“Oh great. I’m in the middle of nowhere and hit a road with a construction project,” I muttered to myself. What other reason would they have in reducing the speed nearly in half, from 65 MPH to 30?

I slowed down expecting to see an orange vested flagger with a stop sign up head. Only, another speed limit sign greeted me with information to reduce my speed to 15. Then 5. “What in the world is going on?” I wondered. Soon the pavement gave way to a dirt road. I still wasn’t going 5 until I rounded a corner and gained perspective of my location. My eyes popped out and a huge smile lit up my face as I yelled out loud from sheer excitement and adrenaline.

I looked down over the greater than 1,000 vertical feet separating me from an immense valley below. The vegetation's various greens, where I had abruptly stopped my car, had quickly turned into different shades of desert reds, browns, and tans down below. Giant mesas and slender pinnacles burst off the valley floor at different intervals, like waves slowly rolling into a seaside cliff. I realized I had been driving on a high plateau for miles and this was the end of the road. The only way down was this treacherous dirt road, slowly winding its way across a completely vertical cliffside.

No shoulder existed and there was barely enough room for a car to pass in the other direction. The only barrier preventing an errant driving from flying off the edge was a continual loose gravel bumper piled a foot high and ten inches wide. Each turn revealed a new scene and different vantage point. In my mind, I knew that many people had traveled down this road before, but it was my first time and I didn't even known it existed. It was all new and completely unexpected. I felt like an early Western explorer traveling unknown lands. My heart raced as I felt euphoric sensations and elation like my favorite football team had just caught a winning touchdown pass in the Super Bowl. Periodically yelling to no one at all, I kept my white knuckles wrapped around the steering wheel as I soaked in the visual sensory overload accompanied with the manageable but apparent danger.

I finally reached the bottom and the road became paved again. I stopped and got out of the car to see where I had just come from and wondered how they made that road in the first place. The plateau towered above the valley like an impregnable fortress that no enemy could ever conquer. I chuckled to myself as I climbed back into my car and continued forward but immediately saw another dirt road veering to the left. There were no signs or indications as to what it was. I impulsively swerved my car ninety degrees, kicking up a trail of dust as I drove towards the unknown. I was curious to see what lay ahead. The only marker indicated the road may be impassible when wet. I drove on.

The straight path soon curved around a dazzling display of geology. Every bend would reveal a new towering set of rock formations that had been hidden by the mesas directly in front of me. The road twisted and turned around a 17 mile trail I came to find out was appropriately called Valley of the Gods. I was completely spell bound and mesmerized by the colors of the desert sandstone and the colossal formations jutting out from the arid valley floor. On my right, arose what looked like a giant stone hand reaching out of the earth and stretching nearly two hundred feet towards the clouds. On my left, towering pinnacles changed shapes to elongated massive fins as I slowly drove past and their profiles were revealed. As much as I was enthralled with my current location and wanted to soak in every view, I was just as enticed to quickly proceed because of the hidden grandeur that lay around the next corner. Shadows began stretching across the valley floor and soon only one side of the rock formations reflected the rusted iron deposits that gave the rock its red color like the surface of Mars.

But the night was falling as the desert world began to settle down. I passed one or two cars crossing my path as the sun set in the beautiful West behind the looming plateau above everything. And to the East, as if it were right on cue from a clichéd Disney movie, a full moon broke through a band of clouds as lightening strikes lit up layer upon layer of rocky mesa in the dark distance. I stopped the car and got out again. The warm air filled my nostrils and gently blew across my face and body. All I could hear were the rustling leaves of a few cottonwood trees lining a dried up river bed. The scenery that smacked me into elation, now stirred feelings of solitude and calm. I never wanted this peaceful feeling to leave me. I decided to stay here for the night.

Seeing the lightening in the distance, but not yet hearing thunder, I thought about flash floods and a scene from Into The Wild crossed my mind. Not wanting to have my car swept away, I backed up a dried riverbed where the drainage would be funneled into the direction of where the storm was coming from. That way, the storm would have to pass over me first and give me a warning as to its where about, as opposed to being hit down hill by accumulated moisture that had turned into forceful river miles away.

I looked out at the moon illuminated landscape in front of me and listened to the wind start howling as a few drops of rain blew down. I watched and waited patiently for the storm to become my violent before finally deciding to go to bed. I grabbed my pillow and curled up to try and get some sleep.

It didn’t seem long before the sun rose. I circled around and drove through the Valley of the Gods a second time in what had to be the most beautiful commute on the planet. Breakfast in the nearby town of Bluff called to me before I headed towards the epic and classic Western scenery of Monument Valley.

From there I would make my way through Southeastern Utah. It was more like a scouting trip though, as I felt as silly as a tourist snapping up pictures in Times Square and the Statue of Liberty and thinking they've experienced New York City. Clicking away pictures on my cell phone (forgot my camera battery charger and it died on day one) couldn't capture the sheer massive scale, palate of subtle colors, and tranquil solitude of the area. One could spend an entire summer in the region and not run out of places to explore and see.

And yet, the splendor didn't occur from posing in front of the idyllic scenes before zipping off to the next icon with the accompanying zoo of humanity heading the same direction. Escaping the anxiety, stress, and illusionsary distractions of our modern existence were a ready welcome. Hitting the back trails and separating yourself from the rank and file, truly helps capture the exhilarating remoteness and the accompanying peace of mind of having nothing on your plate but the magnificence in front of you. That, is a discovery without price.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on August 1, 2010 from Bluff, United States
from the travel blog: Southern Utah
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It would be a perfect opportunity to go since he would already be there, so he had one of his employees call and book the ticket for Jake Langi. Nervous about the different name, I asked him what will happen when I go to the airport and they ask for ID and the ticket doesn't match. He looked at me and laughed and said "This is Tonga, they don't check ID's". His flight was already booked to capacity so I took one later in the afternoon.

