Yes, I really do exist, although there is normally not much in the way of photographic evidence. And yes Ange, I did really get a haircut! I think I've brushed it about three times since.
Mark has been on a mission to add some photos of me to the family album (thanks Meg!). However these are a severely edited selection.
Getting this together makes me appreciate the never-ending patience of the man!
Some moments become a little unnerving.
Like when we arrived at Plitvice. A bus stop in a forest. A bus driver shooing us off the bus as we stared around in bewilderment wondering if he'd misinterpreted our desire to go and STAY at Plitvice Lakes, like the tourist information said we could.
And then Sanja stepped forward... "Accommodation? You want a room?" "It is close by, the nearest one to the park entrance" ... errrr... "Yes, please!" all the time wondering what on earth we were getting ourselves into. All around, nothing but trees. The road slicing through the green and silence on either side of us. "Sorry for the baby seat, I have to carry my daughter" - that's fine... I'm missing all the littlies! Turns out she's two and a bit and seriously cute (and has already noticed that sometimes her mother talks a different language). "My husband works for the National Park and we have an apartment to rent out. This year is hard because of the global crisis, no internet bookings so I meet all the buses." Quite a relief for us though at this point in time. I still don't see anything although apparently there are three hotels nearby.
After a windy little detour partly back the way we'd come we turned into a village, about the size of National Park village at home, similar function, although all the houses reminded me of pictures of the Swiss Alps. We had an apartment with lounge, kitchen, bathroom and two bedrooms, the other of which was potentially occupied that night or the next if Sanja could pick anyone else up from the bus. Excellent!
First steps into the forest the next morning and I felt like "Daughter of Eve from the far land of Spare Oom where eternal summer reigns around the bright city of War Drobe", and stepped into Narnia. The forest, the path, the streetlamp. We were only missing Mr Tumnus and the snow. A magical feeling.
The beech and fir forest dappled the sunlight into green and white speckles, off the path the deep leaf mould nurtured new seedlings and deadened the harsh sounds of the world outside, only metres away. The landscape was full of tree filled craters, perfectly round depressions; sink holes, as nature continuously reshapes the landscape in the spectacular way that has created Plitvice Lakes, a unique geological and ecological environment.
The path, winding it's way downhill, brought us to civilisation after a kilometre. All too quickly the magic dispersed into asphalt, people, people and vehicles. And the sound of rushing water. We couldn't see water but there was no mistaking the sound of it. Jurassic Park like bus/trains were filling and departing with station-like efficency - disappearing within seconds into the green and shade.
Well organised entry points to the park, 
information stands, food stalls and impressive toilet facilities are designed to cater to the masses of people using the enormous park with minimal impact on the fragile ecosystem. Changes in the chemical balances of the water will disrupt the continually evolving lake system so every care is taken to preserve the balance of nature. It's a former river which has developed into a series of lakes from the interaction of the chemical content of the water and the mosses forming travertine barriers that become little lakes with waterfalls connecting them to the next step down. Starting at the top, although we had seen pictures of the lakes, we had no concept of the scale of the system. A board walk spans most of it so it is easy to get closer to view the lakes and falls than many of the
earlier explorers would have been able. And always the sound of rushing water, loud and constant. And the continual tremble of the boardwalk under hundreds of footsteps. Not having a tripod was suddenly ok. I'd have to try the long exposures propped against the handrail and handheld as best as I could. Couldn't have kept a tripod still anyway with the constant pounding of feet.
Water... back in my element, and for the first time for ages, wanted to just be able to take the time to indulge myself. 
Didn't really suit the hoards following me though so it took a while to be able to get a sense of the place and photograph from within. The park's opening and closing hours, and the numbers of people doing the anything from 2 to 8 hour walks are not conducive to photographing in perfect landscape photography conditions.
The wildlife, particularly the fish and ducks are used to people, the fish come close to the waters edge, following the path that surrounds the lake. They even follow the electric boats out and greet them back in as they cross backwards and forwards, and up and down the main lake.
The whole park is amazing and in summer, inundated with tourists, mainly locals who come to stay in one of the many villages hidden in the forest, like ours. Another place to add to the list for a time of year when the people numbers are less.
