Special Edition: Exploring the South West (Day 2)

I enjoyed a rather nice lie in, before heading out at 10:30 with my new book to explore the South West part of the island.  Caves, craters, villages of religious cults, and abandoned platforms of moai were on the agenda today.

I started off by walking along the coast, past the airport to a cave (called Ana Kai Tangata) where there were cave paintings.  The sea was pretty violent, with massive waves crashing against the coast.  It was pretty spectacular.

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After a brief stop, I went on and climbed up the extinct volcano (Rano Kao) that forms this corner of the island.  Upon reaching the crater, I was greeted by one of the most amazing sights.  It was huge, about a kilometre in diameter, with huge pools of water and reeds inside.

The crater at Rano Kao

The crater at Rano Kao

Walking round the crater to the coast took a while, but I eventually reached the entrance to the village of Orongo.  This is where the cult of the birdman was celebrated.  Numerous stone houses were perched right on the top of the cliff, sandwiched between the vertical drops into the crater, or the Pacific Ocean.

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The houses at Orongo

Numerous petroglyphs were dotted around the site too, each with special significance (relating to the birdman competition, and the god it honoured).

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Petroglyphs

After spending an hour and a half at the site, I went out and walked round to the other side of the crater (to a place called Vai Atare).  It took several hours to get there, but I was greeted by an amazing view, putting the precarious position of Orongo in context.

Putting Orongo's position between the crater and the ocean into perspective

Putting Orongo’s position between the crater and the ocean into perspective

I headed back, intending to take a path shown on my map to the next place I wanted to visit, but unfortunately I couldn’t find it.  This meant that I had a six mile walk ahead, with a four mile walk after back to the hostel.  Very fortunately, two miles in, a very nice man (who turned out to be the director of the island’s hospital) stopped and asked if I wanted a lift.  I gratefully accepted his kind offer, as it cut an hour of walking off (and, having already walked about 15 miles that day already, I was a bit tired).

I arrived at the ruined platform of Vinapu where there are several toppled moai, along with some good examples of good masonry. After a good 30 minutes looking around the site, I walked back to the hostel.  A very long and tiring day, but a very good start to the holiday!

Special Edition: Arriving on Easter Island (Day 1)

After an early 5am start to pack and get to Santiago airport, I was on the LAN Chile flight to Easter Island.  Five hours of flying above the blue of the Pacific, with no land in sight, until suddenly, a peninsula came into view.

My first glimpse of Easter Island

My first glimpse of Easter Island

We landed, got through the airport, and I was met by the staff from the hostel, who gave me a flower garland before driving me to the hostel itself.  I dumped my stuff, and went for an explore of the town on the island – Hanga Roa.  There’s not a lot to the town, with it consisting of only about four roads, but there were lots of shops, restaurants, and cafés.  However, that was not was I was first looking for.  Top priority for me was to visit the post office to get a souvenir stamp in my passport.  Owing to the fact that Easter Island is a special territory of Chile, my domestic flight meant that I hadn’t had to go through any immigration procedures, and so the only proper way was to get a special stamp from the post office.  Having come all this way, I couldn’t not!  I went on to browse some shops, and elected to buy a guide book to the island – Amazon link here (written by the Honorary British Consul to the island, and former Cantab – we seem to get everywhere!).

At the end of the road lay the coast, and, with it being Easter Island and all that, there were a couple of moai standing there.

The two moai on the coast in Hanga Roa

The two moai on the coast in Hanga Roa

They are curious statues, and about 1,000 exist in total.  Their size varies enormously (between one and 20 metres – although the average is usually about six or so), and almost all of them face inland (towards where villages once stood in the past).  So many questions remain about them, yet there are no answers.  I appreciated the moai for a while, and gazed out towards the west over the sea.  The next nearest piece of land was 1,200 miles away or so – the Pitcairn Islands (British Overseas Territory), population 50.  I was so very far away from anywhere, but with only four whole days, I had a lot to explore!

