CONTENTS // RANDOM INFORMATION
Engraved on the bottom...“Stolen From Virgin Atlantic.”
LOCAL KNOWLEDGE: CAROLINA RAMIREZ / CHOLULA, MEXICO
you can take a tour through a few of the tunnels - but this is just a small part of the pyramid. Underground the pyramid is divided into three levels, plus another on the top.
WATCHING OF THE BULLS
A few participants actually ran towards the oncoming mammals. I question their sanity.
MACHU PICCHU BY CAR Just a little more beautiful...
PHOTO PAGES Street art of the world.
REVIEWS / KON TIKI: VIKINGS, RAFTS, AND SHARK STABBING
He voluntarily decides that he will set himself adrift on a raft in the pacific with no motor, little food, and little water based off a connection he made in a couple of old books: someone get this man a beer.
CONTENTS // TRAVELER PROFILE / JAMES ‘JAY’ AKROYD
Life is there to be lived, and other countries and cultures need to be explored so you can fully understand the world that surrounds us.
WHY HAVEN’T I HEARD OF...THE DEVIL’S POOL AT VICTORIA FALLS
The guides tell you it’s safe but your eyes weave an entirely different tale...have you ever seen a rainbow from above before?
MASTHEAD // EDITOR
kevin landry / editor@rovemag.com
ADVERTISING SALES
andrew mcleod / sales@rovemag.com
CREATIVE DIRECTOR nick budden / nickb@rovemag.com
ABOUT
Rove Magazine is a free digital travel magazine, driven by the support of the online community, availible the first monday of each month on rovemag.com. Rove is an Estefania Media project.
random information a traveler’s higher ed.
colder is happier? According to a recent world ranking of the world’s happiest countries, it seems as if many of the happiest countries are also amongst the coldest. Maybe all that shoveling releases endorphins, maybe skiing is paramount to satisfaction in life, or maybe it’s all those cold winter nights spent…snuggling. The World’s Happiest Countries 1. Denmark 2. Finland 3. Netherlands 4. Sweden 5. Ireland 6. Canada 7. Switzerland 8. New Zealand 9. Norway 10. Belgium
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house alarm, car alarm... bag alarm? The Doberman Bag Protector recently released by Doberman Security is a device perfectly suited for the panicky or paranoid person in your life. If tripped, the motion sensing unit will emit a 100 decibel noise (similar to that of a lawn mower) sure to deter any would-be thieves. soure: offtrackplanet.com/featured/the-10most-useful-travel-gadgets-of-2010/
random information.
why doesn’t everyone now that’s branding On their high end flights, Virgin provides plastic salt and pepper shakers in the shape of small airplanes. These ornate objects simply plead to be stolen, and frequently were. Virgin’s solution: engraved “Stolen from Virgin Atlantic” on the bottom of the planes, turning theives into marketers. Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/33465428@ N02/4260735626/
do this? Everyone unanimously hates elevator music. The cheesy saxophone solos reminiscent of either a porno, or a bad jazz club pollute the already awkward space. That is, unless you are in the Lydmar hotel in Stockholm, Sweden. The hotel took the daring move to include a selection of buttons in the elevator allowing you to choose the style of music you would like to hear. Cheekily it starts at Garage on the bottom button. Above this flow punk, R&B and other fine selections. Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/ batega/3782909132/
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old...or just dead? Japan, touted as having some of the world’s oldest residents, is having a crisis of sorts. They all seem to be dead or missing. Japan’s oldest citizen was found mummified in his bed, his body having been hidden for more than thirty years in a ploy by his daughter to continue receiving his pension! In all, Japan has misplaced more than 281 people over 100 years old...how does that happen? Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/ lancesh/3045035069/
a mobile monument Normally when one thinks of monuments, they think stationary. Mobile is often perceived as the domain of ice cream trucks and trailer park homes. However, of all the national monuments in the U.S. there is one that moves. Serving San Francisco since 1873, the iconic cable cars are the only moving U.S. national monuments. Interestingly, they were created after the inventor saw a number of horses dragged backwards down the steep, cobblestoned street on slick days. Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/ ronmacphotos/4255931021/
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local knowledge Carolina Ramirez / Cholula, Mexico.
Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/emigdioh/4402806461/
Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/loauc/595980862/
Why do you live in Cholula? Because I study here, Cholula is a really calm and safe place to study and live. The student life in Cholula is great; everybody goes out, there are lots of restaurants, and you never have a problem finding something to do with friends from school.
How many churches are there in Cholula? People say that there are 365 churches, one for every day of the year. Every church celebrate their own events, there are fireworks every single night. Every church has something special and unique about it, some have interiors made of gold, some are painted different colors, some are decorated different, and one is even on top of an Aztec pyramid.
Photo: Nick Budden
What’s it doing on top of an Aztec pyramid? Because the pyramid belonged to the indigenous people that lived here before the Spanish. They had many different gods, but when the Spanish came they were Christian, so to convert the indigenous people the Spanish built their church on top of the pyramid.
Is there anything of the pyramid left? Over time the pyramid has become covered in dirt, so that it looks like the church is on top of a hill and not on top of a pyramid, but underground the pyramid is huge. You can’t see most of it, but you can take a tour through a few of the tunnels - but
this is just a small part of the pyramid. Underground the pyramid is divided into three levels, plus another on the top. Outside the pyramid archaeologists have been excavating other parts of the complex, and you can see these on your tours.
How is the student life? Where do the students come from? The students come from all over Mexico, from the smallest town to the biggest city, and Universidad de las Americas is one of the universities with the highest ratio of international students in Mexico. They come from Germany, the US, Australia, England, South America, France, Spain, Canada, etc. The student life is great. Behind the university there is a street full of restaurants, clubs, and a few minutes away from the university there are movies, malls, etc. You can walk wherever you’d like to go, everything is really near, and you have a lot of fun because the area is full of students. You can meet people really easily.
If someone only had one day in Cholula, where would you tell them to go? There are a lot of place you could visit because Cholula is so near to Puebla. You could go to Africam Safari, it’s the biggest Zoo in all Latin America, and it’s a really different concept for a Zoo. All of the animals are free, you drive through the Zoo in your car and the animals are free to roam. Inside Cholula of course you can see the pyramid and the church on top, there is a museum a few minutes away from the pyramid where you can learn everything there is to know about Cholula and its pyramid, in Puebla you can visit some malls, etc. It’s really about what you like. If you’re into culture we’ve got something for you, if you like nightlife we have that too, and if you like to shop there are more than a few malls. And of course the food, Puebla and Cholula are famous for their food, especially Mole Poblano. *Note: ‘Africam Safari’ is spelt with an ‘m’.
Creative Commons: lickr.com/photos/photos_clinker/4106689687/
Inside the tunnels of Cholula’s buried pyramid.
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words and photos by amy fisher
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Arriving on a train from Barcelona to the small, picturesque town of Pamplona seemed pretty harmless. We waited patiently in the line for a taxi and read out the address in broken Spanish to our driver. He burst out laughing and asked us why we were going there. My two travel companions had found an apartment just outside the town to rent for two nights in Pamplona, seeing as most of the hostels close to the city were booked and/or too expensive. We arrived at the address, an extremely run-down apartment building, grabbed our packs and the car drove away. There is not a soul in sight. This is when we all begin to think we have been tricked and are imagining scenes out of “Taken� (a movie about kidnapping a young girl while she is traveling through Europe). Craigslist was beginning to feel like a poor idea.
P.23 We open the building door, and hesitantly press the buzzer for fear of electrocution. A crackling, female voice comes through the intercom’s speaker…“un minuto ....crackle crackle ...espera por favor”. As basic as our Spanish is, we know to just wait. We hear a clunking noise – it’s the elevator- and an older woman and a middle aged man get out. “Hello, nice to meet you,” he says in perfect English. Phew. We all feel a bit better. He explains that he lives here with his mother and he is going to take us to the apartment, which is in another building on another street, Calle de Zolina. The place is huge - two bathrooms, three bedrooms and a lot of beds in each. Score. The mother shows us everything, I mean everything, including the cups and plates and how to work the shower. She seems a bit worried about three foreign girls staying by themselves. They are lovely, but we want to go explore the town and get our running of the bulls experience on. It’s already mid afternoon so we go for some beer and food and check out the town - it’s beautiful, with narrow cobblestone streets and tons of people; tomorrow is the start of the running of the bulls, San Fermines. We all wake up early, filled with excitement and curiosity of what the day will bring. We get into town and it is buzzing with activity. We decide we should try and get tickets to a bull fight…‘when in Rome’ (or in this case, Pamplona). We were in an extremely slow moving line for tickets, but figured we should just be patient and wait. We were slightly annoyed and hot, and then that’s when we heard it. A huge explosion. Is Pamplona under attack? We are quite uninformed about this whole event and ask someone what is happening. They explain that it was the official start of the event and that we should to go to the main square. We follow the massive red and white crowd through the streets to Plaza del Castillo. All of our frustration and confusion is suddenly lifted. There is music. There are fireworks. There is wine, lots of wine, being poured everywhere, on everything, and everybody. We all look at each other, standing in our relatively clean clothes (as clean as you can be while backpacking that is). We try to dodge the mess - which was effective for about five seconds.
