Monday, 13 June 2011

Fear makes the wolf look bigger

There is some artistic graffiti on the road to Devon’s north shore in England that all surfers can relate to, “Fear makes the wolf look bigger”. Every time I drive past it, it always helps to give me drive and focus for my next session.

Depending on your surfing experience, fear can mean different things. For the learner it’s a combination of progressing into bigger waves, managing the crowds, using the rips, taking steeper drops, suffering the wipe-outs and enduring the hold-downs. To the seasoned charger the same still applies but on a much higher level. That and the bottom is more likely to be lined with rocks than a forgiving layer of sand.

At some point we’ve all been intimidated by the surf conditions:

“I don’t think I can I make this drop”
“I can’t handle a swell this big”
“These waves are breaking way too fast for me”

These are just some of the voices inside our heads pushing us to hesitate and save our skins, and to be fair, it’s a natural human instinct. Fear is however a matter of opinion. In the early part of the learning curve a lot of surfers’ fears are misplaced. Sure the new environment of staring down into the pit of a shoulder high wave may feel intimidating, but the risk is somewhat small compared to the waves more learned surfers are prepared to take on.

If those more experienced surfers were to recall their early days of surfing when they took that first big drop, they’d probably admit they had butterflies at the time, but the surf would have to be at least over-head for them to feel the same terror now.

Whether fear is misplaced or not, whether you’re a seasoned wave rider or not, fear isn’t what makes surfing fun. Fear is what makes surfing exhilarating. Of course fear can make the wolf look bigger, but ask most surfers and they’d prefer the surfing equivalent of being chased by a wolf, than taking the dog for a walk.

Everyone, including myself can remember occasions when they worked up the bottle to take on a daunting set wave and say, “screw it, I’m going”. For me it happened again recently surfing in New Zealand. It was bigger than anything I’d attempted in a while and the waves had looked makeable from the shore but at least half of them were now closing out. I was in the vein of the wave, there was no going back, the only way out was to catch one in, so paddling for all my worth, the adrenalin pumping, and the wave literally exploding just over my shoulder, I scrambled to my feet.

As usual I mistimed my wave and found myself air dropping into an abyss of foam, but somehow, unbelievably, I’d set my rail and as I opened my eyes I came shooting out of the exploding white water and realised I was still there, in the pocket, hugging the wall and going faster than ever before. Screaming down the line at the top of my lungs, no one was any doubt how I felt. I won no points for grace, poise or style but I’d never felt better, ever.

Instances like this when you overcome trepidation, yield the most powerful feeling from surfing. Regardless of your motivation for paddling into that wave (glory/challenge/quickest way to the beach) the fact that you know you went for it, without hesitation, with no guarantee of making it and came out the other end with a huge grin on your face is an extremely potent type of stoke.

They say the best surfer is the one having the most fun, and I’ve seen learners having just stood up for the first time be more stoked than more experienced surfers, but I bet if you asked them how they felt after their first wave of consequence, the first time they pushed their fears aside and caught their first mini-monster, their stoke would surpass anything that had gone before and make most wolves run for cover.

This is not to say that trying to overcome our fears doesn’t have consequences. Fear by its very nature demands respect otherwise it would not be fear. Even innocuous waves can pack a punch and be the ones that provide a humbling wipe-out.

We all have different fears and none should be underestimated, but consider a future where on that one occasion when you had that chance to take that wave that scared you, and you backed down. You didn’t even try. Not a comfortable thought eh? As surfers, we go or we do not, but I’d like to propose an alternative, where next time, you go for it, go for it like you’ll make it… and who knows… you might make that wolf look a little smaller. 

Wednesday, 8 June 2011

Patagonia

So leaving the hot and humid city of BuenOs Aires behind, the three musketeers/amigos/tenors went south to Patagonia. The region is as different to the Pampas we've just left behind as you can get. We had gone from the lush, hot cattle loving fields of Central Argentina to Patagonia's endless golden plains surrounded by imposing mountains, devoid of trees and interspersed with lakes the colour of raspberry flavoured ice-pops (electric blue not red!). Down south, we had landed squarely into Autumn, the layers went on but still the sun shone. Having by-passed the epic bus ride in favour of a plane, we touched down in El Calafate late morning and headed into town for feeding.
 