As we travel I can't help waiting to meet someone from home. It's always happened. We're also looking for genetic clues to Mark's heritage so we notice body and face structure. But it was the body language that got me. A simple gesture that you'd never in a million years expect to be a giveaway to nationality. A deckie on a large and luxurious yacht (read: LARGE and LUXURIOUS in considerably bolder and larger font size than my computer is capable of) washing the transom down(at the far end of this picture). It was just the way he flicked the hose, of all things; maybe other, unnoticed details completed the picture, I don't know. My subconscious must have stored memories of that gesture over my lifetime and immediately I nudged Mark "that guy's a Kiwi, I'm sure". We debated the issue as we walked down the promenade in Trogir, then forgot all about it for a while.
We got to Trogir accidentally. Our good friend Phil had talked about it and it sounded wonderful but it hadn't seriously been on the agenda when we left Sucuraj. We'd planned to stop at Split. The drive in on the bus did nothing for us and after debating our plans with one of the many zimmerwomen offering accommodation at the bus station, Mark went off to get more information. He arrived back with our tickets already booked to Trogir. The bus left in about 15 mins. It's a UNESCO world heritage site, another old city that is still used in everyday life. As someone said to me "if we 
don't use these buildings, where would we go? And what would happen to them?" There are only so many museums you can create obviously. To our delight we easily got accommodation for the night in the Old Town, and at a very reasonable price. Most of the buildings have been refurbished inside to create modern comfortable accommodation for visitors. Trogir trades on it's tourism. And port charges I imagine - the large and luxurious yacht was only one of about 4 in port. And they kept coming.
Daniel, our guide, led us as we wove our way through the old cobbled and narrow streets up the stairs to our first story accommodation. The walls were at least 500mm thick. A really old 
building. The town was fascinating, the streets so narrow and the houses so high that it was like walking in a maze, although hard to get lost because eventually you got to water, it's a small island. Shops everywhere, of course more souvenir shops than you could poke a stick at, but more hairdressers per square meter than anywhere. In fact this was the first time I'd stumbled across a hairdresser, so, being continually hot with my mop of hair, I took full advantage of this finding and had all my hair chopped off. Not quite as short as Mark's, but shorter than I've had it since Uni, so many years ago. Don't think I've had to brush it since!
The place felt just right, so we booked another night which meant packing up and moving, but we enjoyed a similar standard of comfort in this apartment so it was worth it to be able to make the most of our stay.
Up the ruins of the old castle was a real test for my fear of heights, especially the walk up the unsupported steps to the battlements, and around the wall. Luckily it was so small that it was over before I knew it, like one of those 
fairground rides you can't help but climb onto, knowing that as soon as it starts you'll be wanting it to stop. Wondering why you paid all that money to scare yourself silly. But we did get our faces on a postcard. "...Included in the price". Must put that on the list of tacky things to do for tourists in Rotorua.
Wandering up the promenade the next morning, Mark suddenly said "he is from NZ, he's got a map tattooed under his arm!" so we stopped for a chat. Was really good to talk to someone from home and it wasn't until afterwards that we appreciated some of the reasons. We could talk fast; we hadn't realised how slowly we'd been talking to people to make ourselves understood until then. We could use vernacular and be understood. We laughed at the same things. We laughed even without finishing sentences because we all knew what came next. We understood the culture without it having to be explained. He's living a Kiwi guy's dream - perpetual summer, cruising the Adriatic and Aegean in the northern summer and back home to Dunedin for the NZ summer. No ties. Sees a whole different world than we do and is having a great time. So are we.
He was on a mission, must've been late. He was definitely in no mood for idle chit-chat. No-one was immune.A certain camaraderie develops in a group when, one by one, each member is admonished for one misdemeanour or another. No standing up on the bus. No questions on the bus. No trying to get something from a bag in the top rack. We all gave each other sympathetic grins when, yet again, someone made the mistake of trying to engage the bus driver.
We'd missed an obvious and crucial detail on our small scale map of Croatia, and, having left the guide book at home, didn't have the travel advice that would have been helpful. And must have missed that bit on the news a few years ago. Namely that Bosnia owns a bit of beach real estate up the Dalmatian Coast. About 40km in fact. Just enough to fit in two border posts and a few guards with guns. The notice from the bus driver in Croatian and the hurried delving in handbags and down shirts gave me just enough information to realise, with a minor amount of panic, that for the first time ever, I'd forgotten the most basic travellers rule, "keep your passport on you at all times" and had left them locked away in our packs. Outside in the luggage compartment of the bus. I got up to check whether we could access them as the guard walked up to the bus. "Go Back to Your Seat. Sit Down, Sit Down, PLEASE!" Tried to explain our predicament. "Go Back to Your Seat. Sit Down, Sit Down, PLEASE!" Okie Dokie. We'll just play this one out. See what the border guards do. Luckily two girls in front of us had done the same, and were glad they weren't the only ones. Simple - friendly wave from the guard and we could hop off and retrieve our passports. Whew. Dunno what all the fuss was about.