We are spotted, clean canvases which need to be painted. Kat is the first victim, a bottle of sangria poured over her head, and down her back. I am next - a boy armed with a super soaker gets me. There is no turning back. We rush to the local store, get a litre of Don Simon Sangria in a handy plastic bottle and head back to the square. The next hour is like a water fight - with wine. Anyone not drenched and stained in wine is a potential victim. Suddenly we heard music as a huge band was marching through the square. We all looked at each other with huge smiles on our faces. We walked alongside the band, making friends with the clarinet section, sharing our Sangria. We were led through the streets away from the square. Over the music we hear “agua, agua” being chanted. The balconies sitting above the streets are lined with people, playing music, drinking. And then, whoosh. We are soaked. We learn an “agua” attack is yet another part of the celebration. At this point, a little water feels amazing - washing the sticky, fruity wine concoction away. The first explosion went off at noon - come 3pm we were more than slightly impaired. Baguette in one hand, sangria in the other, we made our way back to our apartment. Three of our good friends from high school were arriving at our place and we had to let them in. They burst into laughter when they saw us, stained and haggard walking down the streets. We could not even begin to explain the last three hours to them, it felt like a dream. They quickly joined in the sangria consumption and we all made our way back into town. The boys purchased the traditional ‘Running of the Bulls’ attire - white pants and top, a red sash and a red bandana tied around the neck. The girls did not bother to change from our sangria colored outfits - they would only attract more attention and more attacks. We stopped in at a local bar where, as we were the only girls in an old man establishment, we had easily made friends the day before. The food was good and cheap, and so was the beer. The bartender told us he was sad when we showed up with some guy friends as he no longer had a chance.
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We all continued on our way into town, the guys were anxious to get going. There was music and dancing in the main square, and we spent our time there until the sun started setting. We (attempted) to dance some salsa and talk to other travelers (mostly Australians‌ go figure). All the streets were packed and the atmosphere was amazing. This kind of thing never happens at home I thought to myself. Europeans know how to do it - siestas, late dinners, public water/wine fights, letting bulls run through their streets - sweet. It becomes late, and somehow we have gone from six members to three. Only the strong survive (I say this because I was one of the remaining members). None of us have a watch and just keep on exploring, making temporary friends, and chugging back Sangria. We figure there is no point in heading back to the hostel - we will scope out the best spot to watch the bulls in the morning. At this point, none of us are in any state to even consider the idea of running away from massive bulls through uneven, crowded streets. We asked a store-owner the best place to watch from, and he explained with great detail where we must go to claim our spot. If you get a chance to go, and do not want to run, I would say this guy was right. From our spot, you could see the holding pen, and the starting of the crowds. The really brave runners were at the start line, and the less brave (and smarter) runners were further down the street.
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We took turns holding our spot while one of us ventured off to get rations - coffee, chocolate, croissants, etc. Somehow, the sky began to grow brighter and brighter, and more and more people began to line up on the street. All of a sudden, there seemed to be a calm before the storm. There was some chanting, an official opening of the event, and more cheering. We turned our heads and looked at the momentarily empty streets. A rocket went off to signal the bulls had been released. Six massive bulls and six oxen stampeded towards the crowd of runners. A few participants actually ran towards the oncoming mammals - I question their sanity. The crowd disappeared down the streets as the bulls approached. The noise of their hooves on the streets was exciting, yet haunting. As they passed below, you could really see their strength, something you would not want to come in contact with. Just watching was enough of a rush to give me shivers. The sun was in full force by now, we had been up for over 24 hours and had a train to catch to San Sebastien, near the border with France. We located our other team members, and heckled them for bailing. We gave them a brief,
scattered account of our evening, a few hours unaccounted for. They too watched the run from a different vantage point, and felt a similar rush. We all concluded you could easily run and not see a bull - it was more fear of getting caught in the crowd that would slow you down. There were also only certain points where you could exit the course, and that is slightly disheartening. We all walked back to our apartment, packed and got to the train station. The train platform itself was one of the best sights of the trip, everyone looking as rough as we were, wine stained, sleep deprived, and amazingly happy. Thanks for the memories (and lack thereof) Pamplona.