Another friend I knew from Salt Lake picked me up in the morning and showed me around Tongatapu, bought me lunch and a coconut to sip on as we ate on the pier before my flight. At the airport he told the ticket agent the listed name of Jake Langi. She handed him the ticket. He pointed in my direction. She looked at me and started laughing, knowing my last name wasn't Langi and that I just got the local rate on my flight and not the gringo rate. In 45 minutes I would land in Vava'u.

Sione and a cousin came to get me in an SUV with a back window broken out and plastic covering the empty space. The tropical island setting didn't disappoint, as we winded our way to town through palm trees and endless blue skies. Climbing a hill overlooking the island we stopped to drop off the cousin and owner of the car we were driving. I thought we would come back later to return the vehicle, but I never saw the guy again and we kept the ride nearly the whole time we were there. We meandered into town and found another guy I knew from home who we would be staying with. "Yeah most of the people deported back here are from Glendale (a neighborhood in SLC)," Sione said with a laugh.

Now Andrew lived in a home without running water or electricity. Not because there isn't the infrastructure, he just didn't want to pay utility bills. Each night we would light candles to walk around. There was a toilet, but to flush you had to fill up a bucket of water from a sima or rainwater storage tank to pour into the bowl. There are no rivers so each home collects their own water. The doors were never locked or even closed for that matter, even at night. Every day it seemed like there was some new person crashed out on couch and another one gone. I slept with a mosquito coil on the bed with me to try to repeal the worst creature on the planet. Still, they had a feast on my feet. But each night before bed we headed to town to drink kava.

I was surprised to find out we were drinking on the lawn of the police station. A couple of pick nick styles benches sat parallel with a mixed bowl in the middle. We sat down with the on-duty officers and others, and began drinking. The phone rang inside and one guy sprang up to answer to call. When he came back he had a nice sit-down chair with a back and arm rests. He brought it down to me and told me to sit. I felt uncomfortable sitting in a nice chair with every one else on benches but knew it a wonderfully kind gesture and thanked him. Similar small acts of kindness were the norm around here. Everyone made me feel welcome and everyone shared everything. From the police station we moved on.

Next, we headed to the firehouse next door where a larger gathering was assembled. This party had a to'a or a woman that was serving the kava, hence the large turn out. I looked around and wanted to take some pictures but didn't dare to pull out my camera. The guy sitting next to me was the fire chief and had forearms almost the size of my thighs. No exaggeration. Most people were very friendly and spoke to me in various levels of English.

The to'a always shot me seductive glance each time she poured my coconut shell. I knew why there were more people here than the police station where one of the cops was pouring. Woman are forbidden from these parties, so to have one flirting, while feeling the effects of the drink was nice. It's bad odds for the 25 guys drinking, but they have a fun way of making it a battle of wits, cutting each other down in a manner of friendliness, trying to get the to'a to laugh or just talk with them. They had me laughing sometimes without even knowing what they were talking about.

The next day me Sione and some other guy crammed in the front of a small truck because I didn't want to risk sunburn driving around in the open bed. Agents confiscated my only sunscreen from my carry on bag in New Zealand and no one sells sunscreen in Tonga because the locals don't need any. (I did finally find some 15 SPF.) We cruised down dirt roads, stopped while someone would climb a coconut tree and throw them hurling directly at us. Everyone laughed at the person who had to dodge the latest round. Taking a machete, they whacked off the tops and we hydrated in the hot sun before heading on the dusty island road again. People jumped off at various points and others flagged us down to jump in the back, heading into town. When we arrived, someone had cooked us a meal. I never had to pay for food because different random people were always feeding us or cooking us a meal.

We took the sheep and kumala down by the water and listened to the surf gently splashing. We finished the meal and just laid out looking at the stars. Sione looked over and noticed one guy asleep.
"Funga go take the plates to the car put it neutral," he said.
"We're leaving?" I asked.
"Yeah but be quite."
"What about that guy sleeping? How will he get home?"
"He knows the rules, if you snooze you lose. Funga go."

We all started creeping slowly to make any loud or sudden movements.
We put the rest of the stuff in the car and put it in neutral and started pushing. Just then the guy woke up. Everyone started laughing and he ran over to the car so he didn't get left. A couple of nights before I heard a story of someone falling asleep at a card table and the guy telling the story took his cigarette and gave the one sleeping "an Indian dot on his forehead."

The guy sleeping protested, saying he just had his eyes closed for a minute and responded with dousing flammable liquid on the offender and lighting his clothes on fire. Each escalation has everyone listening to the story laughing harder and harder. The grand finale ended with the Indian dot giver, lighting two bags of garbage on fire in the kitchen, because it was the sleepers' girlfriends apartment. The moral of the story is don't fall asleep if you're partying with Tongans.

As we went home all the car died on a huge hill. We tried rolling it a ways and then starting it from neutral. That didn't work, so we pulled to a flat driveway. Popping the hood, one passenger took his shirt off wrapped it around his arm and started sticking it under and around the hot engine. Finding what was the starter he found a huge nut and bolt and began wailing on the metal trying to get a spark. Andrew kept turning to key to no avail.

The person whose driveway we are were in turned on some porch lights and came out to see what all the commotion was. They began to speak in Tongan for a minute and the guy with the shirt wrapped around his arm hands the new guy the super sized nut and bolt. Guy number two reaches into the same spot and begins pounding away. Still nothing. So he goes into his house and comes back out with battery cables and charger. That didn't work either and he disappears into his house again.

