy Aspen.

The Maroon Bells. Maroon seems a popular color round these parts.

Ah civilization. And with 30+ private jets parked at the Aspen airport you know that's civilization with a capital C.

The contrast with laid back Crested Butte could not be more pronounced. 1840s false fronts give way to immaculate window displays, the smell of weed replaced by the latest Paris colognes. Here grabbing a jacket means retrieving a dinner jacket from wardrobe, and leaving the Ferrari in the hands of the valet is as close to off-road as you'll get.

Sure, sure, keep telling yourself sipping champagne out of a water bottle makes you an adventurer.

With calves and quads still screaming from seven hours on the trail yesterday, it's time for a little less strenuous ascending.

Now why didn't they build one of these over West Maroon Pass? 20 minutes and we're whisked to the top of the world.

Spot the difference.

Ok, who wants to crash the wedding at the chalet next door?

A harrowing mini bus ride later and we're back in Crested Butte trying to rub all those Aspen gold diggers off our wilderness attire.

It's the People's Market. I can't participate - sounds Communist.

It's hard to stay secret when you make some of the very best pizza on the face of the planet. And believe me, I've chomped my way through a lot of pizza in my life. Secret Stash is without a doubt in the top three all time. And I don't think that's the alpine appetite speaking either.

Twelve shots? Pfffff. Try this stack of vodka Red Bulls on for size. With a bar tender named Baba Ganoush and free 'entertainment' outside the bar window what could possibly go wrong.

Apparently a lot because I woke up to a world where houses are built out of licence plates.

Nothing that a coffee can't cure (sorry, Crested Butte, I'm going to go all Aspen on you and order a latte with a cute little fern patter in the organic, hormone-free milk).

Or a hearty breakfast at a Crested Butte institution. The problem with hiking for a day is you think you can eat whatever you want. That logic holds up to a point. But three days of lounging around to one day hiking may be the wrong ratio.

Beware the Heat Dome of Doom

2011-08-10T16:46:00.000-07:00

With the mercury soaring faster than a short position in the S&P500, let's take a moment to canvass the country and see how the heartland is holding up to the hottest summer since global warming was invented. According to the national media, one tip for surviving the 'killer heat dome' is to stay inside in the air conditioning (uh huh...brilliant). Of course, here at TwoPhatKiwis we're never ones to shy away from a challenge so we ventured forth into the wide un-air conditioned world to see if we could fry an egg on an ice cube.

First stop the always rocking Austin, TX, self proclaimed Live Music Capital of the World and final stop on the road to San Francisco 2011. When you're pounding the pavement in search of the elusive hills that will put the final shape into those sculpted calves (or perhaps just trim that beer belly) it helps to have a nice training pad. The ultra-modern Kimber Modern fits the bill perfectly.

When the rioting mobs gain control of London Princess Kate can have this throne. I'll generously donate half of my bed to Pippa.

What do you do when the heat index is north of 110 and there isn't an iota of shade in sight. Easy - line up for 2 hours in the blazing sun for the once-in-a-lifetime (ok technically once per day but who's seriously dares to take on the Heat Dome twice?) opportunity to sample smoked saturated animal fat.

This is why you have to show up early. Over an hour before opening and based on the length of the line sweating patiently in the searing heat, the day's meat supply is already accounted for.

Stuff derivatives trading, I've got a sure fire way to get rich is to show up with a few folding chairs and hire them out at $5 a pop.

BBQ wunderkind Aaron Franklin has taken Austin by storm, and if the 2 hour wait doesn't prove it my bland photography and sketchy verbage sure won't.

Hear, hear!

This artistic menu is called letting the food do the talking.

O. M. G. Simply sensational. Try to ban these trans fats Mr Bloomberg and you'll be calling up Mr Johnson for some advice on positioning riot police.

Change of scenery but not heat index. From white hot Texas to blistering Kansas City, the heat dome spares no one. At least we can charitably attribute these poses to a severe case of heat stroke.

Grandpa checks in to see whether the USA's credit rating equals that of Lehman Brothers yet.

Sorry Grandpa, all my generation wanted to do was make a quick buck, we really didn't mean to bring down the world in a pile of esoteric derivatives and 100x leverage.

My zen is more zen that your zen.

