How to climb a 6088m (19,974ft) mountain

[Roger] Arriving into central La Paz is a little like driving over a cliff, but one in which the near-vertical drop hosts extensive housing. Once we'd done some much-needed washing in our Airbnb apartment, we set out to explore the city, with the help of a Red Cap walking tour.

Our two guides' sense of humour was as dry as the moistureless air. "Bolivians like dehydrating things", said the newest member of the Red Cap team as we wandered through a food market. 

We learnt about the (in)famous La Paz prison where inmates can buy themselves swanky apartments with their profits from cocaine refinement. We gawped at some dehydrated  llama fetuses in the witches market. We nodded sadly as our guides told us about Bolivia's troubled political history. We also had a shot of alcohol at the end, the perfect conclusion to a walking tour. 

The rest of the day was spent preparing for our climb of Huayna Potosí, which at 6088m (19,974 feet) is significantly higher than Everest base camp (5380m). 

View of Huayna Potosi, behind a roadside cemetery

We set off on our two-day adventure the next day (Thursday 9 November). Gridlocked La Paz traffic was our first challenge, but our able driver soon had us deposited at base camp (4700m), where our guide Estaban provided an Avocado, Cheese and Tomato Sandwich Lunch (ACTSL). 

Looking back down towards base camp from high camp

Refugio II with glacier and false summit behind

The trek to high camp (5200m) was arduous, as we trudged through increasingly thin air with all our usual 'tramping' (hiking) kit plus the equipment needed for the climb - crampons, ice axe, hefty boots, gaiters etc. At Refugio II (bunkroom + kitchen) we admired the glacial landscape before an early dinner of LOTS of pasta, cheese and tomato, prepared and served by Estaban. Together with our fellow aspiring mountaineers (Australians, Israelis and one German) we tried to get some sleep from 6-11.30pm.

[Dora] Midnight was breakfast time, then kit-up, distribute some immodium to  stomach-troubled mountaineers, and head out into the darkness. Unfortunately over the first section, rocky and steep, we were pursued by the three speedy Israelis, leading to an early sense of humour and oxygen failure from me. However the snow was close and crampon-strapping provided a good rest. Roped together (Estaban-Dora-Roger) we set off slowly up the glacier, three small pools of light in the darkness.

It's hard to describe the effort required just to walk slowly up a slope in such thin air. The darkness reduced my world to a small patch of snow in front of me, my own swaying shadow and the sound of Roger's motivational monologue behind me. As we inched higher it seemed to reduce further to simply a set of lungs and the sound of breaths, one by one. Three hours' trudge and I was forcing an in-out breath every tiny step, focused on maintaining the steady rhythm.

Estaban stopped us and briefly explained that if we wanted to return, now was the time. We hadn't even seen the dawn yet, so giving up was not an option. I took a Sorochi pill (coca, aspirin and caffeine) and we pushed onward. We discovered why it had been the time to turn back: a steep icy incline was next. We were hurried along and pulled up by Estaban, with erratic ice axe use and an un-negotiable rest at the top. 

A further three hours of shuffling took us up the upper glacier, across several small and one large crevasse, which we had to straddle then use the ice axe to haul ourselves up the other side. Finally, the dawn came and we could see another group just ahead of us - both big psychological boosts. At 6000m we paused: "treinte minutas" to the top!

The icy ridge and path just below the summit (photo taken on the way down)

The final push included a slim, icy ridge on whose side we perched precariously whilst others came down. We collapsed on the summit just before 6am as sunshine poked through the clouds. 6088m. And having just achieved "the hardest thing in the world" ... Roger asked me to marry him! He presented a beautiful NZ pounamu (greenstone) ring that he'd smuggled up taped to the inside of his sunglasses case! I carried it down, on my finger.