 
After having a fight with an overly territorial local pooch (that's why I got my rabies jab isn't it?) we hit the centre which gave us a feel of an alpine town in between snow seasons with outdoor cafes, pine trees and very tasty hot chocolate. Argentina is the first place I've seen the infamous submarinos, a hot chocolate drink with a twist you'll have to wait for until I get back home to use the Peruvian chocolate I hope has arrived back in the UK by now.
 
Back at the world's friendliest B&B, the Casa de Grillos run by Alejandro and his wife Marta, we were off to the Puerto Marino Glacier with our own taxi driver (at a cheaper rate than the tour groups and with our own freedom too boot!). The glacier, for the sophisticated, is a marvel to behold, a gargantuan sheet of ice creaking, cracking and exploding into the lake.  The glacier for the chav's who's Mums went to Iceland, will probably reflect that it looks like a massive viennetta.
 
 
Silly analogies aside, the glacier was spectacular, and can hold your attention for hours as every few minutes, small chunks of ice shear off into the lake,  but every 20 minutes or so, giant slabs part company from the glacier making a noise like an avalanche. The area around the glacier is full of Andean Condors, enormous birds, that I think live so locally because of the high density of Chinese tourists. They taste of chicken apparently. Right now I'm in Hong Kong, and I love Chinese, but I couldn't eat a whole one.
 
Back in town, and out for food, we decided to by-pass the street with the angry mutt and pass the house that is apparently the President's weekend retreat, tried to give her a wave, but not sure the countless numbers of security guards found this amusing. She's up for re election soon, and its strange that hardly anyone in the country offers their opinion. Lips are kept tight about politics in Argentina, and it's hard to find anyone with a word about any politician let alone a good one. The history of Argentina is sad and complex one, and one not corruption free nor as romantic as Madonna (or the Evita museum) would have you believe.
 
Back on the road the next day we were off to the Torres Del Paine National Park just over the border in Chile. After some long bus rides and a very bumpy boat ride we were in the park. The translation means Towers of Pain, and is extremely beautiful and yet foreboding at the same time. Trampers tend to walk a long through the park over 5 days, but for those with a little less time but more common sense, we opted to take a boat into the centre of the park to do a day hike instead. Staying over night in the country's most over priced crappy hostel (Paine Grande Mountain Lodge), we struck out the next day to see the towers up close and we thankfully were blessed with some very clear weather, as we were expecting heavy rain which the park was famous for. The wind however did not let us down, and made the day a chilly one, but none the less we covered about 12.5 miles in just one day.
 
 
The views we took in, were inspiring, and at the mid point of our trail at the French Valley the scenery was some of the best I've seen in months. Every 20 minutes or so the ice up the mountain ahead would come tumbling down creating some epic avalanches. Thankfully well out of range it was impressive to witness, but made us realise that off the trails, this area was incredibly remote and treacherous. How anyone managed to climb the actual towers I'll never quite fathom.
 
After our jaunt in the park we moved on further south to Ushuaia, the world's most southerly city in the heart of the Tierra Del Fuego (Land of Fire). The city is famous for being relatively close to Antarctica, playing up it's history of the reputable names that have passed through such as Darwin, and playing host to a national park (Parque Tierra del Fuego) reputedly to be one of the world's most spectacular. Arriving after the 45 minute flight (buses take 21 hours!) we checked in to our French hosts B&B in the middle of town. We were thankful to have a few days here and not need to rush around like we had since leaving BA.

Ushuaia is a city split between tourism and industry, as it's the place to see penguins, seals, whales, but also seems to be bursting with shipping containers and fish stocks, being one of the few places in the world to distribute tasty King Crab. Winter was beginning to take hold and despite not being able to see the mountains on a mornings walk on the local slopes due to falling snow, our spirits did not dampen, or at least mine didn't
 
Cue snowball fight.
 
 
I was honestly aiming for my good-for-nothing ugly brother, but my snowballs seemed to find Sarah more often than Alex. Whoops! Back in from the cold and back down nearer the sea, we took a trip to see some penguins on the very tip of Argentina. The weather had returned with a vengeance, as we not only had fierce winds, but freezing rain as well. The penguins undeterred, shot towards the beaches like flying-fish torpedoes and provided much entertainment, despite most of us having frozen noses and fingers. I'm quite glad these penguins had the island to themselves, as they made a fair mess of the place; penguin poop everywhere and nests appearing anywhere. Despite the Penguin's lack of a sewage system or system of managing planning applications, they're great fun to watch and well worth going to see.
 