"Alright we're going to push it up this hill to Kentonis parents. Jake you're the lightest so you get in and steer. Turn on the hazard lights, and be ready to hit the brakes when we tell you," Sione said.

I climbed in as three guys started pushing the SUV up a hill like upper Virginia Street in Salt Lake. I cranked the wheel, where the driveway met the main road and thought there is no way the three of them are going to push it up this hill. They rocked it back and forth a couple of times to get over a dip and then started up the hill. Slowly the car started moving as I could hear them grunting and panting for air.
At various point one would yell 'Brakes' and I would stop the car while they regained their breath.

Pushing it uphill a good 150 feet, one guy started saying he couldn't go anymore. Sione just kept commanding "Go Go Go" in Tongan. The grunts and breathing became stronger. Each body was slumped lower to the ground. I was scared one would just quit, so had my foot hovering over the brakes just in case. Finally, we reached the home and I cranked the wheel and rolled it into the owners parents driveway.

I wanted to just burst out laughing at the whole scenario, not believing they actually did it, but thought it might be rude since I was sitting inside the whole time while they were still panting for oxygen. We walked back home not knowing how we would get to the airport tomorrow. But sure enough there was some random guy I had never seen before, there to pick us up before the clock struck 7:00.

Back on Tongatapu Island, Sione's younger brother was set to arrive in town, and the party doesn't start until he walks in. Sione's house is like a community home where there were always different kids and or cousins staying there for a night or three. Loud and boisterous with smiles and laughs to uplift a morgue Keli showed up with bags of candy one morning. All the children flocked to Keli to collect their bounty as I chomped on my breakfast of Twix and Snicker bars. We ended up driving around visiting family and Keli would always hand them over a few bills folded up. Within a couple of hours he proclaimed he was already out of cash and had to go back to the ATM for a refill.

We ended up at a bar while we waited for Sione and his wife to drop the kids off back home over twenty kilometers away and come back into town. We started talking about what we've been up to and though I knew he was into some good things I didn't know to what extent. Aside from running a resort outside of the Grand Canyon, he owns three bars in Salt Lake, and another in San Francisco besides owning homes in three different locations. I was intrigued but shouldn't have been too surprised. Later that night he took about ten of us out to dinner. By this time we had been drinking for a few hours.

Sitting at the table was a mix of family and then some of the old boys I used to run with. A couple had done prison time and had the tattoos to show for it. They were hard and crazy gangsters back home but now were getting clowned on by Keli.

"Remember when we were kids and you guys all used to go out but you all would never take me anywhere? Well now look at all your fat asses now. Who's footing the bill now, bitches?" he said followed by roaring laughter.

Then he started picking on each one individually, like the opposite of a celebrity roast, as all of their wives doubled over from laughing so hard. Each character smiled sheepishly when it was his turn. My how the tables had turned. We stayed laughing into the night before I got the heebie jeebies scared out of me.

As we drove home Keli started talking with Sione about some kid. I wasn't really paying attention until I heard the end.

"Wait, wait, wait. You saw what? Sione is this true? You saw him too?"

Sione in all manner of seriousness, looked me in the eye and simply nodded. My eyes grew bigger.

"So what happened again Kel?"

"We would drive down this road every day and their were always these two kids on the side selling a little fruit and peppers. Small things like that, ya know. They were way out in the middle of nowhere between towns and I always felt sorry for them, so I began stop and buy a few things from them. So for like three or four days I stopped and bought some of the little fruits they had."

"Like you handed him money and he took it and you got real fruits from him?" I asked with my jaw dropping.

"Yeah, just like small little things of fruit. Then one night I was driving alone and saw them walking. I knew it was this kid because he always carried this little machete and he was always with his sister. So I pulled over to give them a ride and rolled down the window and said 'Mafi."

"How did you know his name?" Sione asked.

"I just asked him what his name was one of the times we stopped there" Keli responded. "So anyway I rolled down the window and yelled 'Mafi come here I'll drive you home', and he just looked back at me and kept walking. So again I'm said 'Mafi come.' The next thing I knew they started running. The brush on the side of the road was really high and they just turned into it and like disappeared."

"What do you mean?" I asked

"I mean it was like they started slithering through the grass lightening quick, like Children of the Corn shit and just disappeared. It scared the shit out of me and I screamed and sped the hell out of there."

" They slithered through the grass? Oh my God. You're creeping me out," I said.

"I'm still creeped out but that's not it. When I went to pick up Sione I told him what happened and some lady overheard our us and said that there was a boy named Mafi from Houma who was killed by a drunk driver, along with his little sister, a few years ago."

I could feel chills racing up and down my neck and I looked over and all the hairs on Keli's arm were standing straight in the air with big goose pimples underneath. A surge of chills went through my body and had to ask them more questions. I haven't heard a story like this for a long time. Soon we pulled over on the side of the road while Keli exorcised the ghosts of too much alcohol and frightening experiences. We made it home with one last day before I had to leave.

We ended up going to the beach a ten minute walk from Sione's house. There were about five guys all together and as soon as we got there, the clouds burst open and it began to rain. We just waded further out to sea and found deep tidal pools to relax in. We were already wet so what the hell? One guy didn't know how to swim and was teased and goaded into going further out by all the others. He finally did we he saw the others diving down and coming up with mussels or sea urchins.

"Here hold this," one would say as I felt the hundreds of spines moving asymmetrically in the palm of my hand. Handing it back over I watched as he took a small, flat, pointy rock and began cracking it in half. Some guts and juices poured into the sea water.

"See those orange parts? Take your thumbnail and scrap it out and eat it."

