02 December 2007

Recruitment and existentialist angst

Wake up! You have to get a job!
Since early September we have focused almost exclusively on academics: prepping for class, mastering the case method, fiddling with excel models, that sort of thing. Okay, so that's not entirely true. We have been turbo-socialising too - in my case this involved regressing to undergrad habits and antics but with less sleep. But by and large our professional energies were directed towards learning.

Soon, however, I was rudely reminded that I have to get a job post-HBS and that I should start thinking about it now. The first wakeup call was having to rewrite my CV for the HBS resume book. How did I want to pitch myself? As a general manager? A financial wizard (impossible in my case!)? How can I demonstrate my entrepreneurial spirit? Which bits of my experience are more "impressive" than others? Befuddled, I drafted something respectable and clicked submit.

But I had little time to draw breath. On 5 December, the recruiters were unleashed. My inbox started filling up with dinner invitations, coffee chats, and ads for company information sessions. I complained to Careers Service that I has getting recruitment spam; they told they would investigate (in other words, grow up and get used to it!). Hordes of suited and booted HBSers trekked over the Larz Anderson bridge to the Charles Hotel to munch on mushroom puffs and swig chardonnay.

The Best, Big, Bold, Bad-boy Firm, looking for...
Curious about the hype, I went to one of the bulge bracket investment bank's presentation. The room was full of pin-stripe suits, canapes, and bubbly wine. The ubiquitous Harvard Business School hoodie was out, and slick shirt-tie combos were in. We were given the manadtory 20-minute "hurrah" pitch from the Senior Vice President for Corporate Greatness, and offered a thick book full of nuggets of advice on how to get through the grueling interviews.

Then potential recruits began an elaborate dance with recruiters, asking questions ("describe your company's culture? What would I be doing as a summer intern?") and receiving disturbingly saccharine answers. I soon figured out that the aim of these little 1-2-1s was to get your hands on the recruiter's business card so that you could send a follow up note the next day ("Hi Jim, it was great to meet you last night at the Charles. I was really fascinated by ...."). This was shameless networking at it's best.

Anyone for Satre or Camus?
As the tempo of the recruitment drive reached a frenzy - 15+ presentations a day, numerous coffee chat emails, dinner invites from Wall Street's finest, war stories of how a classmate had secured a great lead into a top PE shop - I discovered an interesting corollary: HBS was offering group therapy sessions.

Until now we've spent most of our leadership class learning about organisational behaviour, thinking about how to manage upwards/downwards/sideways, and pondering what makes a great leader/manager.

Last week we transitioned into the "personal" segment of the course. I was asked to solicit feedback from colleagues, peers, friends, and family to find my "reflected best-self". I was given a selection HBSers' memoirs coming to their 10 and 20 year reunions, and challenged to write my own fictional memoir 10 years out of business school. What would I have accomplished by 2019? How do I define success? What trade-offs would I have made? And what would the consequences be?

It is easy to see how this exercise combined with the relentless stream of recruitment activities can quickly lead to a severe bout of existentialist angst: what is life all about? what is my passion? do I want to make money or enjoy myself? can I do both? how am I going to change the world?

I applaud HBS for forcing us to think about these issues, but in actuality some questions just don't have simple, pat answers. And what might be the right answer now, won't necessarily be so in five years time. So instead of lying awake night worrying about whether I'm really a leader "who will make a difference in the world", I'm going to fall back on a simple way of making decisions: (1) stick to my passions and don't do anything which I know won't enjoy day in, day out, (2) think of my life in 2-year bite-size chunks - know where you are going, but don't plan 10 years out because life will get in the way, (3) if I would shudder to see it in my biography or on my epitaph, then I won't do it. And I'm going to remember that success, like leadership, can be defined in many many different ways.

28 October 2007

Bill and Mohammed

Loving Bill
One of the biggest privileges of being at Harvard is the myriad of opportunities to listen to extraordinary individuals speak about their experiences in business, politics, and social ventures.

A few weeks ago I drove out to Lowell (MA) with a group of politically-minded HBSers to attend a Democrat rally for Nikki Tsongas. It was two weeks to election day and her rival, Republican James Ogonowski, was gaining on her in the polls. The Democrats decided to wheel out the big guns to energise "the base" in the final days of the campaign and get the vote out. And for Democrats there is obviously no bigger gun than 42 himself: Bill Clinton.

The President was running late. An hour and a half late to be precise. His jet had broken down somewhere down in New Jersey but rather than pull out, he had hopped in a car and was bombing up I-97. The organisers played for time and brought numerous nobodies onto stage to keep us amused. We knew Bill was close when they introduced Deval Patrick (current Governor of Massachusetts). Patrick's staccato eloquence was forceful and electric, but it was no match for Bill's fireworks.

The President ambled onto stage in a dark suit, white shirt, and gold tie. Larger than life his perfectly coiffed white hair framed his slightly beet face. The crowd was on it's feet, hooting, shouting, cheering, clapping, thumping. Eventually, he waved his hand and the cacophony subsided. He ambled over to the podium, took a sip of water, and began.

It was a low energy performance; he looked tired, a bit crumpled, and a little harried. He started out in a quite cadence, his folksy drawl enmeshing us in a subtle rhetorical embrace. It was intimate, as though he were having a one-on-one conversation with each person in the hall. He wandered through a random collection of anecdotes recounting stories of people he'd met and places he'd visited. I wondered where he was heading, but slowly it dawned on me that he was weaving a critique of America since 2000. As he saw it, since 2000 America had undergone a great ideological experiment which favoured radical theories over pragmatism, and sweeping revolution over incremental change. The administration had cowed its people with fear of terrorism, nannied them with a bulging and inefficient state, and mismanaged everything from the economy to the environment. Whilst I didn't agree with all his analysis entirely, I was compelled to listen.

He penchant for mixing wit and charm made it captivating. At the end, he told us it was up to us to demand change. The crowd was ecstatic. They were on their feet; they obviously loved it. Or did they just love Bill and all that he stood for?

Amazing Mohammed
Not long after seeing Bill, I went to see Mohammed Yunnis, the legendary founder of Grammen Bank and 2006 Nobel Prize winner, speak at the Kennedy School of Government. He held forth for over an hour about how to construct a new world of social businesses. His thesis: humans all over the world are entrepreneurs and innovators with huge potential. All that they need is the opportunity to unlock that potential and they will break free from poverty.

He began with the tale of how he started Grameen Bank in 1974 in the midst of a terrible famine in Bangladesh. His first loan was just $27 to a group of villagers who lived next to the university where he lectured on economics. "How is it that we teach all these fancy theories," he asked his students, "when they are meaningless to the villagers starving on the other side of the wall?" It's a question he continues to ask and tries to answer on a daily basis.

For over an hour he inspired us to create a different world where businesses are harnessed to deliver social ends. It's a unique blend of philanthropy and business: investors in social businesses are asked to lend interest-free capital to get the business off the ground and once it's up and running, the investors are paid back and all profits are reinvested in the business. "People ask me how you could get anyone to invest in such a crazy idea. I tell them that people are even crazier than that. I say, well each year these same people are giving millions to charities and they know they will never see their money again. I'm only asking them to give me a few dollars for a couple of years, and then I promise to give it back to them."