Two girls across from us made a visit to the loo on one stop, asking us if we'd make sure the driver knew if they weren't back in time. No, he was leaving regardless. "Next bus, Next bus!" as he revved the engine and started to back out. Luckily they squeezed in the door at that very moment. No-one dared leave the bus after that.
Quite glad to be unceremoniously dumped beside the road above Drvinik on our way to Sucuraj on the island of Hvar. Although every step we walked downhill came with it a realisation that we'd have to lug our packs back up the steep hill, in the heat, to the bus stop in a few days time. Great.
We'd really been looking forward to getting to Sucuraj, on the recommendation of Pauline in Rotorua, who has family connections there. 
Thank you Pauline! A small fishing village on the eastern tip of the island, it looked a lovely spot to relax for a few days. We stopped in at the Bistro of Pauline's cousin, Tony, for a beer (of course!) and to discover the whereabouts of our accommodation. I had no idea. No address (not that it would have made the faintest difference) and no picture. Turned out to be across the road from the water and very comfortable. Perfect! Dinner back at Tony's topped it off. An excellent meal.
The time we spent there was relaxing - several swims a day in the calm, crystal clear, azure
water. We got around the pebble beaches and the necessity for crocs in and out of the water by diving in off the small pier. And we discovered other important differences from beaches at home. You need something more than a beach towel to lie on. Concrete, rocks and pebbles are hard. Kids take water pistols to the beach and everyone has a blow up air bed thingy for in and out of the water. Because there are no waves. No boogy boards, surf boards or skim boards. There are no waves. Buckets are 
used for water not sand. People float around on blow up chairs. It's just like a great big ginormous swimming pool. We had greater bouyancy in the water. And we liked it. That's our accommodation across the bay - the big white house. We had a balcony on the side, just below the two windows under the roof.
No shops, no readily accessible internet; we'd
saunter into the village for a cup of coffee in the morning, have a swim, have a sleep, back for either a swim or and iced coffee or beer in the village, and find somewhere to eat for the evening. There were many options - summer season in full swing - and we found a local winery with excellent wine. Still trying to work out how we can get a crate home. Definitely a good tonic after Athens.
Mark tells me that we must always walk as much down as we do up. I don't believe him. It's at least twice as much up. Especially in Dubrovnik.We'd booked accommodation with warm, friendly and wonderful people at Barum Apartments. It was reasonably priced because it was out of the old city, extremely well compensated for by the large and comfortable room and free rides in and out of town at our leisure, offered by the hosts.
Just a five minute walk down (note: DOWN) to the plentiful local restaurants, where you come away weighing twice as much as you started. And have to walk twice as far uphill to bed. On a full stomach. "Serves you right", I hear you say? (Especially you, Jute) Yes, we ate less after that.
We walked the walls of the old city, along with most of the rest of the world it seemed. I'm getting used to that, and a bit less tetchy about it. After all, like me, they paid to come and have a good time. I just wish they'd all come and do it after I'd gone, that's all. Considering the construction and defence of these cities, back so many hundreds of years, is mind-boggling to us, so used to modern machines to do the heavy work, particularly in battle, where mass destruction of people and property can be wrought with the touch of a button.
Sheer drops, thick, thick castle walls and ancient houses still lived in and utilised today as they always have been, modern
conveniences incorporated into the old system. Dubrovnik still bears the scars of the most recent hostilities, and defence of the city during the Bosnian war, still managing, like so many times before, to survive siege of the city by enemy forces. A very touching tribute to soldiers and civilians killed in this dispute has been housed in one of the most beautiful buildings.
Customs are continued to entertain the tourists and we witnessed the evening pomp and ceremony of setting the guards at the town gates. Even these cute events are a reminder of the necessities of living in a walled city. Shut the door behind you when you come in.
The rugged coastline allows for no beaches, but the rocks beneath the castle wall sprout bars, chairs and tables perched precariously above the water, providing a watering hole base for the sunbathers in bikinis and budgie smugglers draped over the rocks, sunning themselves, seal like.