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words and photos by kevin landry
“
We were extremely fortunate to gain entry on the first day that Macchu Pichu had been open in three months, but the trip nearly cost us our lives. Spreading out before me was that magical vista I’d seen a million times before on the wall of my living room- the citadel of Machu Picchu. My father had visited the site in the late 70’s and had spoken of it frequently during my upbringing. Now I was finally there, taking that same famous picture, dawn had just broken and I was treated to a surprisingly tranquil scene given that over one million people visit the site every year. The rain that had been plaguing us the last few days had finally quit and we were delighted to see the sun shining. Things were oddly perfect. Famous Tourist sites like Machu Picchu are often over hyped and in my experience rarely live up to any of the excitement. Today though, I was pleasantly surprised. I wandered blindly through the awe-inspiring town all morning canoodling with llamas who are now the only inhabitants. The stonework was sublime, the scenery was even better. It was everything it was cracked up to be, and for me perhaps a little more. I had seen that famous picture nearly every day of my life; I was mildly obsessed with it. And let me tell you, as spectacular as the pictures are, they do not do it justice. The other reason it was particularly enthralling for me to be there was the harrowing journey we undertook to get there. Machu Picchu had been closed due to landslides throughout January, February, and March of 2010 that washed away the train tracks to Aguas Calientes, the only town from which you can access the ancient Incan citadel. We were extremely fortunate to get in on the first day it had been open in three months, but the trip nearly cost us our lives.
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Cuzco was abuzz with energy as tourists made their triumphant return. It had become a ghost town in the months prior, seeing as its main attraction and crown-jewel had been inaccessible. I arrived in the hopes of catching the famous train there, but soon found that I would only be able to do that if I was added to the end of a month long waiting list, so I looked for other options. The Inca, Salkantay and every other walking or bike trail was booked solid as well so I asked around and found Sonia, a travel agent who informed us that there was another way to reach Machu Picchu: by car. The Journey she described involved a harrowing drive to a town called Santo Thereso and a four hour walk to Aguas Calientes. We were desperate and willing to try anything so we shelled out one hundred fifty U.S. dollars each (a king’s ransom) for the three day expedition. She said everything was included in the price, so I decided I didn’t need to stop at a bank before I left, and went to sleep that night with 15 soles in my pocket (about $3 USD). We should have taken the trip’s ominous start as a sign; we awoke at 4AM only to wait outside for six hours, that’s how late we were in departing. By the time four hours had passed we were convinced that we had been ripped off and I walked down to Sonia’s office with the intent to smash her desktop computer in revenge if I found her to still be there.
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When I found her and started screaming in broken Spanish she stemmed my rage by immediately calling the driver and reassuring me that he was on his way. Two hours later we finally saw the white van arrive. We were glared at by all the other passengers. We later found out that the van had been late picking up everyone and that Sonia had told the angry passengers that we had departed late because my friends and I had been out drinking and overslept. We soon got over it and enjoyed our drive through the scenic Andes. Immense mountain passes crept ever higher into immense cloud banks dripping with precipitation. Through the rain drops on the window the mountain life zoomed by us. First markets and towns followed the tarmac, then small stone settlements along the gravel road, and finally, nothing but semi-tropical jungle surrounded the dirt path that was this region’s vital link to the rest of Peru. Everything was going great until we came to our first road block. Literally, the road was blocked. There had been an enormous landslide that stopped our progress dead. “No problem” our guide said; we would simply walk over and arrange a ride on the other side as the locals were doing. Minutes later, without thinking of the repercussions of our actions, we crossed the landslide and got into a car with a man named Jose.