There was no limit to his ambition and vision: he has convinced Intel to form a social business with Grameen to deliver IT to rural Bangladesh, he set up a joint venture with Danone to sell nutrient-rich yogurt to Bangladeshi kids, and he wants to set up a social stock market to allow millions of ordinary people to invest in this new form of venture philanthropy. Given his charisma, charm and conviction, it's hard not to believe that even his most crazy-sounding ideas have a good chance of success.

17 September 2007

16 September: Aldrich 110

Academics at HBS is like a New York Cheesecake
The first two weeks zip past. In just seven days we've deconstructed Quaker's failed acquisition of Snapple in the late 90s, stepped into Erik Peterson's shoes (an HBS grad) as he grappled and failed at a mobile phone start-up, and chatted to Shane Inglemann, a South African with a grand vision of giving every child a "lapdesk" in the next 5 years.

On three-case days, I sometimes feel like my brain suffers from the the academic equivalent of triple vodka red bulls; the three 80-minute sessions back-to-back leave you feeling high, tired, disorientated and a little bit grouchy.

In our first week, numerous professors intoned to us about the beauty of the HBS experience and the case method. "Each case is an 80 minute marathon, and if you consider the 700+ cases that you'll do in your 2 years here, then this is a marathon of marathons". My other favourite was the onion analogy: "Each case is like an onion, on your own you will only peel off the outer layers, but in our class discussions we'll peel back the layers one at a time to get to the nub of the issue". (Of course, they didn't mention that our eyes would water in the process, or that I'd take the analogy one step further and fancy myself slicing right to the core with one of my Samurai-sharp Global knives.)

Here is an analogy that I think is much more apt: the HBS academic experience is like a good old fashioned New York cheesecake. It's well formed in appearance, but certainly not rigid. It's carefully constructed, but there is always the looming possibility that it could go awfully wrong, ending up very different from the way it was planned. When you taste it, the flavour is subtle, the texture smooth and entirely moorish. And when digesting it you realise just how rich it is (and wonder why you ate so much or how you are going to have another triple helping tomorrow).

OG to NG
The Section is at the heart of the first year of the HBS experience. The incoming class of 900 students is divided up into 10 sections of 90, each one a microcosm of the wider cohort. Initially Section G - my section - seemed like a room full of smart people sitting in a horseshoe formation, hiding behind embossed name cards, and lobbing in the odd insightful comment. Then I discovered that we are actually dazzle of statistics (representing 28 countries, speak two dozen languages, etc etc) and a bunch of remarkable, interesting, and funny individuals.

But for all the pretensions of academic high-mindedness that the section is supposed to embody, I found out on Friday that the classroom experience is much more than net present values and through-put times. For almost two hours last year's section G - the Old G - inducted the New G. I learned that section life involves section flip-cup (an American sport?) tournaments, section retreats (to discuss issues such as spirtualism, capitalism, and alcoholism), and section love (of the romantic variety I'm told). There will be ample opportunities for me to do embarrassing things (no change from usual) and for everyone to document it.

I also saw that the OG had formed an incredible bond. The shared experiences both in and out of the classroom were on display and the genuine friendships palpable. For us - the incoming and slightly lost NG - their energy and enthusiasm was utterly infections, to the point where we took it upon ourselves to get the party started on Saturday night. So, ultimately, the section experience will be as much about shaping a unique culture with its own norms, jokes, rituals and quirks, as it will be about eating cheesecake.

26 August 2007

I survived boot camp: 26 August

I had been warned that Analytics - HBS' pre-MBA statistics/finance/accounting boot camp - would be "pretty intense" and it was. The two weeks passed in a blur of meetings, classes, review sessions, study groups, and prep time. I ran from one location to the next, clutching wodges of paper and juggling case studies in my head. We prepared 2-3 cases a day, typically spending about an hour or two preparing for each one. Sometimes it was straight forwards, other times I stumbled around in the dark trying to get my free cash flow model to spit out the right numbers. More often than not, I gave up.

Luckily, I quickly learned that solo-work is only half the prep. Real progress is often made in your learning team. I was assigned to Team 40 who turned out to be a godsend. They shared nuances and insights that I'd completely missed, helped me find the right answer, and laughed with me when I wanted banged my head against the wall. Together we made sure we knew enough survive "cold calls" - or at least not to break out in a cold sweat in the anticipation of one - and hopefully even contribute something intelligent and useful in class. The classes themselves are 80 minutes of debate, reflection, and learning. The professor is part teacher, part facilitator: she/he guides the conversation, inspires students to teach each other from their own experience, helps summarise and then directs us towards the right answer.

But it wasn't only the academics of Analytics which was intense. If anything the social induction was more hectic. I must have introduced myself a hundred times a day (and repeatedly to people who I'd already met a few hours before!). I worked hard to perfect my "resume chat" and can now tell "my story" in about 30 seconds flat and elicit theirs with equal efficiency. Everyone has turned this micro-exchange of personal life, job history, and HBS aspirations into a fine art, not for the networking effects, but so that we have enough context to allow us to get stuck into the substance.

Somedays I felt like a lobster in a pressure cooker. I went running to zone out. I listened to music before falling asleep. And enjoyed the feel of icy lager hitting my parched throat late in the evening after a few hours debating cases. By the end my brain hurt (how much can you stuff into it?) and my body craved sleep (5 hours is not enough). But I thrived on the constant stimulation and the challenge of the new. If Analytics was an indicator of the next two years, it's going to be an interesting trip.

10 August 2007

Apartment 219: 10 August

Well, after a short interlude in London and Switzerland, I'm on the move again. I'm sitting on the floor in apartment 219, a few papers scattered around me. There is no furniture, just a chocolate brown carpet and whitewashed walls. In case you are confused, I'm not an inmate at Wormwood Scrubs but a student at Harvard Business School. And although, there is nothing to show that I actually live here apart from a few clothes and the bed which I bought yesterday, slowly I will buy knives, forks, lamps, a kettle, and other things to turn this into my home.

I'm living on campus, just 2 minutes walk from the Spangler building (think club house with food, drink, social life, etc), 2.5 minutes from the Arbuckle (where we'll be grilled three times a day), and within spitting distance of Shad Hall (the gob-smacking gym).

Everything is in exquisite condition: the grass perfectly green and manicured, each building's red brickwork immaculate, and not a sign of flaking paint on the gleaming white spires. I'd imagine that you'd need an army of workers to weed, groom, polish, buff, and scrub 24 hours a day to get it to look like this, but if such an army exists I haven't seen it (yet). Without the hub-bub of students (the bulk of whom arrive in about 3 weeks), the campus has a surreal quality. It's almost like walking around a movie set, I'm never quite sure if it's real or not.

On Thursday morning, horribly jet-lagged, I woke early and went for a run along the river. Lone rowers sculled silently, slicing through the flat water whilst teams of four powered past with coaches barking orders through megaphones. This scene of university athleticism was fairly unremarkable on its own. But what struck me is that in Durham the coaches raced along the tow path on their bicycles dodging people, dogs, and large rodents. Here in Cambridge they have their own mini motor-launches allowing them to cruise alongside the boats whilst reading the Wall Street Journal.

Analytics - a 2 week boot camp that HBS run to teach non-bankers/consultants about financial modeling, statistics, regression analysis and all other kinds of weird and wonderful analytical tool - starts on Sunday. I've been told it's going to be "pretty intense", by which I'm guessing mind-boggling and grueling would be a more apt descriptions. I'll let you know.