Proof yet again that girls are the smart ones. Why bother leaping in 100 degree heat when a simple toss of the hair will do.

Shuttlecock to tower: mayday, mayday, we are going down, repeat, we are going down.

The Kansas City art museum attempts to show that there's more to Midwestern art than crop circles, box car graffiti, and John Deer green. Does it succeed? You be the judge.

Feeding time on the farm. Come one, come all. Step right up to the trough. Various generations of the Tempel clan dig into an All-American spread.

It wouldn't be summer without endless Superbowl re-runs and fantasy football pre-draft drafts. What's that? America has a summer sport? Oh sorry, I must have tuned out when the Astros dropped to dead last in the Majors.

Turns out America's pastime is alive and well - the beer is cold (and expensive), the peanuts are crunchy (and expensive), the cracker jacks are crackery (and expensive), and the division leading Tigers are in town. Drive your crappy Chrysler right back to Detroit Verlander, we drive imports round here.

Wow, there's enough Tempels here to have our own Mexican wave.

Heck, if the conversation gets boring we can just carry the wave right around the brunch table.

From Sea* to Shining Sea

2011-07-07T16:25:00.001-07:00

*Well Muddy Gulf at least.

4th of July in America. The sun's out. The birds are chirping. We haven't lost our triple A rating quite yet. What's not to celebrate? As America marks another milestone in its slow, graceless decline...I mean glorious crusade for democracy and cheap oil (come on, this is the 4th, put that three cornered patriot hat on), the tireless Two Phat Kiwis editorial team is once again canvassing the far reaches of this great land for the very latest in...well, whatever it is we pollute the web with.

The destination is Portland, Oregon. The hotel is the funky ACE Hotel. The suspects are the usual...suspects.

Occupying a converted warehouse, the ACE epitomizes everything Portland stands for: eclectic design blending urban chic with streetwise grittiness, an eco-conscience so big it makes an electric car feel dirty, a gastronomic pedigree that's intensely local in origin but global in vision. In short, a darn good hotel.

It is comforting to know that the bathroom decor would function as a toilet paper substitute in a short squeeze scenario.

The cozy mezzanine lounge is empty because that most irresistible of Pied Pipers - the rich aroma of roasting coffee beans - is inexorably drawing everyone to the cafe right downstairs.

Who says the world isn't a fair place? These piles of fair trade chocolate seem to suggest otherwise.

In a city renowned for its culinary excellence and fresh local produce, the eating doesn't stop with desert (although to be clear where TPK are concerned culinary excellence and local produce are not a necessary condition for continuous consumption anyway). There's always time for a shot of liquid chocolate before bed.

Chocolate shots? Way to carbo load. A crucial stop in the Road to San Francisco 2011 (aka our sporadic attempts to get ready for the 2011 San Francisco half marathon), the tiny hamlet of Yacolt, nestled in the forested hills of Washington state, hosts a 10k fun run that could make or break two of this year's hopefuls. With a punishing climb and Pacific climate the event was carefully selected to replicate the likely race conditions in San Francisco (i.e. it was the only event within a 50mi radius of the city we happened to be spending the weekend in).

With that kind of hardware up for grabs the 'fun' part drops right out of the title.

The crowd goes wild as the international stars power down the home straight.

Eat my dust! How does it feel to get beaten by someone who's idea of a hill climb is running over the highway overpass sucking down hummer exhaust? That no-hormone-hyper-organic-gluten-free diet not delivering you the power you need? Why you just got served by a part-timer from the state where a morning run means cruising through the Starbucks drive thru in air conditioned bliss - I guess that much vaunted outdoor lifestyle isn't all it's hyped up to be eh?

What's that? Oh, there's been a mistake in the placing. Turns out I was actually 4th? As in out of the medals 4th? 3rd loser 4th? Uhm, don't mind me guys I was speaking hypothetically before...good race. Well done. Running's the winner on the day. And here's your shiny trophy back. That's ok, wouldn't have fit in my carry on anyway.

Back in Portland. In this city the peloton always has the right of way.

In a socialist commune like Portland it's ok to blatantly rip-off another city's slogan.

Hey, it's a kiwi invasion. Trust an outdoors-centric city like Portland to appreciate quality gear. Or maybe they just like sheep.