Only one night here, and we wish we'd allowed more. Still, just enough for a taste, and a haircut of the extremely short variety. The pebble beaches north of the city looked mighty enticing on our bus-ride out.
Ahoy There Me Hearties!
Those of you who know me well can attest to my ability to be seasick on a moored boat in
completely calm conditions. Knowing that we would have several long ferry rides within Greece I booked cabins, "with facilities" (meaning a basin of your own to throw up in) deciding the extra expense beat the mad scramble down ship corridors trying to find the nearest bathroom without throwing up. I know, I've done it. Quite a few times.
Our first long trip was to Athens from Limnos. The boat was large. Our cabin was (relatively) large. It had a basin (essential) and a good shower (bonus). And we had our own private deck. And slippers. And reserved seats in the lounge. Niiiiiice. 
Sunsets with a beer and ginger (just precautionary you know) on the deck. And the best thing? The Aegean doesn't appear to have any waves; flat as a millpond, flat as a board, flat as a pancake and flat as a really flat thing. We pretended we were on a cruise, one that would finish tomorrow morning, but a cruise, nonetheless. Yep, this was definitely the way to travel.
Travelling Athens to Croatia involved a bus trip to Patras (we were going to train it but that's a whole nother multipage saga), cruise, oops, ferry ride to Bari in Italy and then another ferry ride to Dubrovnik; both of which were overnighters as well. Arriving at the bus station (two minutes from the train station and the large and busy port... can you imagine that in New Zealand? Heavens, that would mean transport efficiency... can't have that!) we were most pleased to be able to wander past the gun toting guard at the entrance to find our ferry right there beside us. Then we discovered that our internet tickets had to be redeemed at the ticket office, at the OTHER end of the port - about 100km trudge away, past multiple behemoths disgorging and engorging loads of shopping bag laden sunseekers, being refuelled by tankers bearing NO SMOKING signs that could be read several miles away.
Every day has been between 32 and 35deg and we both bought exactly 95% too many clothes, shoes, wet weather gear, cold weather gear, camera gear (well, me anyway) which has been slightly heavy to lug around when we don't need it. So we trudged... you know -
"To trudge: the slow, weary, depressing yet determined walk of a man who has nothing left in life except the impulse to simply soldier on." (Geoffrey Chaucer in "A Knight's Tale");
before leaving Mark halfway in case they needed to scan/check our luggage or we had to clear customs. I ignored the groups of seedy looking guys hanging around on the other side of the razor wired fence, I didn't know what they wanted, but I was absolutely convinced I wasn't going to supply it for them. Two similar looking guys skulked towards me, then, looking both ways, decided the guard was out of harm's way and scuttled over what was obviously a well worn route up the tree and through/over the razor wire - apparently the video cameras are out of range here too. Curiouser and curiouser.
Anyway, tickets finally in hand, a little befuddled because there seemed to be no customs procedures, and the police manning the x-ray machine didn't show any interest in checking
my gear at all, we were allowed on board. Did I mention we'd arrived about lunchtime? And boarding wasn't till 3.30pm? And it was pretty hot? We did find the beer though. A relief to find ourselves in an even more spacious cabin, air conditioning and with a more private deck - with tables, but no chairs. Apparently partygoers throw them overboard; good plan. And this ship, despite being one of the smaller ones in port, had a swimming pool and sundeck, complete with the prerequisite ancient prune like bodies stretched out on the sunbeds. On with the cruise. We like this form of travel.
Sunrise as we sailed up the Italian Coast, enjoying the distant, softly rolling, fertile, landscape; a patchwork of multiple and varied crops that was in stark contrast to all of Greece that we'd seen so far; an ancient, hard and rugged rocky landscape, growing only hardy grapes and 
olives, that has had it's impact on the people. Arriving at 9am, our day in Bari was spent wandering the ancient streets of the old city, hanging out for the cafes and bars to open so that we could cool down with a beer (again). Before we left the port we attempted to get our tickets to Dubrovnik only to find that the office didn't open until 7pm. Boat left at 8pm so was hoping for no hiccups. We saw the ferry
then, it looked like it had done service in WW2, huddled up beside the wharf, with it's bow mouth open, waiting to gobble it's load of trucks and cars. Well, we'd already decided that looks could be deceiving and we'd paid more for the cabin anyway, so it must be good.