24 June 2007

Lares Valley: 15-17 June

To most people, myself included, trekking means slinging a bag on your back and heading for the hills in search of adventure. You’d probably carry all your gear yourself, and you’d be expecting modest meals. Well, as I was now part of Mum and Dad’s Peru extravaganza, things were going to be a little different. We were going to trek in style.

Zac had marshalled our support team: two cooks, Chibai, the head chef, who sported a splendid white apron and hat whilst on the job, and Paulino, his ever helpful assistant who was always running; two porters: tiny Faustino whose pack was almost bigger than him, and Ocscar, a chiselled Spartan figure affectionately known as the “rocket man” as we was responsible for our portable loo. We also had two rancheros and their four horses. And finally, Zac brought along Mario, a trainee-guide whose crazy hairdo, ear to ear grin, and enthusiasm kept us amused.

The upside of trekking with this entourage is that you get to sleep in big, sturdy tents with deluxe sleeping bags and ultra comfy Therm-A-Rests. You will be served three course dinners in a pukka dining tent complete with table and chairs. You will have hot water waiting for you in a little bowl at the end of each day to wash the sweat from your brown. And if you are tired, someone is always ready to carry your pack.

If this sounds extravagant (well, it is), then let me tell you that inducements are needed and creature comforts most welcome when trekking above 4000m. Our route took us through a remote tributary of the Lares Valley, up and over the 4200m Coltambillo pass. The altitude sapped my energy, gave me headaches, and initially made me nauseous. But as I huffed and puffed up the mountain, our team thundered past, practically running with huge loads balanced on their backs.

The trail took us past two deep black lakes which sat at the foot of the 5,829m Mount Terijuay. Cloud enveloped the snow-capped peak, swirling in and out. The ground was harsh and rocky, the only vegetation that survived up here was prickly grasses and mossy lichens. It was rugged, wild, and huge. The sky stretched from corner to corner, and at night you felt closer to the stars.

The local villagers were modest yet proud. Their houses, like them, were sturdy and solid stone and mud constructions. Life up here in the mountains was undoubtedly hard. They plough the tough brown earth by hand to plant and harvest potatoes and the kids have to walk 2 hours each way just to go to secondary school. But they are organised and well adjusted. Unlike villagers in China I found that they’d grouped together, saved, and put piped water into every household. They’d used a long-existing local custom known as manu, where in an act of civic duty each villager donates his or her labour to a communal project. Of course, there is a danger of romanticising their tough life and admirable resilience. But these people had not just accepted their lot; they were happy here and were making gradual improvements to their lives.

It was refreshing to step off the tourist trail just half a day’s drive from the Sacred Valley. However temporary, I was glad to catch a glimpse of the vast countryside and its people.

Hiram Bingham Express: 13 June

This is how train travel used to be, and this how train travel should be. I’m on the 18.00 Hiram Bingham Express from Aguas Calientes to Cuzco. Mum, Dad, and I sit in an elegant booth in the dining car, sipping pisco sours. The train bobs up and down, side to side. There are not sudden or uncomfortable jolts. I feel the starch of the tablecloth under my fingers and look at the gleaming silver cutlery and crystal glasses. I lean back and sink deeper into my plush banquette.

I couldn’t be farther away from the dreary Tube and its gum-ridden seats, sweaty armpits, and discarded crisp packets. This, I think, is civilisation! I smile to myself and savour this moment.

20 June 2007

Machu Picchu and the Inca Trail: 12-13 June

We jumped off the train at KM 104, making our way over dusty sleepers and across a wooden bridge suspended over the white waters of the Urubamba river. We'd descended more than 1000m from Ollaytambo following the river as it dropped into the canyon away from the high plateau of the Sacred Valley towards the jungle.

Zac, our gregarious guide for the week, led the way up a steep trail dating from the Inca times with Paulino (the first of many porters to come) heading up the rear with all our provisions. We climbed the side of the mountain slowly, passing harsh shrub-land, dusty brown soil and languid looking trees. The midday sun slowly roasted us.

We'd opted for the one day Inca trail, preferring to swap the legendary hike for three days of trekking in pristine mountains later on. But it's easy to understand the magic of the Inca trail: you trudge along ancient stone pathways carefully constructed some 500 years ago by an ancient, mysterious people; the scenery changes slowly but perceptibly at first, but then abruptly as you enter the cloud forests and the mountains explode in a riot of green; and you can chase a romantic notion of following in the footsteps of Hirham Bingham and other explores to find the lost city of the Incas.

I'd heard many stories of paths strewn with empty plastic bottles and errant turds lurking in the bushes left behind by thousands of uncontrollable bowels. But the only PET I saw was in my pack, and the only wafts of excrement came from my own backside. What's more, the climb is full of surprises that keep you refreshed. Just when I was feeling hot, sweaty and sunburned, we arrived at the jungle and disappeared beneath it's deliciously cool canopy past a sparkling waterfall. Then when I'd had enough enough of the jungle, we found Winyawayna, an Incan ruin clinging improbably to the step convex hollow in the slope. I was glad to wander amongst the crumbling walls, marveling at the elaborate structures, and slouching on the grassy terraces to catch my breath.

After several hours and a few hundred heart-poundingly vertical steps, I walked through the Intipunku at 2720m – the Sun Gate. And there it was, Machu Picchu, basking in the afternoon sun. Trying to describe this ancient citadel, one instinctively reaches for superlatives. Gorgeous. Enchanting. Unique. Those are a few that spring to mind.

Nestling on a hillock, Machu Picchu sits on the only flat space amidst a thicket of spiky green mountains. The ruins spill down the gentle slope of the hillside: a few houses, then some terraces, a temple, then an open expanse, and some more houses. The city has been artfully restored, lovingly almost, stone by stone. The creation part supposition, part reconstruction. It allows you to easily imagine what it must have been like 500 years ago: a spectacular citadel of thatched roofs with smoke gently wafting about, a few workers in the field tending to the coca plants, a noble at the Intihuatana (Hitching Post of the Sun) preparing for the night’s lunar observations.

As the Incas had no written language, the function of much of the city remains pure conjecture. Was the burial temple really shaped like a condor flying to the east to take the Incas’ souls to the next life? Were the carved recesses on each side the elaborate double lintel doorways used to secure the doors drawbridge-style? Why did the conquistadors not discover Machu Picchu? Was it abandoned or simply hidden? So much of the Inca’s story is impossible to pin down. But these enduring enigmas are what lend it such mystique.

It was also at Machu Picchu – or more accurately on a cliff-edge up Wayna Picchu – that I discovered that the Incas were completely loco, 100% barking mad. Dad and I had been scrambling up the side of the picturesque peak that forms the backdrop to the stock Machu Picchu postcard. It was hard work as the path is nearly vertical with just a bit of vegetation hiding the cliff edge and the subsequent plunge to the valley floor.

I could understand the Incas wanted a strategic lookout to protect their most holy city. But when I got to the top, I found that they’d build terraces into the cliff face for farming as well as a series of elaborate temples on the edge of a precipice. Yet what really blew me away – and almost made me need a new pair of pants – was the staircase that ran up the outside of the wall, in effect hanging on the edge of the cliff. It was quite literally the last bit of solid earth and then there was a void. A 1000m void.