As an honorary Portlander for the weekend my first reaction is to build a solar powered boat out of recycled bathtubs and a shopping cart, add a hydroponic herb farm for sustenance, cash my dole check, and set off on a 7,000 mile adventure. All documented on a underground micro-blog of course.

Yeah that's a big selling point when it's 95 degrees outside. What do these furry critters do when it's hot in NZ? Oh that's right, it's never hot.

Wholefoods? How blase. If you don't have your own collective community co-op out back you might as well be working for the Man.

Portland takes great pride in its thriving microbrewery scene with dozens of local breweries dotted throughout the city.

It's a tranquil city unless you stumble across a food truck 'pod' - invariably an entire parking lot packed full of colorful purveyors of everything from Indonesian schnitzel to Congolese fried rice. If it ain't fusion it don't come out of a truck.

The Saturday market is a thriving conflagration of food and craft stalls with a hearty dose of street performers and bums thrown in for flavor.

On a glorious summer day (enjoy it while it lasts - apparently the price you pay for a day like this is seven months of rain) the Willamette River cutting through the middle of downtown is a people magnet.

With a line like this it's got to be good right? Voodoo donuts is a Portland institution. Only black magic can explain why people would stand in the sweltering sun for 30 minutes for a ring of doughy goodness.

I don't give a stuff about the donut. It's the air conditioning I'm queuing for.

Mmmm, phat. T(w)oo phat even. Hur hur.

Perhaps these folks are suffering from heat stroke after months of gray skies, or maybe this is just a great big joke they play on the tourists, but darn it these donuts aren't half an hour wait good. Sure they're gloriously calorific and gooey with flavor (aka lard), but they're not the second coming of the humble donut. In fact, they're not even as good as Shipley's, the stalwart obesity ring in Texas.

The coffee on the other hand is simply sensational.

Perched in the hills above the city, these Japanese gardens are supposedly the most authentic outside of Japan. How that is assessed I'm not entirely sure because I currently don't see any sailor suits or giant mechs.
The yin and the yang are interacting like matter and anti-matter, democrat and republican...no, that's probably not a good analogy.

The imposing volcanic cone of Mt Hood towers over the city.

The imposing pointy head of the author towers over...well not a lot really.

One more drop and the katanas come out. Or the kimonos come off. Preferably both.

Jinga the Japanese way.
No wonder Japanese food is so darn good. If you can make a stone look beautiful you can certainly make a piece of raw fish taste good.

I feel wiser and stronger. Wax on, wax off must be working. Or maybe it's that 5th espresso I had on the way up.

Wise man once said: If only TwoPhatKiwis would move to Twitter, more concise would the blogosphere be.

Only a drug cheat needs more than one gear.

Of course a single gear is also useful after a night at the brew pub when the complexity of Shimano Ultegra componentry is secondary to remembering if you live across the river or not.

Gosh. Stinkin. Darn. It. The coffee is good here. It must be because I don't use four sentences lightly. Especially when four sentences would just about get me to the end of this blog post.

Tasty n Sons is the pick of the foodie expedition. Burmese Red Pork Stew -simply phenomenal.

Why hasn't someone at Google used their one free day a week to come up with an auto caption generator? For example: Art and the city. Or: One man's art is another man's graffiti. Or: Someone tell Rachael to stop booking trips cause I'm mighty sick of writing captions.

Elegant Multnomah Falls, a short drive outside of Portland along the Colombia River Gorge, is one of the tallest in the US.

11 powerful reminders that you live in a flat state and drive everywhere.

Well there is always the fast elevator down. A viewing platform at the very top of the falls, where thousands of gallons of water plunge into the abyss, overlooks the parking lot far below.

The tranquil stream at the top of the falls offers little foreshadowing of the violent plunge just ahead. Good thing I couldn't fit in the barrel after the weekend's culinary exploits.

There's always room for a little more. Acclaimed Thai restaurant Pok Pok is, like most Portland establishments, understated on everything but flavor.

And in case a feast of laksa inspired noodles and roasted spicy chicken doesn't finish you off, there's a food truck pod across the street.

From a Thai banquet to Venezuelan street food - only in Portland.

Call of the Wild: Part III - Katmai, Bear Alley

2011-06-26T16:07:00.000-07:00

Two national parks down, one to go. Destination Katmai, the final installment in our northern wilderness trilogy - will it be Return of the Jedi or Matrix 3? The answer lies but a short vomit comet flight away.