Just after the proposal, on the summit

The view from the summit, as the clouds cleared

Just off the summit, with others there behind us

Glacial scenery and crevasse on the way down

Elated, the way down was certainly easier, helped by the increasing oxygen. However, Estaban was keen to keep the speed on so we were down before the crevasses started melting in the sunshine. The ice ridge and ice wall tested our axe skills again, and we were incredibly relieved to reach Refugio II. Back in normal hiking boots and with snacks on board, we slithered down to base camp to a second Estaban ACTSL.

View from the La Paz hotel verandah

As an engagement treat Roger had booked us in to La Paz's fanciest hotel's penthouse apartment, which had huge comfy sofas and a steam room! Heaven. It took all of the next day to recover from the climb, and make all the happy phone calls and messages to family and friends. We also had a relaxed Mexican dinner with our backpacker friend Catherine, and the next night, delicious tender llama skewers at the hotel.

Time for the jungle!

A perspective on the Salar de Uyuni

Our first challenge in Bolivia was finding an ATM that had cash in it, for Catherine. Our second was finding the train station, which we walked straight past and instead found by walking alongside the dusty tracks.

Safely on the Expreso del Sur in Ejecutivo Class we enjoyed views of rock pillars, irrigation and hilarious 90s Spanish music videos, as we wound through valleys. We were summoned to the dining car for an early meal, then blankets and pillows were distributed by the suitably dressed conductor. We slept as best we could between Tupiza (where the train's electricity was temporarily cut off) and Uyuni, where we disembarked at 1am. Our very proximo hostal's twin beds and coca tea breakfast were incredibly welcome.

At 10am we embarked on our first tour of the holiday: Al Extremo's 2-day Salar de Uyuni (the remnants of a big inland sea). José our guide spoke less English than we spoke Spanish, but we were ready: no one had spoken English in Argentina either. A convivial combination of our phrasebook, miming and Google translate ensued, ensuring we understood the important details (e.g. men not women 'harvest' salt from the flats, once a month, and José used to work for Coca Cola in Chile). 

The first stop on the tour was the train cemetery, a tribute to the bygone era of mining, steel and steam across the altiplano. Veinte (20) minutas (minutes) of that and we were off to Colchani to learn how to make salt table-ready (dry it and grind it), pretend to admire some big, rough salt sculptures of llamas, and browse handicrafts. Then onto the Salar itself - with a quick stop to look at piles of salt and bubbling water making its way through from below the salt crust. Lunch was at the now closed Salt Hotel (environmentally unfriendly to run a hotel on the Salar): quinoa, beef, veg, salad (peeled) and more stilted Spanish convos.

Finally, we got to the whole point of everyone's Salar tour - perspective photos. And José did some 4WD maintenance to help with the salty environment. Roger also ate a bit of the ground to ensure it really was salt.

A second highlight turned out to be the Isla Inca Huasi - just like an island in the white salt sea, with 9m tall cacti. We tested our altitude tolerance walking up to the top, with views of the mountains hovering in horizon mirages and lines of 4WD roads criss crossing the expanse. We walked down via fossalized coral arches and caves. Finally, we left the Salar behind and headed to our homely hostal at the village of San Juan, where there was more welcome coca tea on arrival. We had a quick nosey round the village, which had a promising looking if not-yet-completed main square, and a illustrative sign for the necropolis down the road. Over the three course dinner we eavesdropped on the English group on the other table, who discussed: tea, gardening, allotments, Waitrose and spicy sauces they could eat. Our guide casually told us breakfast was at 6am, so we beat a hasty retreat without introducing ourselves.

Eggs and a hot shower fuelled us on the bumpy road towards the Chilean border. José helpfully stopped at the train tracks so we could ask about infrastructure and logistics (freight only, every day). We brushed the border, with views of the active volcano (Ollague) that marks it, and stopped to admire the second-best rock formations of the day. And then - our first flamingo lake, Laguna Canapa! And a second - Laguna Hediona! Here are the highlights of the many flamingo photos.