Worse still, I had to walk down it. My stomach spun and I tried not to look at the watery jade squiggle just off to my right on the valley floor. I had an incredible urge to take a giant leap off the edge. I imagined flying like an Andean condor, soaring, floating, hanging in the air. Very odd. Maybe I am as loco as the Incas.

19 June 2007

Galapagos: 3 - 10 June

Going to the Galapagos is a bit like going back to biology class at school with a bit of geography thrown in. You spend all week looking at "endemic species" and hearing about "natural selection" and "tectonic plates".


But it is a thousand times richer experience than anything you can learn in the classroom. In fact, it's more like being in a giant laboratory. The animals are completely fearless. As you walk up to a pair of nesting blue-footed boobies (and before you ask, these boobies have nothing in common with the human counterpart) they simply stare at you and, then mistaking you for part of the landscape, they ignore you. And so, the Galapagos offers unparalleled opportunities to get up-close-and-personal with the wildlife, making even the most seasoned naturalist-paparazzi salivate.


We spent a week aboard M/V Eric, a 60ft yacht with twenty passengers, eight crew, and two naturalists. We cruised through the night from island to island making landings in pangas (dinghies) during the day to meet the birds, lizards, snakes and other exotic mammals. Snorkeling was also on the menu. With this immense buffet of on-land and in-sea wildlife, I was soon gorging my way to obesity.

The climate in the Galapagos is cold - a brisk 23C, mainly cloudy, with a cool breeze. This is because the cold Humboldt current rises from Antarctica bringing nutrient rich waters to the Galapagos where this icy stream of water meets the warm tropical Panamanian current. The result is an explosion of marine and wild life that is both odd and fascinating. Once I saw marine turtles gracefully grazing on sea grass whilst jet-propelled Galapagos penguins zipped by. It also means that the water is cold, very cold. The Liverpudlian on our boat joked that he could tell how cold the water was by the number of expletives that came out of my mouth after I'd flipped over the side of the panga.

The big schools of tropical and pelagic fish are dazzling in their fluorescent hues, shiny silvers and blues. But it was the sea lion pups who stole the show. They came out to play with the snorkelers, twirling and flipping all around us. They blew bubbles at us underwater, tugged at our flippers with their teeth, and played an elaborate game a chicken - charging at us and then pulling away at the last possible moment. Exhausted they returned to the beach to nuzzle up to their mothers and dry their sleek fur coats.

Here is an aside on Dad's t-shirt collection: it's like a brochure for exotic holidays. On Monday, the puffin from the Shetland Islands is emblazoned against the dark green of his chest. On Tuesday, a subtle "Luang Prabang" accompanies the Lao flag. Wednesday is a grey number with Concordia Hütte 2850m in red Coca-Cola script. Thursday has just become a blue-green Galapagos National Park number. If he continues at this rate, by the time he reaches 70 it will take many weeks of his wardrobe to see all the places he has conquered, uh, I mean travelled to.

14 June 2007

Quito: 2-3 June

Quito, like much of Ecuador, surprised me. I was expecting a sprawling city perched on a high dusty plateau. I thought it would be full of bleak concrete architecture. Well, it was thin on the oxygen (at 2800m) and there was the ubiquitous cinder-block sprawl. But it was also charming.

At its heart is the old colonial city built by the Spanish after their arrival in 1533. There are grand squares where palazos are on proud display, long straight cobbled roads leading visitors past the intricate masonry of yet another church. The churches and monasteries of the Franciscans, Jesuits and Dominicans dominate the old town. Their former wealth and power are on display at every turn. I was stunned by the Jesuit church with its odd mix of ostentatious gold leaf and semi-cultish Moorish carvings. The art inside these churches was so graphic - Christ on the cross with blood squirting out of his side, or a scene of the Last Judgement full of devils, fire, and evil - that it made me draw breath.

The imagery and grand settings transported me momentarily to the time of the conquistadors. I wondered what life was like for those early settlers. But I was also reminded how hard life was for the colonised. The Indians were forced to abandon their indigenous beliefs and worship the Church's white patron saints. Indian religious customs were outlawed and traditional feast days aligned to the Papal calendar. Large servings of gore in art, and fire and brimstone preaching, instilled a sense of fear in the new converts. Why? I wondered. "Because it's what the Indian's understand" one of the guides told me. But I thought it looked more like a form of psychological warfare designed to snuff out any thoughts of rebellion, rather than an attempt to educate the new subjects.

03 June 2007

Zuleta: 30 May - 2 June

"When god was making Ecuador, He gave her beautiful snow-capped peaks, a rich piece of Amazonian jungle, incredible bio-diversity, and gorgeous beaches. And Peter said to Him, "Why are you putting so many beautiful things in one place?" "Well," God replied, "you haven't seen the people yet." "

Fernando threw his head back and chuckled at his politically incorrect joke. As the grandson of Ecuador's former president, there is little doubt of Fernando's patriotism. Indeed, he bristles with pride when telling us how the late Gallo Plaza pioneered land reform right here on his very own ranch.

In the 1940s, Gallo Plaza divided up his hacienda in Zuleta parcelling out the land to the local Indian population. He also provided training and some capital to help them move beyond subsistence farming. Although the move was deeply unpopular amongst Palaza's wealthy landowning peers, it later became the model for land reform in Ecuador and inspired later laws.

But Fernando 's joke points to a deeper insecurity: despite the tiny country's incredible biodiversity and natural resource wealth, Ecuador remains poor. In 2006 it ranked 83 on the UN's Human Development Index behind Columbia and Peru. Oil, bananas, shrimp and roses are all exported from Ecuador to rich consumers in the US and Europe, yet each brings it's own environmental cost and limited benefit for local communities. Corruption and decades of mismanagement have left Ecuador struggling.

But back in Zuleta, the Plaza family are once again putting progressive ideas into action. They've slowly opened their family home to guest to give outsiders a glimpse of life on a working farm. We stayed three days and ate fresh produce from the kitchen's garden and ate at the big family dining table. We rode the farm's Zuleta thoroughbreds through the verdant valley, following the old mule trails to visit the Condor Sanctury (just two dozen of these magnificent birds remain in the wild). The wet grass soaked the flanks of my horse as we cantered through alpine meadows full of colourful little flowers. The dramatic landscape of the parámo, its steep hills, dense vegetation and snow capped volcanoes surprised me. This is not what life on the equator should look like!

But Fernando's efforts are not just about eco-tourism. There is a cheese factory producing organic cheddars for export to Dean and Deluca delis in New York. He has a trout farm providing sustainable fish for local hotels, and a programme to save the endangered Andean condor. His vision is compelling and his charismatic enthusiasm infectious. But can it be replicated? Planning is not the Ecuadorian's forte. "Planning is not the Latin way," he admits.

Amazon: 22-26 May

After several plane trips and an hour and a half boat ride, I arrived at the Uakari Lodge, deep in the Amazon jungle. I was inside the Mamirauá Sustainable Development Reserve, which together with the Amaná Reserve and Jau National Park make up the "rain forest corridor". The corridor, roughly the size of Switzerland (5m+ sq km), is the last redoubt of the jungle should the Brazilians prove unable to stop the slow march of deforestation.