I ran my nail along one of the five the fleshy stripes and popped it in my mouth. Tasted kind of like a salty cantaloupe. The rain began to come down harder and harder. A tour bus pulled up but no one got out. All they could see were the five of us way out near the reef eating shellfish like popcorn. The winds and rain picked up to the point that each droplet stung the skin. Ripples of wind rode across the surface of the water as the waves rolled to the sand. We sauntered back to shore. A few of the tourists had got off the bus too but now most were huddled under a huge canopy. We walked down the beach and stated climbing the hill back to Sione's.

In New Zealand they have a saying "There is no such thing as bad weather, you just have the wrong gear." In Tonga all the gear you need is a swimsuit. One guy looked at me and said "This is fun, huh Jake?" When we arrived back at the house all the little kids were splashing around and playing in the waterfalls spilling off the rain gutters and pools of water collected in low spots. We joined in. And it was fun.

I was sad to leave the next day. I showed up around noon only to discover it had been rescheduled without notice for one O'clock in the morning. As the day turned to evening, everyone fell asleep but me. Finally, a cousin woke up and proclaimed it's go time and went to wake up Sione. He and his wife came out and along with the cousin and Keli all piled in the car to wish me farewell at the airport. I felt a lot of emotion and was sad to leave. It had been about 16 years since we last saw each other.

Now he has a wife, home, and partial ownership in his company. I saw the patience, discipline, and love he had for his kids. I said my goodbyes and went through customs. The agent couldn't find my entry stamp until I showed her it was over an existing one. I climbed on board my flight heading to Fiji wondering how long it would be to we cross paths again. A part of Tonga will always be etched in my heart.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on April 11, 2010 from Fua'amotu, Tonga
from the travel blog: South Pacific
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Aside from the scenery, the vibe is a mix of island chill and European openness. It’s very laid back but unlike small town America full of low budget burger joints and diners, New Zealand had charming and tasty little cafes and restaurants that could have fit right in nestled in Greenwich Village, NYC. Life slows down and the pace and is more friendly and relaxed. I couldn’t believe when I entered a commercial airplane without taking off my belt, my shoes, my hat, tap dancing, and then bending over before being selected for additional screening. I simply handed the agent my ticket and proceeded. I kept waiting to turn a corner and find a long security line, but it never happened. I boarded the plane without ever going through a metal detector or search. In nearly one month, I never was asked for some spare change. The country is very safe, so much in fact, that there are several single female travelers.

I met people from France, Scotland, England, Austria, Germany, Israel, and the list goes on. I met more people from Argentina than I did from America. When I told people I was from the States I got responses like “Wow, we haven’t talked with an American for two months,” and “You’re the first American under the age of 60 we’ve seen in a while” or “Shouldn’t you be in an office working 60 hours a week?” Most times I heard someone with a similar accent and asked which State they were from, they responded, “I’m from Canada.” While my travels are quite banal in many other cultures, in America they are a rarity. People don’t usual take more than a week of vacation at a time. Two weeks is pushing things and three weeks is unheard of. Maybe it’s just a mindset of wanderers. And as sad as I was to leave I finally had to say goodbye to New Zealand.

I got on a plane heading for The Kingdom of Tonga. I quickly remembered what attracted me with the culture in the first place. I sent an email to my old best friend from high school, which I haven’t seen in 16, years and told him I was coming to Tonga and would be staying at a hostel. My flight arrived at 1:00 AM and there he was ready to pick me up and take me to his place. He just said don’t worry about Toni’s Hostel and that we can talk to them later. He had a whole guesthouse in back of where he and his family live. Now if I thought life slowed down in New Zealand in Tonga it simply crawled. The next day Sione showed me around the island.

The speed limit on what is akin to a freeway is 40 KPH. We constantly drove about 10 KPH under that, which equals about 20 miles per hour. Everywhere we went people waved and said hello. We stopped here and there to sit on lawns, talk with people he knew, and eat watermelon. When we got home his wife had the kids ready and we drove down to the local deserted South Pacific beach with images of Robinson Crusoe, and Swiss Family Robinson in my head. I slowly climbed into the bathwater. This was heaven. Walking back, I was struggling to get my socks and shoes pulled over my wet feet where the path became rocky. Another guy that I had known in Salt Lake kicked his sandals in my direction and just plowed through the stony path bare foot. Soon we would be back at the house and drinking kava. I will have to finish our adventures later because my limited time can't do my thoughts justice and perhaps never will. Never the less I would rather continue later.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on April 3, 2010 from Neiafu, Tonga
from the travel blog: South Pacific
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I grabbed my luggage off the carousel and placed it on a free cart before jumping on and riding it like a skateboard once I got outside. The warm breeze and humid air felt euphoric against my sleeveless arms. I checked in all of my cold weather gear at the Antarctic Clothing Distribution Center and joined others to hop on the shuttle into the city. In town, we noticed a group of four women dressed as pirate maidens strutting to some sort of costume or dance party. A few blocks later another group of maidens. Then a different quad with pink hair in fairy costumes. We had been in a place where the male to female ratio had been 4 to 1. I forgot the general populous was 50/50. Then I saw a most peculiar creature, otherwise known as a baby. Haven't seen a live one of those in a while. It's like viewing photos of a penguin and then when you see one in real life you think, 'Ohhh wow look at that mythical being, they are real.' And then I saw a small child and then an elderly man. Then some more girls with blue and green wigs. It was land of the freaks. It just showed me how much staying in one environment for a period of time brain washes you to a certain extent.