A further drive across the barren moonscape took us to the entrance of Reserva de Fauna Andina Eduardo Avaroa, marked by the arbor rock (best rock formation of the day). 

A hot lunch appeared from thermos boxes on the shores of Lago Colarado, so named because of its blood red colour. The lake is fringed with stark white: an ice-borax combo. 

Then began the long road back to Uyuni, via a village with great toilets. We spotted vicuna and llamas, and napped. At a toilet break at copper mining town San Christobel we chatted to an English man travelling on his own, who was deaf and could lip read perfectly, but apparently it's much harder in Spanish. Pretty impressive. Later in La Paz we bumped into him again!

After 4hrs sleep in an Uyuni hostal, we boarded the train again at 1.45am and tried to get some sleep amidst snoring, political midnight chatting, coughing, the rollercoaster like train movements and the occasional deodorant cloud. Sunrise over the altiplano made it worthwhile, and of course carb-heavy breakfast in the dining car. At Oruro, we hurtled through town in a gas-powered taxi to jump on a 9.30am bus to La Paz!

Culture vultures' night flights: Cordoba and Salta

We arrived in Cordoba after a mediocre night's sleep on the night bus. Hotel located, we injected some caffeine over breakfast and wandered to a city walking tour (our thinking being that we would be forced to stay awake out of politeness). 

The tour was a whistle-stop foray around Cordoba's highlights: the cathedral, Jesuit block, colonial governor's house, the public university and a memorial museum to those 'disappeared' by the authorities in Argentina's not-too-distant-and-not-so-pleasant past. 

The Jesuits made quite a mark on the city before the Spanish booted them out of the continent, including an impressive church with a roof curved like the bottom of a boat (the previous occupation of the Belgian architect). We took admiring photographs, trying not to encroach on a local's very visible confession to his priest, his wife waiting with the shopping.

Our attention was also held by some of the walking tours' less mainstream offerings. Macaron-esque treats were handed out to maintain blood sugar levels, along with lurid descriptions of the university town's drinking culture. 

Back at the hotel, we avoided the murky swimming pool overlooking the train depot (much to my annoyance) and did some planning. As night fell, we walked through the end of a protest demanding answers to a much more recent 'disappearing' of an indigenous rights activist. After failing to find our desired restaurant we settled on an average pizza place, slurping '24/7' local beer and a bottle of malbec at an outside bar to finish off the night (far too early for the real nightlife that starts at 2am).

The next morning we perused some more colonial architecture, enjoyed several pedestrianized streets, ate our weight in steak at a meat-centric restaurant ('Parrilla') and pondered the afternoon away in an excellent modern art gallery (inc. sculptures that questioned our perceptions of bodies and beauty, clever marketing material for human milking, and some deft sgraffito). 


After a supply stop we then boarded another overnight bus, this time for the city of Salta. Finding a Spanish-ish hotel we freshened up the next morning with a walk up the hill overlooking the city. We looked disdainfully at the teleferico (gondola) option, until the sweat dripping into our eyes forced us to focus on walking. At the top the view was great, and much more open than the promised cafe. We puzzled for a few minutes at some artificial waterfalls made of concrete, and trotted back to the city for lunch (vegan lasagne) and lemonade at a vegan restaurant (to offset the increased steak consumption).

Vegan

The highlight of the afternoon - if you can call it that - was an exhibition displaying and explaining three children sacrificed by the Incas. They were entombed at the top of high, sacred peaks, presumably so they would be well enough preserved to display in a 21st century museum. The museum also displayed the arrays of intricate miniatures and cloth they were buried with. There are three such incredibly well preserved children, with only one on display at any one time. We saw El Nino, the little boy, eerily lifelike.

Not vegan

A final huge steak and some local dry white wine (delish) in the evening fueled us up for an early morning bus to Villazon, on the border with Boliva. As we walked to the train station at 6am the party-ers of Salta were wandering home from the clubs. 