The lodge floats on a tributary of the Rio Solomones in a quite u-bend of the river. The five houses (four small ones for sleeping, and the "club house" for eating, chilling, etc) are connected by walkways that shift and creak as the water slips silently underneath. The place appeals to my eco-conscience; we shower collected rainwater, consume electricity generated by solar panels, and eat food grown by local communities.

The Amazon is a gigantic sink that collects a huge proportion of the continents fresh water, funneling it into gigantic rivers. In April every year, the snows melt in the equatorial Andes and gush eastwards into the Solomones river. This mighty river, 2km wide at some points, simply can cope, and so Amazonia becomes a giant flood plain with large swathes of jungle submerged under 5m or more of water.

I arrived at the height of the flood season, just as the waters reached their highest mark and the jungle has been completely transformed. Each morning we rose at dawn for a canoe trip out into the flooded forests. Our guide paddled us expertly through the maze of dangling vines and around crisscrossing foliage. We slid silently through the water, cutting a neat track through the black water. I closed my eyes to listen more intently. Sounds evocative of the "rain forest" section of the zoo filled my ears. The haunting bark of the howler monkey providing the variation to the insects' melody; the tap-tap of the red-necked woodpeckers drowned out by the squawking of the hyacinth macaws; the languid flop of a fish next to the canoe putting an end to the mosquito's buzz. All around me was life. Insects ruled the air in incessant swarms. I picked some bark off a strangler fig tree and discovered a colony of fire ants. Spiders - big fury ones - darted for the far side of the tree trunk as we approached. Plants were everywhere in stunning shapes, colours, and sizes.

But easily the forest's biggest celebrity resident is the uakari monkey, a red-faced, white-furred, black wiry framed species endemic to the Mamiraua Reserve. In my mind I felt like one of those old colonial hunters (though I lacked a pith helmet) as we stalked the uakari monkey silently in our canoe. Twitching trees and the plopping of fruit as it fell from the forest canopy were our only hints as to where the uakari might be hiding.

Perhaps it was the vivid geography lessons at primary school, or maybe I should blame Sir David Attenborough and the Beeb, because I've always thought of the Amazon as a sort of mysterious and magical place. How can one river contain almost 20% of the world's fresh water? How did a rain forest become a huge lung sucking up all the nasty carbon dioxide? Why were there no roads here but just canoes? How was it possible that thousands of plants, insects, and animal species had yet to be discovered?

Well, seeing, hearing, and experiencing the Amazon made me believe. It brought out the wacky deep green ecologist in me. I felt like we should simply seal the forest, keep man out, and leave nature to itself. But of course it's too late for such sentimentalism. And like the Mamiraua Reserve is showing, it's only by involving local communities, providing money for training and equipment, and offering alternative incomes, can we hope to preserve the pockets of pristine forest for future generations. Of course that's ignoring the impact of climate change...

27 May 2007

Salvador: 20-21 May

So, it finally happened to me.

I arrived in Salvador at 6.30am. Having dumped my bags in the hostel, and being an arty-fart, I thought it would be nice to go for a wander around the Pelourinho to get some shots of the beautiful buildings whilst the light was golden and the skies crisp. I merrily wandered for about an hour, thinking how lucky I was to have all the cobbled streets, colourful colonial buildings, and grand Spanish plazas to myself.

As I navigated my way back towards the hostel, I found myself in a side street behind the main square. Suddenly, two young guys appeared behind me. One grabbed me and threw is arm around my neck, pulling me into a headlock. The other circled from the front and snatched at my bag. The grip around my neck tightened and I was pushed to the ground. Fingers slid under my watch strap and quickly prised it off my wrist. I let go of my bag and struggled to free myself. And then they were gone. By the time I'd rescued my glasses from the edge of the drain, I only caught their red t-shirts disappearing up the alleyway.


They didn't get much: my old manual camera (plus all the nice photos I'd just taken!), my watch (not worth more than £15 but full of sentimental value), my mobile (old and instantly cancelled) a few pens, a credit card, and my bag. But I was a bit rattled. I spent the rest of the day looking over my shoulder. Back in the hostel I heard many worse stories - two Spaniards mugged at gun point in Rio, an America who had a knife thrust into his face as two guys emptied his pockets - and felt somewhat relieved that I'd gotten away lightly.

Despite all of that, Salvador is a beautiful place. The colonial architecture exudes an attractive faded glory. The bright colours of the Portuguese facades complement the austere Jesuit churches. For many years it was Brazil's main gateway for the slave trade with Africa. And whilst it has cast off that particular colonial yoke, it has retained the strong Afro-Latin culture - there are bands on every corner and interesting tribal arts. Empty pocketed I ambled around, soaking up the history, listened to the music, and trying not to be paranoid that the person who crossed the street was going to rob me!

Arraial d'Ajuda and Itacare: 17-19 May

Lazy days. Not much to think about, not much to do.

My days went like this: wake up (what time is it? does it matter?), eat breakfast (fruit, juice, bread, strong coffee), laze in hammock, head to beach, enjoy white sands, settle under palm tree, watch the scene (bikinis and surf shorts), swim (heavy surf, good fun), relax, read (My Name is Red by Orhan Palmuk), eat lunch (crab, chips, cold beer), relax, people watch (Brazilians are white, brown, black, yellow, everything mixed together), swim, watch sunset (time for capirinhia?), wander back to pousada, shower and change (mmm, nice hot water), chat to some randoms, drink a few beers, eat (beans, rice, salad, local grilled fish), chat some more, find hammock (doze), brush teeth, bed (sleep).

Tomorrow: repeat.

Beach life is wonderfully simply. The repetition is not boring but a comforting patter which can be followed and enjoyed for its predictability. My only challenge was learning how to surf. Actually, my main challenge was trying not to drown. They say that only surfers know the feeling....I wish I could say that from the 10 seconds on my feet before being tossed into the frothing wave I too knew what they meant, but I don't. That will have to wait for a proper surf holiday.

On the road to Porto Seguro: 16 May

For the last 14 hours I'd been bumping my way north. I travelled over 1000km on a godforsaken "road" from Rio to Porto Seguro. I'd heard someone say that this was a highway, but to me this dishevelled route was a pathetic excuse for a mule track. We were dodging sand filled pot holes that looked more like meteorite craters. Periodically, we were flying over the curb to avoid head on collisions. And my body aching from the perpetual shaking and juddering as we bounced along.

The contrast to the super-smart-smooth-highways-to-nowhere found across China was striking. I suppose Brazil's budget is constrained by a range of social programmes meaning there is little room for massive capital investments. Indeed, Lula was elected by the poor precisely because he pledged to reinforce social spending. But it is easy to see how the sugar cane, mangoes, pine trees, and other crops me would face higher costs and delays in getting to market. Was poor infrastructure the break on growth in Brazil?

17 May 2007

Rio de Janiero: 12-15 May

I was warned that Rio was the "marvelous city" and I was not disappointed. I am on Paixa de Ipanema. To my left I can hear a gentle thwack and thud as a group of guys played futvol - a seemingly impossible game where a football is juggled over a volleyball net. A few joggers drift into view and then disappear off-stage. But it's the sensational view to my right that has captured me, and I can't look away.


Postage stamp bikini tops and dental-floss bottoms? I hear you ask...not on this occasion. The sun has drifted off somewhere behind the clouds, but its glow turns them a fluffy pink and makes the spray coming off the heavy surf sparkle. The "twins" - two huge conical towers sprouting improbably out of the ground - are now looming black. Their silhouettes lock me into the scene, making it feel close, claustrophobic almost, dramatic. The beach stretches away from me in a graceful convex arch until it touches the twin's toes. And this is what frames the beach front cityscape.