Sitting in the hotel check-in line, four young women in Catholic school girl outfits approached us to ask a question. We just looked at each other and started laughing. The first words a civilian in the real world uttered to us were, “Do you have any ribbed condoms?” Apparently it was for some scavenger hunt or a bachelorette party, I don’t remember. They continued asking other people nearby as I moved forward in the queue and got my room number at the looks-like-Apple-designed-it, Hotel So. The trendy rooms weren’t liked by all the roughnecks from the ice but I enjoyed it. Later that night I met up with a couple of the guys I knew from the Pole.

The dynamic between the two was like hanging out with Bert and Ernie. One was a deliberate, conservative in demeanor, Ivy League graduate from New England. The other was a Texan who worked on oil rigs and has a girlfriend that wants him to get a job in Kuwait so he can't do anything immoral or they'll chop off his offending member or hand. All night long, without his girlfriend watching, The Texan would goad and prod the Ivy Leaguer into drinking faster than just one beer an hour, drinking more than just two or three beers a night, and staying out later than midnight. I laughed the entire evening, they were like movie characters. Our journey started with me feeling really old from looking at all the young looking people in line. The girl in front of us started a conversation by noticing my pale arms and gleefully exclaiming “You’re just as white as I am,” before bursting out in laughter.

We started talking a little bit, but I had to ask how old she was. She started giggling again and said “I’m 27. Ha ha ha ha yeah I’m 27.” She showed me her ID which looked like a gym membership. Suddenly something dawned on me as I scanned the crowd. I looked at her and said, “Yeah I’m 27 too, just like you are, only the opposite direction.” Translation: I was just as close to age 27 as she. The legal drinking age in New Zealand, like the majority of the world, is 18. Her fake ID made me want to get my almost 37 year old ass out of there in a hurry, as I could picture my sister calling me a sicko with a look of disgust on her face. We ended up not going inside and finding a more mixed crowd but I had other problems. Usually foreign people in New York love talking with me because I speak English so slow they can actually understand someone, but here I just talk, umm, I’ll say exotic. I ordered my drink three times before the bartender could comprehend my words. I'm having trouble with their accents once in a while too.

I walked into a bathroom and was about to enter a private stall, when I heard an angelic voice calling to me. I looked up and saw a beautiful blond woman dressed up in a French Maid costume. Yes, another one from the costume party thing, I love this country. I smiled big, excited that she struck up a conversation with me, but had to excuse myself because I couldn’t understand what she said. Looking her in the eye, I focused with all the concentration I could muster, embarrassed to make her reiterate her words a third time.

“Um excuse me sir, you’re in the woman’s bathroom. “ she repeated. My giddy smile turned to a look of complete terror as I looked around. Through the propped open door I could see men entering and exiting a room just on the other side of the hallway. Where were they before and why hadn’t I seen any signs? AHHHHH. I meekly apologized, tucked my tail between my legs and scurried out. In hindsight I should have just started a new conversation like nothing was wrong, but I always think of things too late. Several bars in New York have unisex wash stations with stalls in separate individual small rooms. It never occurred to me that it was strange for a woman to be striking up a conversation with me in a restroom. I trotted back upstairs laughing about the situation. There, Ernie was pushing Bert to go to a nudie club. With my vote we stayed away and simply ended up at another nearby bar before calling it a night.The next day I went to a professional rugby game and then met up with those two for another interesting time. They both left Sunday morning though, while I slept in and ate a nice brunch around 1:30 in the afternoon.

I walked around in the foothills of Christchurch, through the botanical gardens, and got a relaxing Thai massage. Looking for lunch one day, I wanted something authentic and searched for an ethnic restaurant with native people eating inside. I found my spot, Sala Thai, and promptly asked for a table. They gave me a table alright, one directly in a corner. Either seat I choose had a grand view of the wall in front of me. I had to turn my body sideways between bites to face out into the room to observe the subdued scene. There were even empty tables. I guess they didn't like my pale skin either. I finished my meal and went looking for backpacking gear. In one of the stores I bumped into a young woman I knew from the Pole. She had been trekking for the past four days in an area called Arthur’s Pass and was on her way to the South Pacific Island, Vanuatu. We made dinner plans and met up with another couple that evening before saying goodbye again.

The next day I took a nine hour bus ride through the Canterbury Plains, through the Southern Alps and down to Queenstown. The town would be well described as the offspring of opulent and chic Park City and adventure driven and adrenaline riddled Moab. As long as we are pretending, the setting reminds me of what that mythical town would look like on the edge of a massive lake at the top of Little Cottonwood Canyon. As for now, the tourists in town are mostly from Australia, The U.K., France and Germany from the sounds of things. Aside from nationality, they also seem to fall into two categories. The first, foreign baby boomers with sweaters draped over their backs and shoulders like a superman cape or like they are going to a tennis match. All the fine dinning establishments have several groups of this type sipping overpriced wine and engaged in clever conversation.

The other segment of typical tourist here is young twenty-somethings wearing swim trunks, flip flops and t-shirts looking like they are heading to the beach. This group stays at hostels and buys their peanut butter and jelly at the grocery store so they can have more money for cheap booze. While I don't fit in with either contingent, it's a simple guess on which side of the fence I landed. Case in point, last night my roommates were four spicy Swedish meatballs. Haven’t seen tonight’s cast that came here looking for extreme sports, but I'm sure I'll meet them around four in the morning. I'm hoping for curvy hips, sweet dispositions, and need help in speaking English. Just so I can point them to the nearest info booth to buy a hang gliding excursion.

Some of the brochures I've seen for the action sports, include bungy jumping off a bridge the length of 1 1/2 football fields, jetboating through narrow canyons at high speeds, and skydiving. I've heard of people driving Formula One race cars. But the best activity I've seen was paying $400 dollars to drive a huge military tank. And for an extra 400 you can even crush and roll over a car. All prices are NZD, for the redneck in all of us.