Our final taste of Tierra del fuego, was the national park itself. We were lucky to be in town in Autumn, as its easy to see how the park got it's firey name. The thousands of trees of the park at the end of the world were a brilliant colour palette of reds, oranges, yellows and golden browns. Photos do more justice than I can so see the link below, plus I'm typing in Hong Kong, and I'm flying home tomorrow, so I'm heading out on a Dim Sung bender and can't be bothered to write any more. Suffice to say, my two weeks with Alex and Sarah were fantastic, and we headed back to BA, they were off to Blighty and I to NZ.
 
 
Maybe I'll get around to writing about New Zealand at some point, or maybe in a few days or weeks, I'll bore you with my stories face to face, so you can't ignore them...
 
I hope you've found these blogs readable and not too dull, as the time I've had, has been so good at times, it's been tricky to put into words. Words are all well and good, but they never do an adventure justice.
 
There are a lot of photos here, testament to how beautiful all the places were (that doesn't include the ones of Alex behaving like a 5 year old)
 
Puerto Morino Glacier
 
Torres del Paine National Park
 
El Calafate
 
Ushuaia
 
Tierra del fuego

Saturday, 4 June 2011

Steak, Football & John Wayne

Predicting the future is difficult and tricky business. From palm readings to tea-leaves, the methods range from the ancient to the daft, but when my brother Alex arrived in BA and showed me what a fat version of my face would look like using his smart phone's "fat app", I knew I had a glimpse into what my future would be like if I stayed in Buenos Aires for too long.  To be fair however, when you drink red wine and eat steak most nights, the future is not too hard to predict. Predicting just which places you'll love when travelling is alas, something I'm not sure a smart phone app can help me with.  If you asked me what attributes would make a city the best to live in, things like good surf, fun nightlife, lots of sun and maybe even snow would be high up the list, so Buenos Aires came as a bit of a surprise as it's definitely not a surfing city but is somewhere I could happily work. The curry in BA was woeful, and naturally a deal breaker for any potential move. 

http://www.flickr.com/photos/richsmith/5598799221/in/set-72157626755522281

Having arrived a few days before the impending arrival of my oldest brother Alex and his boss (and fiancée) Sarah I met up with Sam Kelly, an old friend of my uni mate Chris Nash, who lived and worked in BA. Sam is a football journalist and therefore in a position to advise those woefully illiterate in the football world such as myself on how best to take in a match in BA without getting trampled on. Meeting in the very comfortable Gibraltar, an ex-pat pub (and the first pint of decent ale in 6 months), he introduced me to another footy-journo Dan who'd take me to a match the next day between the All Boys and Colon. Football is huge in Argentina with 24 professional clubs in BA alone and the 3rd oldest league in the world, football is the lifeblood of the city. Dragging another unsuspecting and football illiterate Englishman from the hostel with me, we traveled by the underground or "supte" (trains were actually made of wood) to meet Dan before heading to the Estadio Islas Malvinas, home of Club Atletico All Boys. 



Going to a football match deep in the suburbs of BA, feels like walking into enemy territory; everyone is in doned in the black and white of the All Boys, the fans are drinking and singing and to utter the words of Boca, River or worse Juniors (all local and rival teams) is something you don't even dare to do, this, is the home of the All Boys. With tickets in hand we took our seats in the stand opposite all the hard-core fans who it seems have been smuggling in just about anything that explodes. As the whistle goes for kick off the stand is an explosion of confetti, flares and incessant singing. Growing up, I never had the patience to support a team for very long (transferring my allegiance from Wimbledon to Spurs to Leeds back to Spurs to Woking to Exeter and then to no one before I was age 20), but after just 5 minutes in the Estadio Islas Malvinas, I declared myself to be an All Boys fan. 


They lost 2-0. Undeterred, I bought my first football shirt, which I was subsequently warned not to wear if I valued my life, as post match Dan and I went for dinner in his neighbourhood, home to River Plate for a slap-up steak dinner. Back to my hostel it was time to get an early night, as my brother Alex and his fiancée Sarah were due in the following morning and I wanted to be there at the airport for their arrival. A good time to open another bottle of wine and make friends until 2am in the hostel then... 