I'd like to say that I was seduced by Rio's colonial architecture, its faded glory, or its sultry samba clubs (though that almost happened!), but I can't. For me, it is the city's extraordinary geography which unfolded and surprised me everywhere I went - up on Cocovado under Christ's huge outspread wings I was ambushed by a virtual map of the city, down in Centro I kept on glimpsing the Sugar Loaf, and strolling along Copacobana I saw the how the waves had carved it into a gentle arc. Someone said to me that if you were going to choose to create a city anywhere in the world with extraordinary geography, then Rio would be it. I couldn't agree more.


People are from Earth, Matthew is obviously from Mars
The hostel was comfortable enough, despite the 4 bunk beds crammed into a tiny room (it's only R$40 (£10) a night, cheap for downtown Ipanema). Tucked away in a backpacker's alley I thought the potential to meet other interesting travellers was pretty good. I was wrong.

There was Matt, the overly friendly American from Arizona. He sported a shaved head, a goatee, a leather wristband-watch combo, and a tattooed musical score of an Alice and Chains tune twisting around his bicep. Our conversation went like this:

Him: "Matt! What's happening man?"
Me: "I'm fine thanks. What have you been doing today?"
Him: "Not much dude. Just kinda hanging out, watching the surfers. Cool waves here man."
Me: "What do you think of Rio?"
Him: "Cool man."
He then swivels back to watch the TV. End of conversation.

Jeff is an early 30s Swedish physicist who now earns his living making risk models for London banks. He was on three months gardening leave having just been been poached by a rival firm. He was smart and interested in my story, but I think he found me a little bit odd: was it that he didn't really believe I'd worked for the UK Government? Or did he think DFID was just my cover story because I'm really a spy? Was I spying on him? Or maybe he thought I was just a little bit sinister because I knew a few Swedes and had an opinion about Swedish politics? I was making his eyes dart around the place when I spoke. What was that a sign of? My paranoia snowballed: was he asking me questions to trip you up? How did he managed to mingle an air of diffidence with curiosity? Maybe he was a Swedish spy? The conversation fizzled out.

Then there was the dopey girl from Guernsey who in our first conversation claimed that she didn't believe the big-bang theory. Why I asked? Well....she actually didn't know why. She just thought it "sounded odd". I thought it probably would sound odd if you were hanging around at the time of the big bang. We didn't hit it off.

Where was the motley crew of latter day hippies, eccentric travellers in Panama hats, or Japanese manga writers seeking inspiration from Rio's scenes? Surely I'd fit in with that bunch! I'd obviously strayed deep into the mainstream gringo trail. But then, was I really any different?

15 May 2007

Sao Paulo: 9-11 May

A mega-cosm of rich and poor
Sao Paulo is a mega-city. Like Mumbai or Shanghai it's an industrial and financial centre and the continent's main engines of economic growth. It produces nearly 17% of Brazil's GDP, is home to some 350+ multinational companies, and is the gateway for roughly half of Brazil's imports and exports. And the city's financial muscle is on display; chic boutiques and expensive restaurants line Jardins' boulevards, one of the glitziest neighbourhoods. The streets are devoid of tourists and full of suits. Its dynamism bowls you over; it might not be beautiful, but it's certainly happening.

But also like other mega-cities in the developing world, it is a magnet for poor people who migrate here looking for work. According to the US State Department, Sao Paulo has nearly 18 million people, of which roughly 10% live in sprawling "favelas". These urban slums have sprung up all over the city, but predominately along the main access roads. Arriving by bus I passed miles of cardboard and tin huts, open sewers dribbling sludge down hillsides, and electric wires connected illegally and precariously to the mains.

In every city there is an apparent gap between the rich and poor - it's hardly ununsual these days. But nowhere I've been to is the divide as stark as in Sao Paulo. Traffic and crime are so bad that the rich no longer drive; the helicopter is now their taxi of choice. Indeed, Sao Paulo has the world's second largest fleet of private helicopters after New York and they buzz incessantly overhead. In areas like Jardins residents live in gated communities with 24 hour security. Just down the road in the favelas mothers cook on open fires and when it rains the streets turn to mud.

In Sao Paulo, rich Brazilians are fabulously wealthy, the middle class remains small, and the urban poor are not much better off than their brethren in India.

Green spaces, modernist architecture
Despite the gaping divide between Paulistas, I found the city surprisingly attractive. Of course, it helped that I was staying with Ory in total luxury in the heart of Jardins. And it is probably no coincidence that my favourable impression was formed as I strolled along leafy streets after my first hot shower in 10 days. Objectively, however, who can fail to appreciate the sloping grid of streets full of charming cafes and interesting shops set amidst lush green foliage of palms, strangler figs, and evergreens? How can you not be excited to slurp fresh mango juice from a street vendor?

But even if you left Jardins for the gritty confines of Centro you'd be impressed to stumble upon thoroughly attractive modernist blocks designed by the likes of Oscar Niemeyer. The Edificio Italia is a soaring tower that cleverly uses its concrete struts to create a mesmerising pattern. Sao Paulo is a jumble of Le Corbusier inspired edifices and 18th-century colonial stuccoes. It it's no mish-mash, it's manages to combine the old and the new in an attractive way that Buenos Aires simply fails to.

Bento and the Pentecostalists
My stay in Sao Paulo happened to coincide with Benedict XVI's first trip to South America as pontiff of the Catholic Church. The nation was gripped with "Bento-fever". TV channels showed 24hr blanket coverage of his trip beaming banal details of the pontiff's tour into our sitting rooms alongside the impressive stage-managed mega events (like the Sunday mass for 1m people in Sao Paulo suburb).

The Pope's trip is hugely important for the Catholic Church. Brazil is the biggest catholic nation in the world with an estimated 138m observant Roman Catholics. But across Brazil and Latin America, the Catholic church is quietly hemorrhaging believers to the evangelical churches, especially to the Pentecostal movement (see The Economist's interesting piece on the Pentecostals in Latin America). The Catholic Church is fighting back by emphasising charismatic renewal and allowing priests to borrowing liberally from the more enterprising evangelical churches. According to Cardinal Cláudio Hummes, former Archbishop of Sao Paulo, the Pope came to Brazil because "Latin America cannot be lost".

Arriving in the old historic quarter of the city, I found a tangle of barriers, chaotic streets, giant traffic jams, and hundreds of soldiers. I navigated the temporary blocades winding my way through back streets in search of the old churches, colonial buildings and other snippets of the city's history.

At the Saint Benedict monastery I ran into an thick, expectant crowd. I waded my way forwards towards the speakers and heavies congregating around the front portico. Then I spotted an odd-looking glass box perched precariously on the 18th century balcony. A man was fiddling with wires, hooking up the microphone to the speakers: "um, dois, test" went the technician, "um, dois, bento!" replied the crowd amidst laughter.

A light went on in the box and he appeared: the Pope behind a sheet of bullet proof glass, arms spread wide practically touching each side of the box, palms facing towards the sky. The crowd let out an almighty cheer -- "BENTO!!" The pontiff smiled happily and greeted the crowd in crisp Italian. With a magisterial wave of his arms, he imparted his blessing, said thanks for coming, did what seemed like a half bow, and, with a neat twist, he disappeared. The box went dark.