As for me, I think I’m going to be holed up here for a couple of days because the weather is turning sour. I’ll try to wait it out so I can do the Rees-Dart Trek. It’s about 50 miles long and will take 4 or 5 days. I don't want to do it in the rain, mud, swollen rivers and obstructed mountain views. I may do the bungy jump in the meanwhile, but the $230 price tag is creating more hesitation than the fear of staring off the edge and getting the nerve to leap. I might end up just moving out of town. We’ll see if I get too antsy waiting for sunshine while messy roommates leave shaved facial hair in the bathroom sink and fart repeatedly at night.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on March 10, 2010 from Queenstown, New Zealand
from the travel blog: South Pole
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Taking advantage of an afternoon of sunshine, I went hiking with two women who are staying in Antarctica through the winter. We scrambled out to a trailhead and ascended to a ridgeline overlooking the remnants of the moving sea water. Still seeing one small patch of moving water we hoped a whale would come up to smell a smell, sniff a sniff and take a breath. Hundreds of feet below, seals slept on the ice sheet until their appetites called them back to their hunting grounds. Crepuscular rays broke through the clouds as wind gusts blasted through our clothing layers. Then piercing the solitude, we were interupted by loud honking as a group of four lost looking penguins came into our view.

It seemed like they saw our hiking party and wanted to join forces. I wanted to smuggle one home for baby niece Biggie, to play with. We stopped to see what they would do as they waddled directly for us. Soon they stopped too. At first I thought maybe we frightened them, but then noticed a pressure ridge blocking their path. They continued calling out into the crisp air but made no effort to cross the abrasion or find a way around it. They simply stood there not knowing what to do.

We resumed our ascent until a few paces later I spotted a group of about a dozen other penguins nestled patiently on our trail about fifty feet ahead. We couldn’t believe they had climbed up so high with their tiny little legs. They sat motionless, except for a few molting feathers getting blown by a sudden wind burst. The poor ones below kept crying out to the larger group, to no response. We snapped a couple of pictures and continued around them. The rule is you are not allowed to get close enough to wildlife that it moves. There goes my kidnapping plans. Sorry Biggie, I'll buy you some Cuban cigars instead. When we reached a bend where the mountain obscures the view, we looked back and saw the little pocket of four in the same spot as when we had first seen them.

As we continued, we linked up with the road that goes to Scott Base. One of the women departed back to McMurdo, while the other and I took a right turn and trekked the two miles to New Zealand’s base. We walked into the bar to the astonishment of others because it was already time for the final shuttle van to arrive. We passed on the ride to McMurdo and decided to walk back when we wanted. With all the Americans gone, the only patrons remaining were six winter-overs at that base, and the two of us. One drink led to another as the minutes drifted by. The differences in customs between various countries are always quite interesting to me. Closing time in the American bar leads to the bartender yelling last call and then promptly and sometimes forcefully ushering everyone out the door as soon as possible.

Here though, the bartender simply disappeared one moment without saying a word. I thought she had left to use the bathroom or something, only she never came back. At this point, four of us conversed in the dull grey light slumping through the windows. One of the Kiwis grabbed the same beer can to take a sip before realizing it was empty about a half dozen times. Each time he did it, I smiled watching him want that next sip so bad and then looking disappointed it wasn't there. If I would have known him better I would have burst out laughing. Finally, to my surprise, he simply walked behind the bar and asked if anyone else wanted a drink and then proceeded to ring up the booze himself.

What a great concept, I thought; a self-serve bar. One guy hanging out with us was the same I had met last week who showed me the map of the South Island. The other had his head shaved bald, sported a fu-manchu moustache, and wore a Harley Davidson shirt. His appearance was in stark contrast to his voice, vocabulary, and diction which sounded like an Oxford University professor. I think I may raise my children in a country that speaks the Queen’s English, so they’ll sound intelligent no matter what. Strangers always think I smoke a lot of dope and eat Chipwiches and Cheetos, just because I talk a little slow.

We stayed until after 2:00 in the morning before deciding to leave. Outside, the air was silent and frigid, our footsteps creating the only sound. We walked to the edge of land, where the volcanic dirt meets the sea ice, closer to a group of seals. Suddenly, a deep low groaning accompanied by heavy breathing pierced the quiet calm. We approached a pressure ridge that had a few icy formations resembling giant mushrooms or hoodoos in Goblin Valley. The noises grew louder and more intense and soon I began thinking a seal laid near our feet, hidden by one of the structures. I realized it was just an echo reflecting off the ice as additional sounds in the distance erupted from the tens of other seals littered throughout the area.

The clamor conjured up images that I was not in fact in Antarctica, but in some tropical jungle, for some sounds resembled giant insects, monkeys or birds. I felt like I was in such a wild and remote area of the Earth and it was such a privilege to be here. The seal closest to us, arched his back several times while grunting, before flipping over to reveal his spotted underside. His flipper rubbed his belly and I could relate to needing a good scratch.