The remote Brooks Lodge is renowned for two things - big fat brown bears catching salmon in their mouths as the exhausted fish leap Brooks Falls on the last leg of their epic journey from the sea to spawn, and big fat old anglers who come for what is supposedly some of the best fly fishing on earth.

Conveniently the flight office posts a detailed map of all the area so the pilots can find their way. However, in the event of a forced landing it pays to have an appetite for human flesh. Rescue could be a long way away.
Hey, how come Rachael got upgraded to the pointy end before me? She's got an extra 1mm of recline in her seat darn it.

Let's hope the chocks are tight on that heavy as we taxi past. David only beats Goliath when he uses an aimbot.
Now let's see, if I recall correctly you need to bear 025 degrees at the big pointy mountain, hang a left at the horseshoe shaped lake, climb to 10,000ft at the vertical ice face, and when your fuel tank reads empty you should be over your destination. If not, well, rumor has it that Indiana Jones once managed to jump out of a falling plane in an inflatable raft somewhere in the Himalayas. If you don't have an inflatable raft a dog sled may be used as a substitute.
Let me up front, I know the drill. "Piper Warrior 247 to Bankstown tower, we are over the reservoir requesting clearance to commence our approach to runway two niner, over." Oh, there's no control tower here? And the runway's clear if there's no moose on it? What kind of shoddy operation are you guys running here?
Irrefutable evidence that they didn't let me behind the stick.
Uhm, and here I was thinking I could do some serious plane spotting at Kulik Lodge airport while in transit.
The package is secure. Open rebellion in the gold panning camps is avoided for another week.
I wonder if this Star Alliance lounge has free wifi?
To go any further into the bush there's only two alternatives: entrust your life to a cavalier bush pilot who's pre-flight check list is 'can you pull that door shut', or harness up eight sled dogs and mush your way across the frozen tundra. Since there's no cell reception to fire up How to Run a Dog Sled on YouTube I guess the options are limited.
If it looks shiny it won't fail. Every good pilot knows that.
Out here gate tugs come with two legs and stubble.
Laugh all you want, I've got a window seat too.
Well the pilot in front of us got off the water without capsizing, statistically does that lower our odds?
It's a boat! It's a plane! It's...well it's a plane.
I'm not sure why the lodge offers additional sightseeing flights when the only way in is to fly and it's pretty darn spectacular.
Brooks Lodge dead ahead. I mean really dead ahead. Pull up, pull up, pull up!

First look at Brooks Lodge nestled in the pine forest between Naknek Lake and Brooks River. During the salmon run (which naturally is a week after our visit) dozens of brown bears converge on this golden triangle for Mother Nature's all you can eat salmon buffet.
Sure Rachael's here, but the important question is: did that case of Bud Lite make it intact?
Runway 290L, also known as Brooks Lake.
Looks like it was just resurfaced, nice and smooth for those text book landings, i.e. not Jared's landing gear compressing flops.
The lay of the land. Since bears routinely wander through the camp every visitor is required to report to the ranger station immediately upon arrival for Bear Etiquette 101. Key takeaway: bears pwn j00.
Home sweet home for the next two nights. What!? Rachael's punishing itinerary actually allows us to stay in one place for more than a night? A holiday from the holiday - nice!The view from the backdoor is nothing to write home about. Because we're too busy soaking it in.
The camp office has an appropriately rustic feel to it.
Welcome to the entertainment hub of the camp. We have beer. And we're the only place you are allowed to eat to avoid attracting the bears. And we have a roaring camp fire. In some parts that's called a monopoly.
Enjoying the view out across Naknek Lake and becoming smarter all at the same time.
Sunbathing not advised unless you want claw marks on your tan. This beach is a bear superhighway.

Yeah, you're a real wilderness man. You flew in on a cushy float plane, just stuffed yourself at the buffet, and are staying in a cabin with flush toilet and hot shower. Sarah Palin would be proud.
The floating bridge between the bear viewing platform and the lodge is more secure than Fort Knox. The bridge is closed if a bear comes within 50 yards of any point so make sure you go to the toilet before commencing your viewing.
Who needs claws and sharp teeth when you can stand in freezing water for six hours to catch one tenth as many fish as a bear can nail in six minutes?
Ok, now we know who scared off all the bears.
Look at this poser. Looking through binoculars is kind of unnecessary when...
...the waterfall is right here.
Now that is how you unwind from a long day of not seeing any bears.
Hmm, one day down and the bear count stands at the big donut. Mt McKinley all over again?
Day 2 begins with a visit to the most awesomest named place ever: The Valley of 10,000 Smokes.