The journey was spectacular, as we climbed onto the Altiplano (southern Andres plain) through striations of coloured rock and across millpond-flat desert. Reaching the international crossing, we befriended Catherine, a Brit on her gap year who spoke much better Spanish. This helped make the process remarkably smooth, as we crossed a bridge into our second South American country. 

Crossing the border into Bolivia

The 'Paris of South America': "Una botesha de malbec por favor?"

Flying in from opposite sides of the world, Roger and I reunited at the Tienda Leon bus station, Buenos Aires (BA). I was feeling pretty good, having achieved a Premium Economy upgrade thanks to AirNZ airpoints and eaten breakfast craning my neck to view the Chilean Andes. Roger had already been on a run through a park, lunched at an Italian and bought breakfast for our Airbnb, after arriving earlier on an awful Al Italia flight followed by long arrival queues. That night we took the subway to a steakhouse in trendy Palermo, where we had our first taste of HUGE Argentine portions andMalbec (although the maitre'D was unimpressed by our (in)ability to discuss the wine list in Spanish). We dashed back through the streets under a sudden, heavy rainstorm.

The next day we maxed out the BA walking tours. In the morning, the grand Parisien architecture, palaces, monuments and stories, particularly around history and politics. (Las Portenas (BA'ians): descended from Italians, speak Spanish, and live in a French style city with the airs and graces of English lords.) Our guide was quite outspoken, but presented the Falklands Memorial pretty evenly, which faces the mini 'Big Ben' gift from the English after WW1. 



After a salad bar lunch and icecream-flavour navigation in Spanish, we joined the Cementerio de la Recoleta tour - a highlight of the city that took us through crazy, ornate, grand, spooky and stylish crypts, from Eva Peron to a horrifying story of a young woman accidentally entombed alive, to a beloved wife killed in an avalanche and followed shortly by her dog (from unknown causes). 











Our Spanish was put to the test buying bus tickets to Cordoba, after which we needed a nap ahead of a colourful and sexy tango-and-dinner show. 

Leaving our bags at the bus station we thoroughly enjoyed the Museo Nacional de Belles Artes, from the traditional Argentinian religious inconography to bauhaus furniture. Lunch was a long affair in a little Mediterranean-feel courtyard cafe, with HUGE desserts that were probably the result of poor Spanish. 

We wandered through the Plaza de Mayo main square into the Puerto Madero area (having established the political history museum was closed), visiting a private art collection with some striking nudes and Antarctica photographs (in different displays). On the advice of a very helpful tourist info man we then pretended we were dressed better than we were, and took the lift up to the swanky bar in a high rise Puerto Madero hotel for sundowner drinks. Sun set, we scooted over to the bus station, wolfing down takeaway pizza ready for our overnight cama (bed) bus to Cordoba!

A short final note from the land of the long white cloud

[Dora] Roger wrote this, but he could have been reading my mind. 

Our arrival seems like yesterday. We landed in Auckland in the middle of a rain storm, an inauspicious start to an auspicious 22 months. Soon afterwards we were aboard a train towards Wellington, which has been our base for the last two years as we explore New Zealand.

We were immediately blown away by Aotearoa’s beauty. However, in our first few months we naturally missed home, particularly the friends and family who bid us such a warm farewell.

Now we’re on the other side of our journey, and we’re going through the same process. We’re again heading into the unknown, and while we’re pleased to be returning to the UK, we already miss our Kiwi friends and family.

Thank you to all of you who made our life in Wellington wonderful – we’ve lived, dined, swam, run, dragonboated, tramped, played, drank, planned, journeyed, cycled, worked and laughed together. In doing so, we’ve made a home away from home. It's been awesome sharing some of our adventures with visiting family and friends too.

We now know there are at least two places in the world we love loving. It’s unfortunate they’re on opposite sides of the world, but luckily we love sustained periods in cramped seating and bingewatching rubbish films! While we don’t know what the future holds, we do know it’s likely hold a great deal of New Zealand.