Soaking in the moment for a moment we decided to start our walk back to McMurdo having already hiked nearly 5 miles that evening. The air had shifted and the wind began to blow hard as small snowflakes peppered the dirt road. Giant wind turbines spun swiftly on top of an adjacent peak, producing half of the stations energy supply. I zipped my coat up and put my hood up for the walk home. I had a rough morning trying to get out of bed and to the power plant for work on time but made it, although, I did miss breakfast and dinner for the next two days to catch up on sleep. Now, I enter the final week of my season here. I only have three more work days and Friday I’ll be in New Zealand for my next adventures. While I will bypass the Cheetos, I may be seeking that elusive back scratch.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on February 28, 2010 from Escalante, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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What better way to get an inside scoop, than to talk with some Kiwis. So I meandered two miles down the road to mingle with locals. New Zealand’s Scott Base is just on the other side of the 750 foot Observation Hill and once a week they have American Night at their bar. I walked in tepidly due to their hat policy. Still having customs of courtesy, the etiquette indicates that if you walk into the bar wearing a hat, you get the privilege of becoming everyone’s new best friend because you will have just bought them a round. I like my hats because it, uh, keeps my ears warm. That's it, keeps my ears warm.

I peeked inside and noticed several caps, beanies, and sweatshirts, so proceded with newfound confidence. Ordering a Speight’s I sat down and soon engaged in conversation with a friendly guy that looked apt to open a beer bottle with his teeth, spit the cap to the floor and hand you the bottle with a genuine smile. Three days worth of stubble littered his young but well weathered face. I had to focus as I listened to his thick accent.

“Come over to the map and I’ll show you where to go on the South Island.” he said.

“If I were you, I would start by heading north-west until you hit near Westport on the coast, and then make your way down towards Milford Sound. If you thought people in Christchurch were friendly, these people are four times nicer. You should really hit some small local bars there too. They serve great micro-draughts. It'll be quite an experience. People there remind me of this time I was in the States and stopped in some bar in West Virginia because it was so beat up. I only planned to see what it looked like inside for a couple of drinks but I ended up there two days straight hanging out with a bunch of toothless people .”

“Yeah that’s definitely the stereo-type, toothless hags.” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to be offensive, but it was true though. Many of them were missing teeth. Still, they were a great bunch.”

“I went to bar like that in Montana a couple of years ago. My friends Bridget and Rachel moved there to be ski bunnies for a season. I went to visit 'em and one day we drove to Glacier National Park and our way back, we stumbled upon this little hole in the wall bar with rusted, well worn trucks equipped with gun racks on a dirt road. It was day light, around 6:00 p.m., but this place was like a Wild West saloon. In one corner people are yelling and about to fight, and no one else is even paying attention. Some people were slumped over the bar sleeping, and then there was a rowdy game of pool going on with money scattered all over the table. I half expected to see people swinging around in circles on ceiling fans. I wouldn't be more scared in a bar in the worst part of Brooklyn. We stayed for our beer before I wussed out and wanted to leave. We were way too yuppie in our Gore-Tex ski jackets to hang out long.”

“I love those types of places, they’re my favorite. And that is the best part of tramping. I don’t like to plan too much. It’s more fun to just see where the journey is going to take you and what crazy little places and people you’ll discover unexpectedly. Sometimes I go on a trip and don’t see one thing I had originally planned on seeing and yet it was the most fascinating tramp I’ve been on.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself. I do have a tentative plan for when I get to New Zealand but who knows where I’ll end up. I'd love to hit Queenstown, Milford Sound, and Abel Tasman. But other than that, I don’t know. I’ve never been there except the few days I was weathered in at Christchurch.”

“It just depends on what you want to do. If you want to avoid the crowds, there are many treks you can take, completely off the beaten path. I would check in with the D.O.C. though and let them know where you’re at and when you plan on returning. People die in those mountains every year. The weather can change extremely fast at high altitudes. But it’s some amazing county. Just make sure you have plenty of food and plan on boiling water. Giardia can be a problem.”

“Well the first thing I plan on doing when I get back to Christchurch is buying a tent, sleeping bag, and backpack. My thumb can get me from place to place I've heard.”

“No worries mate. Hitchhiking is really safe in New Zealand and if you tire of that, there are little mini buses you can catch from point to point.”

He was just as excited explaining the terrain as I was thinking about being there in a couple of weeks. When he finally finished and we were walking back to our seats, he suddenly remembered an area and we went back to the map where he proceeded showing me locations for an additional ten minutes. Then he joined some friends leaving the next day. I sat down to talk with a girl I had flown to Antarctica with, but hadn’t seen since.

Soon it was last call and the shuttle driver arrived to take us back to McMurdo. I looked out at all the huge Weddell seals dotting the landscape and wanted to return when the skies were clear and I could see the scenery better. And unlike the weenie, conservative American bureaucrat mentality of “we don’t want anyone to get hurt” (translation: we don’t want any lawsuits), the Kiwis even have their own snowboarding/ski hill complete with kickers and rope toe. Let freedom reign. Maybe next year I’ll bring my board down, but now I would just have to settle for watching it on TV.

The Armed Forces Network is broadcast here on station and right after my supervisor ejected a safety video, the image on the screen was Shaun White smiling from ear to ear after his fist Olympic run. I stuck around for the final round and dramatic conclusion with one of my co-workers from Pole who is wintering here. He lived in Colorado and used to get backstage passes each year at the X Games in Aspen. We both jumped out of our seats watching White pull his now famous Double McTwist 1260. The next night, my Mormon mommy complete with an Australian accent won gold in the woman’s halfpipe. Ahhhhhh If I could only be fifteen years younger. But most wishes will remain just that. Wishes. So while I won’t be meeting Torah Bright or seeing any auroras this year, the gods did bless me with a different unexpected fascination.

I haven’t seen nighttime in over 100 days. Yes I said it correctly, I haven't seen nighttime in over 100 days. Although I have seen the moon once or twice, dark skies and stars are distant recollections and mere memories in my head. But yesterday, when I left the bar, I saw the closest thing resembling a sunset in months. As the sun broke through the thick clouds that have covered the region for a week, a creamsicle-colored orange glow outlined the reappearing mountains across the ice shelf.