Plugholes

I was thinking the other day about something my father said to me before I left for Chile, namely for me to “look out for the different direction that water flows down the plughole in the southern hemisphere”.  Once I started to think more and more, I felt somewhat dubious with respect to the veracity of this “fact”.  Why should water flow in the opposite direction in the southern hemisphere to the northern?

Let’s take a look at the facts for a bit.  Ok, we can safely assume that everywhere on the Earth has equal gravitation strength (yes there are minor anomalies, but they’re negligible in this context).  Additionally, the physical properties of water are pretty well known and fixed.

From these pieces of information, taking the assumption that all plugholes are of equal size, then we may conclude that all water flows out of the sink at the same rate.  From here we can consider two different options.

First, if we assume that the rotation rate of the water varies according to latitude, then at the equator, in order to flow differently at southern latitudes, it must flow straight down (so that south of the equator, it would flow the opposite way).  Not convinced that at the equator, every plughole has no rotation? No, me neither.  What factor would cause this anyway?

Our second possibility is even more ridiculous.  If we assume that the rotation rate of the water is also fixed, with only the direction varying, then the following should happen.  In the northern hemisphere, water would (for the sake of argument) rotate at 10 rpm in a clockwise fashion, while in the southern hemisphere, it would be 10 rpm anticlockwise (but both sinks would lose an equal volume of water per unit time).  If we consider the limit as latitude tends to 0 degrees, then at 1 metre north of the equator, the water would rotate differently to that found at 1 metre south of the equator, yet be exactly the same as the water found well within the arctic circle, several thousand miles away.

The most bizarre example would be the case where the equator bisects your plughole.  Assuming that water in the northern and southern hemispheres flows in different directions, the water in this case would rotate in two different directions at once.

Feel free to prove me wrong, but don’t quote the “Coriolis effect”.  For that to be the cause you need a plug the size of a hurricane (which somehow I doubt you possess), or to have extremely sensitive and tightly controlled laboratory conditions.

A Bit Of Argy-Bargy

Another Friday night in Bellavista, more fun was had, with a few more anecdotes to add to the rather long list.  As per usual, it started off with some food (hamburguesas a lo pobre) and beer.  JD and I got talking to some people at the next table who suggested a club to go to.  Unfortunately, we forgot the name, and so were unable to find it. We stopped and asked a few people, but to no avail.  A couple of blokes we asked politely offered us something that’s best described as “slightly suspect” to smoke.  Clearly we declined this offer.  After learning we were from Britain, one of them, who was Argentinian, decided to start talking about the Falkland Islands, at which point I made an executive decision to disappear off, dragging JD with me, as in spite of thinking along these lines, some things are best left unsaid. Being attacked by a 40 year old stoned Argentinian guy didn’t feature especially high on my agenda.

We returned to our old haunt, En Secreto, but unfortunately, it was full, which we’d never come across before.  Apparently there was a half hour wait to get in, which wasn’t ideal.  Some of our friends were already inside, and they came out to try to persuade the bloke to let us in, but without much success.  One guy waiting outside got a bit impatient with the delay, and so decided to indulge himself in a brawl with the chat guarding the door.  Unfortunate for him, but ideal for us, and, because his attention was somewhat diverted, we seized this opportunity, and sneaked inside while his back was turned.  It worked perfectly, and we stayed for a few hours (with of course yours truly doing some singing, as per usual).  Anyway, we had a good night, and, owing to the fact that I had to meet my boss this morning, I left JD to it (at about half 3 or so), and walked the two miles back to the hotel.

Anyway, I’m now in the hostel where I’ll be staying until Monday (when I fly to Easter Island), and it’s very near to Baquedano station, so assuming that tonight will be spent in Bellavista as well, the walk back will be nice and short.

Fun, Feasting, and Final Farewells

It’s time for another alliterative title for a post, and it’s been a busy week this week.

I turned up on Tuesday morning to find one of my colleagues smiling at me, and telling me to be careful when I opened the packet my tea’s in.  I was intrigued, and upon entering the office, saw that the lid was kept shut by the addition of a small rock.  Foolishly I assumed that he’d probably put something like one of those spring powered joke snakes that burst out when you open the lid.  How wrong I was.