Home to one of the most cataclysmic but little heard of volcanic eruptions in history, the valley was completely obliterated by the largest eruption of the 20th century in 1912 and is still a desolate wasteland today, a landscape closer to the surface of the moon than any terrestrial scene.
The entire cliff is the depth of the ash that swept through the valley.

There's water on Mars!
Ah hah, first bear and boy is it a big one. Apparently these coastal brown bears are the biggest of them all because unlike their inland counterparts they enjoy a feast of fatty tuna sashimi.

Whew, seen a bear. Just don't divide the cost of getting here by the number of bears spotted.
This is my country.
As dusk falls, the chance of further encounters is on the up. I feel bullish about this market. The techinical indicators are all pointing in the right direction.
Spotted! Tundra, a rowdy teenager well known amongst the rangers as a frequent trouble maker around camp. Our $ per bear metric just improved substantially.
Boy, there must be some mighty good eats across the river to brave that icy water.

Excitement mounts on the viewing platform as the hushed spectators wonder if she's going to trip over the edge.
Uh oh, target aquired. Fisherman is on the menu.
But why chew through those rubbery waders when there's planty of fat fish swimming right up the river.
All too soon it's departure time and the heavies are lining up (no, I'm not talking about the guests lining up on the beach...although...).
Pick your coffin...uh...I mean plane.

Au revoir Alaska, we leave with more national park passport stamps than when we arrived. And that's all we ask for really.

Call of the Wild: Part II - Denali, the Great One

2011-06-26T15:57:00.000-07:00

So apparently there wasn't enough snow down in balmy southern Alaska to cool us overheating Texans down, so we felt the need to hop in the car and drive some seven hours north towards the elusive (it's almost always hiding in the clouds) massif of Mt McKinley.

On the way the quaint frontier town of Talkeetna provides a welcome contrast to the endless strip malls of Wasilla. That's right, far from being some heartland outpost of lock-stock-and-two-smoking-barrel patriots, Sarah Palin's much vaunted home town is a veritable suburb of Anchorage adorned with all the road-side detritus common to any other highway town. Hardly the hotbed of real American frontier values certain news channels might lead us to believe (then again, it's got cars and strip malls so maybe it is...).

Not surprisingly for a town which acts as the staging zone for most Mt McKinley/Denali climbing expeditions, Talkeetna boasts an abundance of the type of hearty fare one would crave upon returning from an epic mountaineering feat. Or from a five hour car drive.
Finally the gateway to the arctic. Wait, that's only like another couple day's drive north dodging ice road truckers. Boy, this place makes Texas seem like Rhode Island.
Target acquired, unfortunately the real deal seems determined to remain hidden behind the shrouds of mist and fog.
The state of the art visitor center shouts stimulus funds louder than a Greek rioter.
Time for a little pre-dinner stroll. In an effort to maintain the pristine wilderness, access to all but the first 15 miles of the park road are restricted to a fleet of national park buses that cart visitors some 90 miles into the heart of the park. This trail head marks the furthest point that cars can access.Stubborn Denali refuses to show her craggy face. Somewhere beyond these mere foothills lurks a behemoth.Denali Mountain Hostel has got to win some kind of award for coolness factor. A hodgepodge collection of cabins on the doorstep to the park...

Complete with bubbling mountain stream...
...and it's very own welcome committee.

Hey we're moving up in the world! We've replaced the tent with this snug little pine hut.
Can it get any better? There's a pizza pub right across the highway! No wonder the moose hang out here.
Watch out Palin, the kiwi invasion has begun.
Stop there, that'll do me thanks. You keep the pitcher.

All aboard for the long haul. 11 hours round-trip to the other side of the park and back. Don't expect reclining seats and a drink cart on this old girl, although we can offer live wildlife viewing in lieu of a seat back entertainment screen.

The long climb up Polychrome Pass would be a lot more spectacular if you could actually see something.