Off we go to South America, then New York, London and Riga (for a little while). We’ll keep the dispatches going for a little while longer.

p.s. Roger has actually been in London for work for the last few weeks. He’s been sofa surfing from friend to friend and catching up with family on the weekends. Meanwhile, Dora has been finishing her time at Meridian and saying her final goodbyes. 

We're now in Argentina - expect to hear more from us soon!

A true kiwi Labour Weekend

[Dora]

I can't write about Labour Weekend without mentioning the weekend before at Craigend, celebrating Andrew's birthday and seeing Tom, Sophie and Sylvie. Sylvie showed she was just as relaxed on the farm moving heifers as in a party situation, and will soon rival her cousins in spa pool aquabatics. When we next visit NZ we'll be coming to Whangarei!

On Thursday I boarded the evening chaos bus from Wellington train station to Bulls, listening almost all the way to the election coverage as Jacinda was annointed our new PM! Across the country (Gisborne) celebratory bubbles were packed into long-weekend-loaded cars.

Heading to Lake Rotoiti, Trish, Andrew, Tilly the Boat and I made a stop at Redwoods mountain bike park near Rotorua, to recce some mean trails for Trish's school trip. After some warm ups, I recced one particular downhill corner very closely. But only minor harm done (broken sunglasses, skinned elbow, more unusually placed bruises) and we went round to tackle it again with success. 

At the beautiful lakeside bach, we were joined by Mark and Katie who flew in from Christchurch, and Nic, Jo, Jasper, Freddy and Belle the dog who drove from Gisborne. Soon the stress of trying to leave a country, handover my job and plan backpacking was forgotten, replaced by hanging out with small children, watersports, relaxed meals, paua fritters and one Where's Wally jigsaw puzzle.

Trish and me, enjoying a geothermal soak on the shores of Lake Rotoiti

We kayaked round to a friend's bach, biscuited, wakeboarded and surfed behind the boat (Nic), fished, water skiied and bombed off the lakeside bush. On land, we practiced headstands and showed off our biscuit-vaulting skills in the sunshine. We visited a set of hot pools you can only access by boat! We played tennis, tasted Mark and Katie's wedding bubbly and graduated Belle to adult dog biscuits. 

Too soon it was Monday and time to say goodbye. Thank you Trish and Andrew for a true kiwi, bach-based send off!

Luckily, I had my personal videographers along with me (Mark, Trish, Andrew - thank you!) to document the water-based activities. 

Biscuiting

Bombing

Water skiing

The Finale Road Trip – Part two: PASSing through the South Island

We celebrated Wanaka Wednesday with a muffin. We were meant to skydive, but it was cancelled because of high winds. Instead, we slogged up Isthmus Peak, inspired by Lucy and Rich's winter run and sustained by stunning scenery and interesting camera modes (which was lucky, since I forgot the food). 

At the top there were great views of both Lake Wanaka and Lake Hawea (the isthmus being between the two). We jogged back to the car to reach an excellent spacious breakfast-providing Airbnb in the sleepy village of Luggate, visiting its only restaurant/pub/place-with-lights-on for some warm grub. 

As the week neared its end we had one more challenge to complete – the Gillespie Pass (a big one on Dora's tramping bucket list). The start of this is reached by jet boat, but unfortunately the driver was hunting so we had to wait until early afternoon before hitting the track. Luckily the jet boat ride was entertaining enough to dispel our frustration with the delay, as we shot up-river with only six inches or so of water beneath us. On the way we dropped off some fencing wire and nails to a local farmer.

Approaching Siberia Flats

We ascended to Siberia flats, emerging from thick bush into yellow grassland, clear skies and butterflies flitting out of the grass around us as we walked (Dora: “It’s like Disney!”). After a quick turnaround at Siberia Hut we forged on to Crucible Lake, a 6-8 hour round trip that we compressed into 5 sweaty hours. A root staircase led us into a hanging valley, where we ascended a moraine dam to enjoy sights of the frozen lake. 