We start to realize just how bad the road is when the rest of the ride to Santo Thereso is spent pushing bogged vans out of sticky, smelly, forest mud. We heard news from travellers who were sent back from the gates of Machu Picchu because it hadn’t yet opened, and we heard news from travellers who couldn’t make it because the path you had to walk could not be crossed. The panic in everyone’s voice was obvious and we couldn’t distinguish the true from the false. Rumours were running wild. As we sat in Jose’s rusted, white car coated in the grime of manual labour we overcame our deflated feelings when the sun managed to shine, just as we summited the highest ridge on the trail. On that remote Peruvian mountain, in a car older than I was, I was treated to a view almost as good as Machu Picchu itself. The road was on top of a mountain, the fog had held so close all day that I had no idea of our altitude. Visibility went from one hundred feet to a few miles in a matter of seconds as we came out of the edge of the cloudbank. What had been fog moments earlier was now replaced with a scenic vista capable of replacing any postcard I have ever seen. The lush green of the mountains seemed to be supporting the orange of the setting sun. The large cloudbanks all around were adding a drama to the scene that Shakespeare would have been proud of. We were all revitalized and rejuvenated. It seemed as if everything, including our luck, was turning around. Then the rain returned and we were back to the nightmare. The valley road got worse and worse as we descended. My strained conversation with Jose was interrupted as we pulled over for a large yellow bulldozer that was clearing the previous day’s landslides; apparently this had become a
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daily occurance in the last few months. The fact that it was being operated by two boys whose collective age might have been 23 barely even surprised me at this point and made me slightly jealous. I would have given anything to have driven a real life Tonka truck in my youth. Hell, I still would. The panicked silence was broken when Jose warned me to look uphill for falling rocks as we approached a freshly cleared section outside a town, “if you see [falling rocks]....we must go” he said through gestures of tumbling stones and accented English. And true to his word, when a few rocks started tumbling behind us he went faster along that road than I thought feasible or safe given that the road was on the side of a sheer hundred metre drop. The fact that a small river drained across the road didn’t seem an obstacle at all. He hydroplaned across and completed the final kilometre into town unfazed whereas my nails were dug so far into the arm rest I thought they would need to be surgically removed. The oppressive rain that had assaulted us since the landslide was taking its toll. Even the garbage bag I was wearing over my raincoat felt like it had soaked through and my clothes became more of a sponge than anything else at this point. Finally reunited with our group in a dingy restaurant decorated almost solely with elaborate chandeliers, we found out something shocking: our guide wasn’t
in the other car as we had expected, he had crossed back over the landslide and went back the way he came. That night amid the pattering of the monsoon rain I sat awake. Water seeping in and pooling on our floor our door was powerless against the fierce weather. We were to leave at 4AM to start the hike if we wanted to make it to Aguas Calientes. My thoughts turned to the terrible landslides that led to hundreds of tourists being stranded and needing to be lifted to safety by helicopter. If the weather kept up I could be trapped here for days, and I highly doubted my sparse cash would last that long. I pulled on my muddy wind breaker and paid a local storekeeper to let me send an email to my family in the hopes they would know my location should evacuation need to happen. I couldn’t tell if my wet fingers were shaking from the cold or from fear as I typed in what could have been a final “love you all” in my email. Shortly after I finished, the power went out. In a dark store next door we shopped by flashlight, bying as much cheap food and water as we could carry. If things got ugly in the next few days we didn’t want to be at the mercy of a predatory pricing economy where our money wouldn’t go half as far as it would before the disaster. Our chores done, I shut off my flashlight and settled into the damp
�
...as our senses returned there was a stampede as everyone scrambled to clear the area.