About 6.30pm, having spent the last hour collecting circle imprints on our bodies from trying to sleep on the mesh metal seats in the air-conditioned waiting area, I joined the quickly expanding queue at the counter, and was pretty convinced there was no way that all these people were going to fit on the ship, especially the family group numbering about 11,393. I mentally prepared to make a run for it as soon as we saw the old gangplank open. Packs are good sometimes.
Once we were drafted to our respective ends of the ship we could see how all these people could make an overnight journey on board. The ceiling was inches above Mark's head and our cabin was a cupboard. Lucky I'd spent all that extra money and booked "with facilities" here, there had to be extra room because a minuscule basin (that's the basin behind the door) had to fit in as well. And we had a porthole, it didn't open but at least I could see outside. Did I mention I was claustrophobic? And that the air conditioning only sort of worked? And that the shower and toilet were up in the bow? Water sounds all around. The bonus? Still no waves. I don't think they make them over here. I lasted, a couple of inches under the ceiling, until about 4.30am, when dozing on the lifeboat boxes up on deck held far more appeal than our cupboard. Mark had one of the best sleeps of our trip that night.
Despite the crowed quarters, the public areas of the ship showed a faded elegance that spoke of a more illustrious history for the old girl than just a troop ship. 
The restaurant was decked out with perfectly set tables on starched white linen, mirror backdrops and real plants looping their way around the wrought iron decoration. The stairs had elegant black wrought iron, richly varnished mahogany hand rails and axminster carpet. Completely out of character with the rest of our impression. Our waiter looked as if he could have played prop for Taranaki; finesse was definitely not a strong point. I was pretty glad to see Dubrovnik snuggled around the port at the base of a very Southern Alps looking landscape in the morning. Definitely over ships as a form of long distance transport now. And still not a wave in sight. Millpond.
Admittedly, working our way up the hill towards the Acropolis in the heat of the Athens morning was not a great plan. Well, it wasn't actually a plan, which is why it happened like that; no-one in their right mind would have chosen to have visited at that time of day. "Mad dogs and Englishmen..." and all that.After the immersion in history at Kastro Myrina, I hoped to be able to get a very real sense of this place, a place that is a reminder of a time when Greece felt they led the world in architectural development and philosophical thinking. To be able to imagine what the people were like back then as they went about their daily lives, to get a sense of the importance of their deities that they built temples of such grandeur and geometric perfection.
They were there, the people, in their droves; wrong generation, wrong intent. "...and crawling, on the planet's face, some insects, called the human race. Lost in time, and lost in space...and meaning" - (Char) The Criminologist - Rocky Horror Picture Show.
They rushed up the path, trying to be polite as they shoved to claim a spot in which to be photographed against an ancient background,
many with no idea exactly what it was they were posing in front of, just knowing that they needed to record that they had been there. A tide of people surging against the mostly unyielding bulk of this ancient architecture. Perching on ledges, finding bits of marble to stand on, claiming their ground and oblivious to the signs and ropes advising the damage to these bits of ancient history caused by constant attack of the touristic kind.
Behaviour any worse than the plundering of the last century when the greater part of the sculptural decoration was claimed as souvenirs by Lord Elgin and sold to the British Museum? Jury is out on that one, on one hand they have been preserved, on the other, why should they be there and not in their rightful location. Any worse than the damage inflicted over the last 50 years by the pollution of the city that trades so desperately on it's connection to these monuments? This space, much of which was built as temples for worship, seems to have lost it's sacred soul. Dissolved over the years with the onslaught of these insects called the human race.
Loud voices and sandaled feet pounding the treacherously slippery marble steps and paths, worn to glass like glaze over the centuries, stopping to pose yet again, or stare into the camera screen, chimping as they go. Swarms buzzing around the German/American/Greek/Dutch/Russian speaking guides, looking vacant now - information overload into an overheated brain. Eyes glazed but cameras still clicking on command. I found myself photographing the people photographing themselves, rather than the monuments or the sense of them.
It was not what I expected. It was literally a construction site, an empty shell of a civilization moved on, albeit hugely impressive for the sheer scale of the intent, design and construction, despite the current one clinging to this past in the hope that they may again reach that zenith.
The spirit is still there, somewhere, slipped back to the caves and this outcrop of rock that supports all. Waiting for the madness to subside.
And what has Che Guevara have to do with it anyway?