On the lip of Crucible Lake

Our dash back to the hut took us back across several knee deep streams. Luckily Dora had read how to cross such things in Wilderness and we executed perfect best practice backcountry river crossings. Unluckily we had the slowest drying boots ever, making the next day extra uncomfortable (more on that later).

Even more luckily, our English/Australian hut co-inhabitants were very nice, and very good at making fires, which meant we arrived back to a warm room and pre-heated water for some healthy sustenance (inc. marshmallows). They had been playing hut parents for a couple of days, looking after a French girl who'd arrived having crossed the Pass on her own in pouring rain (not backcountry best practice). 

Friday was Gillespie Pass Day! After again profusely thanking our fellow hut-sleepers, we ascended beech and steep tussock, which gave way to rock and (expected) snow. It was a hard climb to the summit of the pass (1629m), where we briefly admired the forebodingly named Mt. Awful and Mt Dreadful, with an eye on the weather, before descending an even steeper track through tussock into the Young Valley.  

Made it to the top! Mt Awful (left) and Dreadful (right)

The descent into Young Valley

Once we’d re-entered the bush and found Young Hut for lunch, we decided to append another 20km to our 12km mountain pass and get to Makarora the same evening. The hut was cold, the weather was forecast to worsen, and we liked the idea of proper sheets. A rooty route march ensued as we loafed down the Young River valley. We crossed creeks, sped over swing bridges, and completed the day with a fording of the Makarora River that re-soaked our feet (and our thighs). Once we’d rejoined the main road some students from Wellington picked us up, as they neared the end of their own adventurous day trip from Picton to Queenstown (872km!). 

Back at our car, we were relieved to discover a vacancy in tiny Makarora's three A-frame 'chalets' ("I really would like an en suite tonight" - Dora) which meant we didn't have to drive back to Wanaka. The evening closed with us eating warm food, having warm showers, and warmly drying our wet clothing in front of two heaters. The subsequent steam set off the fire alarm. 

‘Ouch’ characterised the next morning, especially in the feet - Dora's doing a particularly good shiny hams impression. We crawled into our car, and crawled over Mackenzie Country to the Banks Peninsula . Our Wanaka Skydive had been cancelled again – I’m increasingly convinced they never happen. However, we’d hatched a plan to see some penguins, so after a hefty hearty brunch in Tarras we made for Akaroa, where a nice pizza, an odd hostel (room like a shed, only accepted cash) and a penguin tour awaited!

Very briefly disturbing the nesting penguin

Spot the penguin

A 4x4 bus took us to Flea Bay, where over a thousand making penguin pairs reside. At dusk the male and female swap babysitting duties, providing a great opportunity for humans to excitedly gawp at them, which we did. We were even lucky enough to see the rare Yellow Eyed penguin, as it trudged up the hill to its nest wish a resignation we recognised from our time on the Gillespie Pass. Our return to Akaroa was notable for the repeated intrusion of cows on the road, much to the consternation of our guide and laughter of the two children on the tour.

On Sunday morning we enjoyed a lovely breakfast and catch up with Jack, Charlotte and Miranda at their place near Akaroa. We then lunched with Phoebe, whose Harbour Tour was torpedoed by the shocking weather. It was the annual French weekend, so a glass of Pinot with food seemed appropriate. Driving back into Christchurch, we had the pleasure of visiting an exhibition at Christchurch Art Gallery by Dora’s cousin Julia, before joining her, Andy, their son Felix and Diana and David. 

I unfortunately had to leave to catch my flight back to Wellington, but Dora stayed in Christchurch an additional day for work, staying the night with her cousin Henry and his family Tomomi, Bianca and Manon. So started the month of fond and sad goodbyes to family and friends!