The crowd hovered. Was he coming back? Was it him or an apparition? Why did he only stay for 15 seconds? Someone in the crowd booed. But most people just grumbled, feeling somewhat cheated by the brief encounter. And then we left.

I couldn't help but feel that Bento didn't get off to a good start. The Vatican's attempts at pop-popery fell well short of the infectious preaching of most Pentecostalists. How was Bento going to connect with Latin America - Catholicism's last bastion and great hope - if he couldn't mutter more than a few words of hello?

10 May 2007

Pantanal: 4-8 May

An overnight bus ride from Foz de Iguazu put me in Campo Grande, slap bang in the middle of Matto Grosso do Sul province. As we pulled into the station, I saw yet another grey concrete town, drab and charmless like hundreds of others in emerging countries like China, Turkey, or Indonesia.

As I shouldered my pack a throng of tour guides and travel agents surrounded me, each hawking an "exclusive and authentic" Pantanal experience. Tired and crotchety, I made a beeline for the loo to collect myself and consult the trusty Lonely Planet. I scanned the page and decided to seek out Gil's Pantanal Discovery. It sounded like the real deal: deep in the bush, basic but close to nature, and, most importantly, he'd been operating for 15 years and had glowing reviews. But I didn't have to look far; Gil accosted me outside the gents and soon I was on a bus to Agua do Piranhia.

The Pantanal is an enormous seasonal wetland roughly the size of Holland and Belgium. In the rainy season (October - March) the Rio Paraguay gradually swells until it finally breaks its banks and inundates the Pantanal. The vast flood waters attract thousands of birds and waterfowl. It also creates small sandy islands of forest and bush where animals hide from the water and forage for food. And thus the Pantanal has become an ecotourism hot spot.

Fazenda Natureza became my home for the next few days. I quickly adapted to the down-tempo pace of life on the farm. We rose early for day break at 5.30am and set off exploring the forests and swamps with Marcel, our bird-fanatic-cum-guide. He led us through the undergrowth past palms and thickets, through knee deep waters and giant reeds, in search of the best animals. Later, around 8.30, we'd arrive back in the camp for a breakfast of fresh papaya and pineapple, strong black coffee, and slightly stale bread rolls. Afternoons drifted by in hammocks with a good book or chatting as we escaped the fierce equatorial sun. And just before the sun went down we'd saddle up for a wander through the swamp to watch the birds swoop and cry as the dying sun turned the water a crimson orange.

The wildlife was astounding. Our treks on foot took us to a very small area of the vast wetland, but still we saw a huge variety of birds and animals. Of course, some of this came down to having an expert eye - Marcel spotted a bare-faced ibis where I saw bark - but often time you just stumbled upon them. There were giant caiman (a relative of the alligator) lazing down by the water's edge, wild boars sniffing the ground for grubs, howler monkeys barking in the tree tops, and hyacinth macaws squawking from the tree tops. I found the size and grace of the Jabiru storks mesmerising. I watched the red crested woodpecker for hours as he tapped the tree trunks to call his mates closer. I gawped at the toucans, perched high in the trees, their orange and red beaks like flashes of fire. I found it completely entrancing to see nature so close, to stumbled upon the animals in their own environment, to relate to it on its own terms.

It turned out that Natureza was the real McCoy - it was a hour by dusty truck from the main road, and then another hour through the swamp by tractor. Natureza was certainly rustic - a dribbling pipe from the ceiling was our shower, electricity came just a few hours a day from a spluttering generator, the food was hearty but basic, and the mosquitoes amongst the most vicious I've ever experienced. But the place had its own, almost romantic, charm.

I enjoyed watching the grandfather-son-grandson team deploy their entrepreneurial spirit to keep the place running. One morning after breakfast, I found Hugo (pronounced Ugo) elbow-deep in grease by the generator. "The seal is broken," he explained, "so it's all full of water it stopped working. But I can fix it," he grinned. He then proceeded to pull the thing apart, extract the worn gasket and replace it, give it a general polish, dump loads more grease on it, and then swiftly put it back together. To my surprise after a few cranks of the starter wheel and amidst a could of smoke, the old machine spluttered to life. Marcel and I quickly nicknamed Hugo "MacGyver" because he was forever finding ingenious ways of keeping the sky blue 1976 Toyota jeep running, or the 1950s tractor purring.

After three days, I had adjusted to the pace of life and my immediate surroundings. I was happy to be without mobile phone and internet access. Life was simple. I just got up and saw what the day brought. The mosquito bites, the pervasive dust and dirt, the boring food - it all seemed unimportant. I wasn't going to accomplish much, and that was okay. In the Pantanal I experienced extraordinary wildlife and nature. But I also found an experience which contrasted starkly with my "normal" life, forcing me to appreciate the dizzying speed at which I choose to live every day.

09 May 2007

Iguazu Falls: 2-3 May

I shuffled towards the edge, one small tentative step forwards at a time. The thunder of water filled my ears, drowning out all other sounds. Jets of spray shot up from below drenching my sholder and then my leg. I gripped the railing and peered over the side at the mighty torrent of treacle-brown water. This was it - the Devil's Throat (Garganta del Diablo), the biggest and most powerful of cascades in the Iguazu falls.

I'd arrived overnight on an 18-hour bus ride from Buenos Aires. As I trundled northwards, I left behind the guachos and their cattle grazing in the long green grasses of the pampas. By morning, the muted greens of the south had been replaced by the deep red earth and verdant forests of the tropics.

The Iguazu falls are a freak of nature, a geological oddity. The Rio Iguazu is a broad but unremarkable brown river that meanders for several hundred miles from north to south forming a natural border between Brazil and Praguay. Then suddenly, just before it joins the much mightier Rio Parana, it passes over the edge of a basalt plateau and plunges some 80 metres over a series of natural cliffs. The result is truly breathtaking - millions of cubic metres of water flow into vacant space creating some magnificant cataracts.

To appreciate the sheer scale and magnificance of the falls you have to visit them from both banks of the river. I began in Argentina taking the "up close and personal" tour. I wandered along footpaths precariously suspended amongst the falls: one moment I was perched above the lip of a thundering cascade, the next minute I was getting soaked in the spray at the foot of a huge deluge of water.

The atmosphere was close and humid, near perfect conditions for butterflies. I marvelled at the diversity of species: iredescent blue divas, some with fire-red wing tips, small fluttering yellow emperors, magic looking silver streaked ones. But my favourite species I named "target 88"; its wings had concentric black and white circles with a perfect 88 in the middle framed in bright red.

Day two took me to the Brazilian side of the falls - a 30 minute hop across the frontier passed languid border guards and uninterested immigration officials - for the "panoramic" view of the falls. Set back across the river you can absorb Iguazu's full drama, the pouring water, frothing rock pools, spray making the verdant jungle sparkle amidst rainbows.

Seeing such an awesome display of nature, like a volcanic erruption or a tsunami, reminds you of how small an insignificant we are, how quickly we can be wiped out, and how, ultimately, planet earth will always outlive us. I left Iguazu in awe for another bit of South American wilderness that had also received rave reviews: the Pantanal.