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bed I had been assigned. All my gear slept with me that night because the small puddle on the floor had by now made our room into a semi-aquatic habitat. My wet wool blankets were pulled rudely off of me by two German girls in the morning; I was confused and thought I was dreaming. But when instead of offering to join me in various forms of tantric Kama Sutra to pass the time they mentioned that it was 5AM and that we needed to start hiking. I knew this was no dream of mine - it was the nightmare I had put on hold a few hours earlier. Hours of frustrating arguments, phone calls to Sonya and speculation finally bore fruit when our guide arrived with 25 other tourists he had opportunistically recruited. Our stress levels finally came down to acceptable levels when our guide told us that the weather was normal and that we would drive to the hydro dam two hours away from which we would walk the rest of the way. We drove about five minutes before we were bogged in mud too deep for the vans to continue. And so we would have to walk. The remnants of landslides were everywhere. Sheer cliff sides were exposed and bare. The tension in the air was equivalent to a title fight. I was feeling upbeat that we were actually making progress; the constant set-backs made it seem like I had been thrown head first into an adventure novel. My optimism changed the instant the first rocks fell. We all heard the noise and saw the movement on the hill. Some large rocks were headed directly for two members of our expanded group. They sounded like fireworks as they charged down the hill at the frozen men. They were deer in a headlight, frozen and unmoving. Boom...Thud. A rock that likely weighed 500kg was now firmly embedded on the road two feet in front of the two men. Everyone was silent for a second. Then the noise of almost a hundred footsteps acted as a drum roll to join the bass drum thumps of falling rocks. It was the most terrifying drum solo I have ever heard: a stampede of scared men and women fleeing a scene of danger. Landslides across the river echoed loudly as we hiked the once functional dirt road to the forgotten city. thigh deep mud had to be forded and waded through, rivers of run-off had to be crossed, and finally we came to a river crossing like none other I have ever seen. A tension wire was strung across a gorge perhaps 90 metres from the bottom, a small bucket hanging from it by two pulleys. Three people and their gear sat in the bucket and pulled themselves across aided by the use of a small rope.
It was staggeringly slow, taking about seven minutes for three people to cross, and there were about fifty people ahead of us in line. we each took our turn hauling the small bucket across full of people going back down the trail. After an hour and a half I had to stop because my hands were bleeding. When it finally came around to my turn to cross I leapt into the unsteady bucket excited to move again. As we wobbled along we saw another landslide thunder down the canyon - about fifty metres from where we were going to land on the other side. I reflected heavily on what I had done...on all the risks I had taken just to see Machu Picchu. My thoughts went to wondering if I could bribe a train official for a ride back to Cusco, or perhaps walk out along the railroad tracks. Anything seemed preferable to returning down this valley of death. Damp, but alive, we arrived in Aguas Calientes after a five hour walk in constant downpour. We had caught glimpses of Machu Picchu, impossibly high on the sheer mountains above us, on our walk in. We were tantalizingly close: the arches and windows of the settlement clearly visible to the naked eye from their perch. I for one looked forward to the 4am shuttle ride to the top of the mountain.
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I will never forget the ride up to the front gates, the excitement, and the wonder. This is where I regretfully need to report on the inadequacies of the English language because it lacks completely and totally the functions necessary to convey the emotion I felt when I laid eyes on Machu Picchu. I won’t try to describe it, I will just say go and see it yourself, you will thank me. Naturally it is an extremely beautiful place, but perhaps for me it was just a little more beautiful because I worked a lot harder to get there than most.
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...just a little more beautiful...
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Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/samdecle/3986913315/
street art of the world.
Patershol, Belgium
photo pages
# Brussels, Belgium
Creative Commons lickr.com/photos/adjourned/4163746346/
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Mexico City, Mexico
Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/esparta/2820415684/
Tokyo, Japan
Creative Commons flickr.com/photos/tenaciousme/2858932021/
MontrĂŠal, Canada
Creative Commons flickr.com/photos/dwabyick/31626202/
Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/dpstyles/4967215567/
New York, USA
Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/runfreefall/2627888414/
South Africa
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Dakar, Senegal
Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/lazymonkey/1108807772/
reviews Kon Tiki: Vikings, Rafts and Shark Stabbing
I’ll set the scene, it’s 1947 in the middle of the pacific. Six Norwegians and a Swede have been adrift for three months on a balsa wood raft. No they are not resorting to cannibalism, no they aren’t dying slowly, yes their hygiene is likely terrible. They are living large and are on a voyage of discovery, (forgive my alliteration) proving that Polynesia was peopled by ancient Peruvians, the theory sparked by almost identical ancient legends, one claiming that Tiki was an ancient Peruvian ruler of a sun worshipping group ousted from the region surrounding Lake Titicaca, and a similar legend in Polynesian claiming that Polynesians first came from the land where the sun rises. Thor Heyerdahl found that carvings, stonework, simple step pyramids as well as the plant life like coconut palms and yams were all features that Peru shared with the islands of Polynesia. His only problem was that no one would believe his outlandish theory because they doubted the raft would make the journey. Here is where the book goes from an every-day-read to completely and utterly outlandish: Thor (a badass name for a badass guy) pulls a “Stallonemeets-Schwarzenegger” move and decides he will take on the scientific world. He snubs the entire scientific community and decides to prove them wrong by making the voyage himself. Recap: he voluntarily decides that he will set himself adrift on a raft in the pacific with no motor, little food, and little water - this based on a connection he made in a couple of old books someone get this man a beer. Not deterred by his doubters, the majestic and muscular Heyerdahl networks at the explorers club of New York and finds funding for his journey. From that moment onward he karate kicks into a South American jungle to acquire the nine balsa wood logs that will make his craft and then body slams directly into a seafaring saga the likes of which the world has not seen in eons.
Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/mgspiller/2739615156/
Creative Commonts: flickr.com/photos/jimg944/425825980/
As the crew are towed into the Humboldt Current by a Peruvian naval tug their minds are polluted by the estimates of the so called experts who claim that at most their raft will last a month on the open ocean. They bravely battle onward, reminiscent of action stars blowing up everyone who stands in their way, except with no explosions or guns. They discover new species of fish, weather tropical storms, pull sharks onto the boat with their bare hands just because they can and - my favourite - stab a whale shark in the face. The face! That’s right, this is essentially a modern day Viking saga, where six Nordic men fight sea monsters. Their reckless handling of the abundant sea life and total disdain for sharks and to a lesser extent ocean conservation was shocking. Luckily for the remaining whale shark population we have come miles in that area since these guys were sailing the seas. Sure there are a few questions, like what did they drink? Well even the answer
to this is rather manly: they had 250 litres of water per person, stored in hollow, rotting, bamboo tubes which they mixed with sea water so their thirst could be more easily quenched. I can only imagine if they can chug salt water for a few months they must have drained whiskey at unprecedented rates as well. Heyerdahl also mentions that each morning the cook would have to start the day by cleaning up the ten or so flying fish that had beached themselves on the deck. Each of which could be used to catch a fresh tuna or Dorado, often in mere minutes, should the mood for fresher food strike the crew. Aside from proving they have cojones the size of small continents, they proved that it was possible for the supposed race of white bearded men who lived in Peru in pre Incan times to be the ones who built the mysterious statues on Easter Island and populate the islands of the Pacific. To be honest I am not really sure how the figures stack up on the science. I am no historian but I have no previous knowledge of white, bearded men living in South America before Spanish colonial times and I just read a convincing article that said aliens built those statues. Even if it didn’t convince me that a mysterious seafaring race existed, the book made me desire the ocean life. It actually made me want to be adrift on a raft in the middle of the pacific, which is no small feat since I have an innate fear of small to mid size sea mammals and confined spaces filled with half-naked nordic men. Heyerdahl and co. surprised the world with their daring act in defiance of the theories of the day. Their journey has lead to intense discussion into the history of the world and inspired a generation of copy cat sailors like the crew on the Plastiki, who sailed from San Francisco to Sydney on a raft made entirely of plastic bottles. Unfortunately though it was not organized by a Viking like Thor and really didn’t do much except raise awareness of ocean pollution. Adventures like this rarely come about anymore. I read about a guy who walked along the length of the amazon, but his story lacked the storms and shark stabbing that made this one amazing. Regardless, Read this book, or if you are more the “I don’t read” type you could always catch the expanded film made from actual footage the crew shot. Coincidentally it won an academy award in 1951, likely in the P.67 category of most asskickingly good movie.
TRAVELLER PROFILE james ‘jay’ akroyd
occupation. Nurse
countries visited. England, Wales, France, Austria, Germany, Switzerland, Belgium, Holland, Bulgaria, Spain, Greece, Japan, Thailand, Singapore, Australia, New Zealand, North America.
bio. I'm a 24 year old, fun loving, traveling addict! I think life is there to be lived, and other countries and cultures need to be explored so you can fully understand the world that surrounds us. While fiercely patriotic about England, I’m dedicated to exploring new and different ways of living and working. I love my job, I spend my days trying to make other people's lives better, and that's a lot easier to do when you have an understanding of how others live. I've met people that have given up everything to travel; they literally spend their lives on the road. While I can't do that I have full respect for all that do, and the occasional trip to a new country or continent satisfies my appetite...for now.