Being a cautious fellow, I took the rock off carefully, and tentatively opened the lid, very slowly.  Inside, I saw a leg, and thin, brown, hairy leg.  I should have guessed.  A tarantula (of the same type as I saw on the weekend).  I took the box to my colleague’s office laughing, and asked if it was alive.  It was, and we released it onto the desk, before picking it up.  While the tarantula was rather intimidating, it was perfectly harmless, and a couple of minutes later, we released it unharmed outside.

My new friend

My new friend

 Anyway, moving on.  Last night was my final night at the mine, which was rather sad.  On the upside, we had a big barbecue, of sausages and a huge slab of beef (along with salads etc.).  One of the field assistants was in charge of cooking, and given that he used to be a butcher, was the perfect man for the job.  He cooked the meat perfectly, and it was delicious.

A brilliant barbecue

A brilliant barbecue

After eating, my colleagues very kindly gave me a gift, of some traditional chilean games, including a trompo, which is a traditional chilean spinning top, which you power by throwing.  I wasn’t very good, and definitely need a lot of practice, but apparently it often takes a few years to be good at it, so I wasn’t discouraged.  We played this for a while, and had a lot of fun, before calling it a night and heading to bed.

Anyway, all good things must come to an end, and sadly, today is my final day at the mine.  However, there’s an exciting week ahead, as on Monday morning, I’m off to Easter Island for the week, and I’m looking forward to that a great deal.

Special Edition: Football’s Coming Home

(Author’s Note: This post isn’t particularly special in itself per se, however, it is a long one, and there are plenty of anecdotes in it, but anyway, I digress.  Oh, and if there are any typos, please let me know, as at over 2,000 words, I’m bound to have missed one!)

It’s not possible to visit South America without playing football, and so that’s what I got up to last night with some of the guys from the office, in the form of an hour long four a side match at a small indoor stadium in the town of Nogales.  At prep school, I discovered that football was not one of my talents, and in the decade that has elapsed between then and now, my prowess could not be said to have improved.  As the match went on, the dismal skills of yours “might as well not have had legs for all the difference it would have made” truly became more and more apparent, and things weren’t helped by my difficulty in understanding various colloquialisms my teammates said to me, while out of breath, in a dialect of my third language.  Add this to my rather impressive hand-eye coordination skills, and you’ve got a winning combination.  The bloke whose job at the mine is to organise stuff like this came on to help our team halfway through, so we had one extra player, although seeing as I was worth about -2 players, our fortunes didn’t improve too much.  It was a laugh, but I was rotten from start to finish, but hey, at least I’m consistent.  However, at the end, we all got some excellent empanadas to eat, which was a nice surprise!

Empanada

Empanada

 

Unfortunately, my rather dismal performance is not just limited to football.  Most sports are beyond me, well beyond me.  While I am able to do stuff like play the bassoon, or write a sonnet (if suitable incentivised), sport has never been one of my talents.  So let’s have a summary of my extensive expertise.  Sit back, put the kettle on, and relax, for we’ve got a lot to get through!

We start off in the late 1990s, while I was at prep school.  Most of my time there was spent playing football, my skills of which clearly need no introduction.  Typically we were split into two groups during lessons, with one side wearing the home shirts of the school (a rather deep shade of maroon), and the other donning the away colours (maroon and white stripes).  Often this was done on an ability basis, with the two groups being taught separately, and the stripes were usually worse (no prizes for guessing which shirt of mine was used more often).