20 April 2007

Buenos Aires: 15 April - 1 May

Back to backpacking
Returning to backpacking has taken some getting used to. I was prepared for living in a dorm, ready for the slightly grimey communal bathrooms (flip-flops mandatory!), and up for meeting random people. But when I arrived in Argentina on Sunday in the wee hours of the morning, I was in a state of shock.

Having failed to failed to find a bed at the three other hostels nearby, Hostel Clan was my final attempt before giving up and heading for the Intercontinental down the road. I rang the doorbell. A buzzer sounded as if I were entering a prison, and I stumbled up to the steps in darkness to the front bed. I was in luck - they could fit me in. I was led me to a big room full of slightly smelly, snoring bodies. I groped for my bed, found it, and then scrabbled around in the dark to get into my bed sheet. Finally, I collapsed in a heap and drifted off.

The next day I found that I had entered the rank of middle schooler in the backpackers' pecking order: I was certainly an older and more experienced traveler than the many gap year students I met, but as I was straight off the plane and on a career break, I was completely unqualified to join the ranks of the quarter-life-crisis-wanderers, let alone the gnarled permanent drop-outs.

As ever, there are people here from all over the world - Brits, Yankees, Spanish, Japanese, Peruvians, Chileans, Israelis - reminding me of how small the world is and how much people now travel. I've enjoyed hearing their stories, and of course talking about politics! It's fascinating to see how everybody has a different take on the Iraq conflict and the wider Middle East. O-Ded, an Isreali with a huge mass of curly hair, told me that the Palestine-Israeli conflict would work itself out at it's own pace because both sides want peace, but that it would take many decades to marginalise the extremists in Israel and Palestine. I had a long debate with Carlos about whether Andorra really is a country (it is, I was wrong). And I've discussed the ins and outs of the latest steps in Northern Ireland with a hardcore Republican.

Survival skills
I decided to equip myself if some survival skills for South America, and have signed up for one week of intesive Spanish classes. It's a small class - just me an a really nice Aussie from Melbourne who is off to Insead to do an MBA - and Virba, my teacher, has been pushing us along at a heck of pace.

On an intial inspection, it looked pretty similar to French, but it's harded than it looks. Grappling with irregular verbs, imperatives, and a whole bunch of new vocabularly has been exhausting but great fun. I'm not convinced that I'm making progress despite the "moy bien" that Virba keeps bombarding me with. I wish I had more time to learn properly, but at least I'll have some basics by the time I leave.

BA: Thesis and antithesis
In many ways, Buenos Aires is not what I expected. I thought I'd find a genteel, European-type city, with leafy boulevards, cafe culture, and old colonial architecture. Instead, it's a curious mix of old world architecture from France and Italy and new concrete blocks more akin to China. It has wide leafy boulevards but the streets are full of buses and cars belching choking fumes. It's people are genteel and stylish, but also poor and (some of them) angry at the government (I've seen two demos since I've been here, one by teachers who are upset with their poor pay, and the other by some left-wing groups).

In fact, what I realised is that the city is all of the things I expected and their antithesis depending on what area you are in. Recolleta and Palmero are monied and trendy, full of nice clear streets, flash shops, and cool cafes. I wandered the streets in the warm early evening sun and felt like I was in Barcelona or Madrid. People sat outide in cafes chatting on their mobile phones, and shops sold expensive clothes. But then down in San Telmo or La Boca, and many other neighbourhoods you see a different city. These colourful latin suburbs have throbbing street cultures where you can see open-air tango shows, experience delicious smells as they waft from the restaurants, and feel the pulse of the city.

Buenos Aires has definitely grown on me as I have discovered new places, found the best coffee shops, learnt how to order my favourite factura, and just generally settled in. It has an inexplicable sort of charm: laid back yet interesting, bustling yet not over-powering.

Dinner is more like a midnight feast
Whilst I've been here the Bustelos, friends of mum and dad and BA residents, have very kindly hosted me a few times. Once at a fabulous restaurant (where the steak comes in slices a big as a brick!) and then again on Wednesday evening for "dinner". I say "dinner" because the invite was for 10pm and of course that meant we wouldn't eat until about 11pm.

Frederic and his sisters cooked up delicious crepes filled with ham, cheese and tomatos, and then bananas and dulce de leche (a kind of liquid caramel). I happily scoffed them whilst sipping on a nice malbec, chatting away in a mixture of French, Spanish, and English (okay, so no Espanol for me).

By the time I left at about 1.30am, my body was completely confused. Had I just eaten dinner? Or was that an inprompitu midnight feast? But I hadn't been asleep. I don't think I'll quite figure it out, so I'm just doing as the Romans do.

16 April 2007

Miami: 15 April

I sat high in the cab of the Super Shuttle next to Rodriguez doing 60mph down the I-95. The Super Shuttle was more tank than taxi, the great gas guzzling engine giving off a gigantic roar as we tried to overtake a Mercedes SLK. To no avail. The blonde at the wheel gave us one glance and then stepped on the gas, leaving us in the dust.

I was in Miami for under 24 hours, just passing through on my way to Buenos Aires. I decided to stay at the Miami River Inn which bills itself as the Mimai's only B&B (pretty obvious why it's Miami's "only" B&B, and likely to stay that way). Location was rubbish, but the price was soothing.

I showered, put on my white suit (I wish!), and escaped the Inn's drab decoration for swanky South Beach. I cruised down Ocean Drive (one my own two feet as opposed to Crockett and Tubbs's Corevette) soaking in the party atmosphere. The arte deco buildings frame the plethora of restaurants and bars lining the boulevard. If partying is you thing, then you'll find something for every taste: tacky shot bars, outdoor lounges with live reggae, and slick establishments for post-prandial drinks.

If you were going to design a glitzy city by the sea, then you'd build Miami. And at times is does seem dream like, as if you've stumbled into a supersized movie set. On Sunday I hopped on a harbour cruise that takes you past "Star Island" where the rich and famous live. The boat hovers outside this enormous multi-million dollar homes where Sylvester Stallone, Shaquille O'Neill, Julio Iglesias and many more have built the pad of their dreams. All seem to come equipped with gigantic yatch and jet skis. My favourite was definitely Puff Daddy's, I mean P-Diddy's, I mean Diddy (what's the dude's name?).

I have to admit there is something superficially attractive about Miami. It's warm, there's lots of water and beach. And if you have enough money, you can probably have the star life style too. But if you scratch beneath the surface what would you find? Anything beyond the hype and glitz? I didn't stay long enough to find out...

Turks & Cacos: 7 - 14 April

Well, it's been a tough week. I struggled from bed to beach. I sipped cold drinks and ate grilled fish that had just been plucked from the sea. I swam in crystal clear water, lying on my back to just watch the sky. I read a few pages of my book, and then drifted off into a day dream. The days slipped by. Evenings, I watched the sun drift down to the horizon and disappear into the ocean turning the sky hues of orange and pink. Sun-downers have never tasted so good. A total trip-out-and-relax holiday.

The perfect start to two months of bumming about!

05 April 2007

And we're off!

So, this is where it all begins. Today, I'm launching my blog. It will be part travelogue, part b-school-log. My aim to to write short missives to provide some colour and depth to the snippets of news that you will undoubtedly hear from time to time. It will contain my musings and hopefully make you giggle. And I apologies up front for boring you to death, and pontificating from this virtual pulpit.

Right, enough already! Let's go!

MP