Incoming furries, 3 o'clock high!
At the Eielson Visitor center half-way to the turnaround point a mother grizzly bear and two cubs decide it's time for a field trip to check out the educational exhibits. Perhaps followed by a tasty after school snack of the two legged variety...
Ok, when I don't have to zoom the lens it's getting a little close for comfort.
Apparently park benches double as excellent scratching devices.Uh, stating the obvious much?

Who's feeling like testing their acceleration vs a 600lb grizzly? If you're no Usain Bolt it might be wise to step back.

But it was just a cute little harmless cub. Year right.
End of the road. Which unfortunately means there's still a five hour drive back. Serene Wonder Lake isn't quite the postcard picture it's meant to be when all it's reflecting is a grey sky.
Talk about rubbing it in, not only do we not see the mountain, but we also get to look at a reflection of not seeing the mountain.
Defensive driving the Denali way - bears have right of way.

Looks like the school outing is over - it's the same group of bears from the visitor center descending the easy way.

Imagine there's a whopping enormous mountain over wonder and this might look like something other than another generic scenery shot.
Back at Eielson visitor center, now much quieter without its VIP visitors.

A caribou ponders what it takes to get a gig pulling Santa's sled. A red nose might help to start with.
Didn't anyone ever tell you antlers don't go well with orange?
Great, it's starting to clear up right as we exit the park...figures.

How do you spot the banker trying to pass for a hiker?

Call of the Wild: Part 1 - The Fiords of Kenai

2011-06-26T13:59:00.000-07:00

Enough of the necessities of life - like heat, shelter, and 32oz root beer floats. It's time to get back to nature. And I don't mean a stroll down the organic veggies section at the local Whole Foods, or even braving the swarms of mosquitoes to take a leak in the backyard while manning the bbq (come on, it's closer than the toilet and those Buds have an annoying habit of slipping right through the system). Sure the latter exposes oneself (literally) to the elements, but it's hardly the same as venturing out into the wild fiords with nought but a plastic shell between you and the sub-zero, orca infested water (actually I'm pretty sure sub-zero water is also called ice which would make your kayak a dog sled without the motor - Ed).

Whew, just when you think you're going to have to spend the next week paddling out to the glaciers, a water taxi miraculously appears out of the morning mist to transport us to the next fiord. Ah, hot coffee and cocoa, this wilderness experience isn't so raw after all.

The fishing port of Seward slips into the wake, a stark metaphor for the vestiges of civilization rapidly dwindling with each beat of the propellers (it's not a metaphor if it is actually is, where do we get these copy writers - Ed)
Friendly sea otters have right of way. Hard starboard.

Hard port, all astern. It's a minefield of here. The Titanic had the misfortune of picking on an iceberg half its size. I'm pretty sure it wouldn't take more than a half sized humpback to send this taxi down so quick the band wouldn't even have time to get tuned up.

Strategically placed within projectile vomiting distance of the 'head' in case an arctic squall decides to blow down from...well...I guess the arctic.

Anyone whose seen Saving Private Ryan has got to be a little wary of such amphibious landings. In this training exercise a 500lb charging black bear may play the role of a German machine gun emplacement.

Fortunately our Captain's geography is slightly better than Alaska's most famous politician's and we successfully avoid the nuclear submarine base at Vladivostok to land on American soil. First things first, get some shelter up. Only then can we move on to the root beer floats.Under our own power at last. 'Power' being used rather loosely when the guy in engine room #1 hasn't lifted a weight in months.
With just two double kayaks including ours in the rather underpowered armada (let's just hope the Russian subs aren't lucking beneath the placid waters), there's plenty of time to explore the nooks and crannies around the fiord.

Aliak glacier dead ahead! Stop taking pictures and reverse engines! Uhm, we may be riding rather low in the water due to one too many fired halibut fillet and the Exxon Valdez may still be a touchy subject round here, but a rare opportunity to apply an otherwise worthless degree in physics suggests that, given our mass, velocity, the coefficient of friction of the fluid, and assuming the kayak is a sphere (oh that's right, my degree was in mathematical physics, not applied physics), we do in fact have ample stopping distance. Provided we don't of course run into one of those nasty looking icebergs right in front of us...