... when I did finally get to the airport somewhat later than planned it was great to see them both. They were tired from the flight and I was a bit hungover, so a mellow first day was needed. Having upgraded accommodation to a B&B that actually had warm showers and no pot-heads it was time to receive my requested rations of chocolate and tea from Alex and Sarah and head out to the infamous San Telmo market. 

San Telmo is the heart of tango, music, art and antiques in Buenos Aires, and every Sunday down Calle Defensa, every bit of space for the best part of a mile was taken up with market stalls selling anything from mate (South American Tea) to Messi football shirts. Behind the market stalls were shops akin to those of Portabelo Market selling all manner of arts & antiquities alongside stylish restaurants and cafes buzzing with people exhausted from shopping and content to watch the performers and punters over a cup of mate. The market alone is enough to entice me to return, hopefully next time I can get my purchases back home as my last batch ended up in the hands of a pikey thief in New Zealand.

The Argentines I've met in New Zealand all remark that everyone here eats and goes out really early, but it's actually the other way around, as Argentines are the late ones, and don't get out the door for dinner until at least 10 at night and to turn up to the clubs any time before 2am is a significant faux-pas. This was something that Alex, Sarah and myself all found a little hard to get used to as we explored the city by day and the cities restaurants by night.  Thankfully, early evening siestas not only meant we could squeeze in a little extra red wine but also meant we could placate Alex for a few hours longer before he needed to be fed. On our final night in San Telmo, we decided to go to a tango show, and despite it being one of the more dearer and more touristy things to do in BA, it was worth every cent, as not only was the food delicious (entraña is now my favourite cut of beef) but the show was unbelievable. How anyone can do that dance without kicking their partner is beyond me, and I have a new-found appreciation for the ability of the pro-dancers on Strictly (but still not an ounce of respect) but at least this show was extremely entertaining and integral to any visit to BA.

One of the more sombre and eerie sights of BA was the cemetery La Recoleta. The cemetery rivals the Pére Lachaise of Paris, and is a sombre yet mysterious place. Walking through the gates we pass many people keen to see the final resting place of Eva Peron, but La Recoleta is enormous and it's streets are lined with 15-30 foot high mausoleums that make it more of a mini city than a cemetery, each street lined with the final resting places of Argentina's elite. Exploring here feels oddly out of place and slightly sinister, but after wandering around amongst the endless tombs, you're left with more questions than answers. The tomb that intrigues me the most is a tomb in the shape of a pyramid, the only one in the cemetery and I'm certain it holds either a bunch of killer zombie mummies or the next clue to where the holy grail maybe found as it looks oddly masonic... 


After I'd finished pretending to be Indiana Jones sniffing around graves and before we all embarked on a jaunt around the rest of the country, we all wanted a crack at horse-riding western style. We found a chap called Adrian based on the outer edge of the city who ran 3 hour intensive courses, designed to get even the most timid riders cantering. I had no clue what cantering meant and was only hoping I could pull off being a cowboy without falling off. After an introductory round of mate we all saddled up, complete with helmets disguised as cowboy hats we walked out of the stables and through the fields. 

After receiving many compliments from Adrian ranging from, "back straighter!", "hands lower!", "get your legs forward", "go faster" and "slow down", I finally felt comfortable on my horse and very soon I learnt that cantering meant going just shy of a gallop. Leaning forward and letting the horse get some speed was truely fantastic, like riding a surfboard for the first time, the sensation of natural speed was exhilarating. Towards the end of the session we were cantering across the plains and I was in my element, I was no cowboy, nay, I was the Sheriff, hooning it across the fields, only missing a lasso in my spare hand to try and capture my brother and have him tossed in the cells, before getting down to the last-chance saloon for some well earned whiskey. Wild West day dreams put to one side, that afternoon was pure joy, and post-travel career #36 of cattle rancher is definitely high up the list.

Photos:



The video is well worth a look! Although it may not work... http://db.tt/gDZzVHg



After our adventures in BA, it was time to head south to Patagonia.

*the curry offering in BA is however woeful and a definite deal breaker.