Cricket was a sport that I played in the summer of prep school, under the excellent tuition of a (sadly now late) Mr. Johnston (who was liked by all, and an absolute giant – over 2 metres tall, which to an eight year old is huge).  I’m not being sarcastic, he really was a lovely bloke, and was extremely patient, teaching me the rules of cricket and how to bowl.  One game on a summer’s afternoon that sticks in the mind was especially memorable because I attracted the ire of my fellow fielders when I and JF (another friend), who were supposed to be fielding, missed the catch (and therefore allowed the other team to score about 10 runs), because instead of paying attention, we were sitting on the grass having a nice chat (probably about Pokemon, seeing as it was at its peak at that point).  To be fair, it was a gorgeous summer’s day, and my school was in a heavily forested valley in the Surrey Hills.  Idyllic doesn’t even begin to describe the scene with any justice (or rather, the scene before my friends conceded quite a few runs – although to be fair, my friends on the other team were delighted. Every cloud eh?).

I recall that after prep school, when I moved on to the senior school (yes I was educated privately my whole life, “haters gonna hate” and all that), football was abolished, and we went on to play rugby.  Once more, this was not a sport that I was any good at, and the Saturday morning turnouts and pre-season training sessions were the bane of my life (and were very quickly abandoned, in spite of my mother’s attempts to bribe me with a cooked breakfast if I attended them).  My father once said that he was very proud when he watched me “play” in the U12 C team match (we only had one fixture that year), in spite of me doing essentially nothing.  After this introduction to the sport, the C team (who rather interestingly, with respect to the boys who’d been at the prep school, was mainly composed of former stripe wearers) was disbanded, and from Second Form onwards, we were reincorporated as a group known as the Legends (one of those delightfully sarcastic in-jokes that private schools love dreaming up).  I never really had any affinity to rugby, although being in the Legends didn’t really help matters for two reasons.  Firstly, we didn’t actually play any proper rugby, and secondly, most of our time was spent up on the hill fields, crawling through mud in the middle of winter, in the rain and gale force winds, wearing only a thin shirt and shorts.  That’s often how it is with sport at private school, lots of doses of very cold weather and broken limbs – for my unfortunate friends at least, I was fortunately exempted from the broken limbs aspect of this (presumably owing to my attaching a greater importance to self-preservation than to any sporting awards).  In fact several friends got frostbite once on a Duke of Edinburgh Gold Award expedition several years later, but that’s an anecdote for another day.  Things didn’t improve much in the Spring Term, which was dedicated to hockey.  Yes folks, I was a member of the Legends for that too, (as were most of the other rugby Legends too now that I think about it).

A couple of years later, I took up golf at the local club, and in spite of having weekly lessons for several years, never really managed to improve my game.  After becoming a member, I was given the worst handicap possible (as was customary for new members), which I could then improve by playing in competitions weekly.  Well, I was supposed to be able to improve it, although it’s somewhat difficult to improve on something if you can’t actually achieve the base mark.  Yes, I never once managed to reach my actual handicap.  The proverbial icing on the cake came when I was playing a casual game with a friend of mine (JS), who was much better at me than golf.  We’d agreed to play medal, which essentially means you can’t abandon a hole.  That was a big mistake.  On my local course, the fifth hole is a par five, with a large lake breaking up the fairway.  This lake was the recipient of a large number of my golf balls, so many in fact, that I ran out, and had to borrow some from JS.  I eventually holed the ball, with a respectable score of 54 (funnily enough, my handicap was 54 too, although that was for the whole course…).  It was after this incident that I invested in a lake golf ball retrieval device, and JS and I often only played the front nine, before spending the afternoon on the back nine, in the woods, scavenging lost golf balls, instead of playing the second half of the course.  One occasion we did this, he accidentally concussed himself, went a bit crazy for a few hours, and subsequently got angry with a tree for “annoying” him, but, like the D of E frostbite story, that’s an anecdote for another day.

Once Fifth Form came around, there was much more freedom in the choice of sport we could do.  Well aware of my limitless ability for failure, I elected at first to go to the gym.  It must be said at this point that I despise the gym as a place.  The atmosphere and environment I find highly unpleasant.  So why did I choose it?  Essentially for two main reasons, firstly, most of the Legends did as well (after four years together, we were loathe to split up, in spite of the Legends officially being disbanded at the end of Fourth Form), and secondly, it was an extremely easy way to be able to appear to be busy without actually doing anything (which is something I am good at!).  Luckily, the staff supervising the gym were rather gormless gap year students, who, when they did finally notice a my penchant for laziness and came over to berate me for it (often with a self satisfied smirk on their face), could be dealt with rather easily by employing a few sarcastic rejoinders.