I see a land bird, we must be close to land! Oh, I guess we're already there.
Can't say this fitness program is lopsided. A short hike to inspect the fractured face of Aliak makes sure the legs get their fair share of exercise as well.
As an actively calving glacier, Aliak is constantly shedding huge pieces into the sea, blasting the sounds of thunder and gunshots around the otherwise peaceful fiord.

Fresh bear tracks suggest it's probably time to get back on the water.Up close and personal with Aliak. Serenity punctuated on occasion by the thunderous report as another thousand tons of densely packed snow ends its long journey down the mountain in a spectacular tribute to the forces of nature that have carved out the face of the planet.

Yes, it is as cold as it looks.
Which is why coming back to camp with its promise of dry clothes and a cosy tent only to discover a family of black bears have decided the grass behind the tents is rather tasty is a bit of a shock.Oblivious to our camp just a dozen yards away, the mum and her cub are quite content to munch their leisurely way past the camp as we stand shivering in the cold trying to make a group of four look as big and intimidating as the bears are looking about now.

Whew, they're on their way and all our limbs are still attached. That's what we call a win-win. Despite the tense moments bears in Alaska have never been fed in the way that their counterparts in more populated national parks have and don't generally associate humans with food.
Now that's a room with a view.
Sure it doesn't have any walls, but as long as this makeshift mess hall's pumping out hot food I got no complaints.

Camp Aliak. Freezing water on three sides, marauding bears on the other. Humans always did have a unique knack for choosing the site of their settlements...
Despite another roving bear during the night, morning dawns...well...exactly the same as the night, the sun's just in a different place in the car.
Hot oatmeal on the beach watching Aliak shed its outer skin. Alaska at its best. Heck, travel at its best.
But hey, we didn't pay lots of money to actually have a relaxing holiday did we? Darn right we didn't. Get that gear packed and let's get this show on the road.
A few puffins out for some morning tai chi.

Gliding silently across the glassy waters of the fiord it's easy to see why the natives developed the kayak as the ultimate hunting tool. See if I just had a harpoon and some skill we'd be feasting on confit of seal blubber tonight.
Going where all the other tourists have gone before for the obligatory kayak-in-cave shot. Not as easy as Rachael's deft manipulation of the rudder pedals would suggest considering the waves from the ice chunks crashing off the glacier conspiring to dash the kayak against the razor sharp rocks.

I call this Far Cry Fiord (for obvious reasons to the geeks reading this blog - and let's face it, isn't that the only demographic to read this?).
In stark contrast to thundering Aliak, Pederson glacier, accessible only be navigating single file up a shallow run-off channel, sits serenely at the water's edge content to let its larger cousin handle the pyrotechnics.
The quite pond in front of Pederson makes for an ideal lunch stop. Actually when you've been paddling for the last few hours any spot at all would make for an ideal lunch spot.

Anyone's arms sore yet?
After two days of hard paddling it's back on the water taxi for the journey back to civilization. Fortunately a pod of dolphins are more than happy to point the way home.
Wait, this is Alaska. Just when you're ready to finish up the blog post with a few generic scenery shots and a few lame one liners that you know are pathetic fillers but you throw in anyway in hopes your viewers are a sick of reading as you are of writing - the wildlife conspires against you. In this case a pod of mighty orcas patrols the fiord entrance just waiting for a dumb tourist to reach over a little too far over the railing.
And then just when we think we've seen the finale we're treated to one of the rarest and most memorable sights of all - five or six enormous humpback whales 'bubblefeeding'. In perfect coordination and with a grace and elegance that defies their gigantic size, the whales dive together and then spiral upwards blowing a circular net of bubbles to trap the fish. As the whales near the surface the fish begin to leap from the circle of doom and moments later five behemouths, mouths opened to engulf the trapped fish, explode above the surface. Finally, someone who can give me a run for my money in the eating stakes.
I'd like my herring with no trans fats please.

Now would not be a good time to fall overboard if you at all resemble an oversized krill. Few sights in nature can be as majestic as a half dozen giants of the sea performing with the grace of a synchronized swim team. If only I could eat with such elegance they might feed me more often...
Back on dry land at last and...oh, these are the aforementioned filler shots.

Boy, does a king crab leg the size of my arm round out an awesome couple of days or what? Well it does as long as someone's busting it out of the shell for me.