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most memorable travel experience. arghhhh! How can I choose one?! Nevis Bungee in New Zealand, skiing Olympic runs in Switzerland, Blue Mountains in Australia. Too many!
most awkward travel moment. Easy. Walking into a 30 bed dorm in Brisbane to find an escaped convict having sex in someone else’s bed...nice.
travel tip. Don't be afraid to meet people in hostels, that’s how you make friends and find out about the best places that tour guides may not show you.
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next trip. Two months in South America
travel is ________. Essential
if you won a million dollars you would. Cry because a million pounds is more! Then spend it on an almighty trip around South America, Africa, and probably buy a small island off Greece.
what do you do to pass time on long bus/plane rides. Sleeping is really an issue for me while traveling - so films and doodling keeps me sane.
you must ________ before you die. Visit 50 countries.
place you wouldn’t recommend going. Iraq! But seriously, don't visit Singapore for more than 3 days, you can see everything by then.
socialfy Click Below to Connect with Rove
bebo myspace
digg stumbleupon P.73
why haven’t i heard of... The Devil’s Pool
Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/tipsfortravellers/3206200670/
On a visit to Africa Victoria falls are a necessity, they say the Zambezi River emptying into the gorge creates one of the most spectacular scenes in the world. Western eyes first fell on the tremendous waterfall when the famous explorer David Livingstone saw them from Zambia, and named them after his queen. The 1,078 meter wide and 103 meter high falls lay claim to the title of the largest in the world; although they are neither the highest nor widest they say they form the largest sheet of falling water. The falls are formed at the border of Zimbabwe and Zambia. Surrounding the falls for miles is a flat plateau, nothing except the plum of water vapour suggests there is anything there but more of the same vast grassland. As you approach the falls the plume grows and grows until you seem to be looking at some sort of watery volcano in mid eruption. The pathways surrounding the falls offer you panoramic views and the facilities on both sides offer you the chance to be stunned by this natural marvel. This sight, however, is only part of the attraction.
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Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/sarahdepper/2880135560/
The real excitement is at the top of the falls, in a small, calm part of the water, known as the Devil’s Pool, where the water flows so slowly that you can sit on the edge of the waterfall. The water rushes quickly past you as you look at the river cascading into the gorge below. The guides tell you it’s safe but your eyes weave an entirely different tale. The half hour walk in the stifling heat, the sketchy river crossings, and the harassment you will get from your guide if you don’t go in will be all you remember if you chicken out at this point, so dive right in. After taking the proverbial leap of faith into the refreshing water you feel the current push you toward edge and your instant doom. Panic takes hold, you try to fight it, and you thrash and flail and feel as though you will be swept over at any moment. “Why did I even get in?” You think. Then you take stock for a moment and see your guide lounging casually on the edge of the falls laughing hysterically at you. You approach with fear and hesitation, prepared to become smashed onto the slippery rocks below at any second, but it is surprisingly calm even at the very edge due to a rock wall that sits just below the surface of the water. Soon you are in the moment, everyone is yelling for you to take a picture, or to be in a picture, and you edge closer and closer to the small rock wall that forms the pool, barely even conscious that you are on the edge of one of the world’s great waterfalls.
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Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/i_pinz/1352528624/
Looking over the edge gives you vertigo; the trail of water falling to the bottom of the canyon drops far enough to make you question just how good of an idea it is to be sitting on the edge. Regardless, you pose for a photo or two with friends and then start to relax. You are in the world’s nicest infinity pool; you just don’t get a better view than this. The Zambezi River falls from the flat plain surrounding it into a gorge that almost magically appears just for your enjoyment. Rainbows are spat out by the
Creative Commons: flickr.com/photos/adamtina/200015083/
crashing water below making you wish your camera was waterproof. Have you ever seen a rainbow from above before?
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Although it seems remote and unvisited, thrill seekers have been coming every September-December to swim with the devil for years, though somehow they have been keeping this place a fantastic secret. I have often heard of Victoria Falls yet for some reason I had never heard of this amazing sideshow which became my main reason for making the trip. To dangle on the edge of a cliff is a memory, but to take a dip on the edge of a great waterfall is magical.
THANKS FOR READING
next issue coming st monday nov. 1 on rovemag.com