Sixth Form then came around, and I decided to take up épée fencing.  This was a sport that I actively enjoyed, and was slightly better at than the others (not that the bar was set especially high – and, while we’re on the subject of bars, high jump was another unsuccessful venture of mine).  It was a lot of fun, and you learn how to fight someone with a sword, which is pretty exciting, so Lower Sixth wasn’t too bad.

By the time Upper Sixth appeared, I’d had enough of enforced sport, having experienced it and been appalling at it for well over a decade by now, and so I contrived a plan to deceive the system.  Essentially the way it worked was that at the beginning of each term, everyone signed up for a sport, and the list of names for each then comprised the register for each.  Clearly it didn’t take a genius to work out that if you failed to sign up in the first place, your name would not feature on the register, and therefore you would not be missed.  The plan worked perfectly, except once, when the staff conducted a year wide audit of who was and was not present, at which point my scheme was noticed (although the following week, and all subsequent weeks it worked perfectly again).  Luckily for me, due to a highly unfortunate bout of amnesia by the head of Sixth Form (who, to be honest, could not realistically or truthfully be described as competent by any stretch of the imagination), my name was not entered into the detention database on the school IT system (although to be honest, if it had, various friends could have removed my name from said system anyway using a selection of nefarious means to do so, hence it would never have been an issue really).  So instead of wasting time in the gym etc. I spent many enjoyable afternoons up with my friends (primarily ZKZ and KLL) who lived in the boarding house (being from Hong Kong and Guangzhou, it would have been rather difficult for them to have been day boys), drinking squash, eating biscuits, chatting with the matrons, and generally wasting time in a fun and sociable way.

I did however do some sport in the Upper Sixth, I wasn’t completely bone idle.  Cross country was what I opted for in the end.  I’m sure that it surprises you greatly to hear that, especially once I say that it was the least popular sport in the school, and one that was almost universally hated with a passion by pretty much every pupil.  However, all is not as it seems.  The bonus was that it was unsupervised.  This meant, once you were out of sight, you were essentially free to do whatever you desired.  So our plan consisted of running up the road and round the corner (until we were out of sight of the school), at which point we walked, chatted, and generally had a laugh.  Once we’d entered the woods (at a leisurely pace of course), we spent the afternoon enjoying fun pursuits such as playing hide and seek.  We almost went to the local pub once, which was down the road from the woods, but none of us remembered any money, so alas that plan didn’t come to fruition.  Who was in this band of miscreants you wonder?  I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that it was us boys who formerly made up the Legends.

Wild Tarantula Appeared!

As with all “Wild x/y/z appeared” things, you do need the compulsory Pokémon fight music in the background.

So there I was, in the pickup truck, on my way to supper, when all of a sudden, the field assistant yelled “¡Una araña!” [A spider!].  Ok, so he didn’t actually yell, but it fits the narrative better than “remarked” or “commented”, and adds to the generic sense of tension and excitement.  Anyway, I digress.

He stopped the truck, and I jumped out to have a closer look.  I spent a minute looking, but to no avail.  I assume it was because I was looking for something more similar in size to our UK house spiders.  How wrong I was…

One of my colleagues then came over and pointed out what it was that I was supposed to be seeing.  Let’s say it wasn’t a sight for the arachnophobic.  This chap was massive (about the size of the palm of my hand), and furry, oh so very furry.  My colleagues then informed me that in fact it was only a baby (awwwww), and the adult ones are really much larger (probably around twice the size).  Unfortunately, I didn’t get a photo as I didn’t have my phone on me, but after a chat, my colleagues said it was Una Araña Pollito, or a Rose Hair Tarantula to you and me.  Here is a good picture of how large these guys can grow [NB: If you don’t like spiders, I would strongly advise against clicking that link]!