Silhouettes of each layer of ridgeline and peak, blended shades of pink and purple that looked like Georgia O’ Keefe pastels tinting the white Antarctic landscape. I walked closer to edge of town to escape the telephone poles, power lines, and ugly buildings obstructing my view. I stood soaking in the surreal colors and dramatic outlined shapes, not wanting to leave its dreamlike impression in my mind. But soon my teeth started to chatter and my muscles shook involuntarily from the cold, until finally I relented and turned my back to walk home. Before I closed my door I turned around for a final glance. The sight was one of the most beautiful to have ever seared me.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on February 20, 2010 from Escalante, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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They make fun of people here wearing their extreme cold weather gear when it’s 20 degrees above zero. They don't like hearing McMurdoites say it's cold when it's usually 60 degrees colder at the Pole. They don’t like people bragging about being to Antarctica, when they are only on an island several miles off the coast of the continent at the bottom of the globe. They don’t like all the people and lines, etc. On the flip side, many of my new co-workers were very curious about my experiences at the Pole. First break at work on day one, resulted in a question and answer session. They were more interested in what I did than many people back home.

The Pole has a certain status here. Some who have been to Antarctica for over four years still can’t get there. I’m surprised I was even hired from the sounds of it. Others would like to go for one to three weeks, but not a whole season. The conditions are too extreme, temperatures too cold, and living conditions second class for those with a lack of ice time.

Polies have an ego, especially the construction workers who are outside for eight hours a day: they are the toughest workers on the planet. Perhaps it's true, but I guess if you’re not smart you at least better be tough. I was one of the five oldest guys on my crew. Most were young bad asses who could endure the intensity and even embrace it. I can picture them now in New Zealand, cruising around on motorcycles listening to hard rock music belted by an angry singer that sounds like Cookie Monster rudely awoken from a nap and then discovering all of his coookies eaten. Here, I am one of the three youngest guys on my crew and everyone is downright small-town nice. Just don't be an illegal alien breaking into their home. Then, they will shoot you in the face so you can't sue them.

I have found most to be quite pleasant and unpretentious. While I haven’t been bothered by lines at dinner or the bathroom at all, unlike my experience at the Pole, I was shocked when I went to a bar for a tape delayed broadcast of the Super Bowl, and had to squeeze my way through the sheer volumes of humanity. I was overwhelmed by how many people were in that one room, and am adjusting to different surroundings little by little.

My first shower was guilty pleasure. I am accustomed to taking two, two minute showers per week. And even then it was more a pain in the ass than it' was worth. Half the reason I made the effort was out of respect to others noses. I'd have to bundle up and walk outside in negative temperatures for twenty seconds just to immediately remove the excess layers for a drizzly nozzle squirting luke warm water on my body for a 120 seconds. Here, my room is right across the hallway from the bathroom. Easy for wearing shorts and flip flops. I felt down right gluttonous letting the hot water drain on me for as long as I did. The only items missing from my forray were a lawn chair, arm floaties, and six pack of beer. And when I go back to my nice, spacious room with a real ceiling and walls, I am all alone. The mystery man from Arizona disappeared without being seen. After day three his bags vanished, leaving me with the dorm to myself. All in all, things are good.

The scenery is spectacular and I see wildlife just about every day. On the ice shelf, several 600 pound Weddell seals bask in the sun. They are so far away though, they simply look like brown specks on an enormous white canvas. Wednesday morning I saw a whale surface from the deep blue Antarctic waters. Spray from his nostril blew towards the heavens before he disappeared again into the frozen sea. Seconds later the arch of his back crested slowly above the surface revealing a short dorsal fin. I couldn’t tell which kind it was, but minke and orcas are common in the area.

“There’s a whale” I exclaimed to a couple of coworkers.
“Yep, I guess you don’t see that every day at the Pole now, do you?” one replied.

Both glanced over with the enthusiasm of a New Yorker being told to look at street performers. Later I saw a dozen penguins below the water treatment plant across the road from where I am working. I sat down watching the entertaining way they walk. Each had rolls of fat drooping from their bellies as they waddled around the ice. A few were molting and feathers were strewn about the area. One had made a little nest out of dirt and was just lying inside it. I couldn’t tell if there was an egg, but it seems late in the season to be incubating. The adelies stood about two feet high and had striking and beautiful blue eyes in contrast to their black and white bodies. I climbed as close to them as they would permit me without walking the opposite direction. And as a gazed at their majesty, I could not help but wonder what they tasted like stewed or perhaps baked into a fine casserole.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on February 14, 2010 from Escalante, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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So here I sit at McMurdo Base. I felt a lot mixed emotions today seeing all of my friends and coworkers boarding the airplane that would have dropped me off back in civilization. I hugged everyone and exchanged a few emails before I didn’t want to be in the cold anymore and turned around for warmth of the station. The other two guys who were originally going to work with me here, both boarded the plane to Christchurch as well. Each of them will winter over at different bases on the continent and were taking a week off before reporting to their respective locations. So here I sit alone once again.

Only McMurdo has about 6 times the station population that the South Pole does. The computer lab displays fewer computers for use and there is a 20 minute time limit. So although I now have 24 hour a day internet access it will still be a pain in the ass to use the computers. The temperature here is about 55 degrees warmer than what I have become accustomed to. I’ll be working inside too, from what I understand. If only I knew where to go. When the plane landed, I was dumped off and waited around for a shuttle bus to pick me up. The airstrip, just minutes from the base when I came here in November, no longer exists. The warm air melted all the snow, so instead of flags and runway, there is now a shimmering body of water. McMurdo is actually on an island in the middle of the Ross Sea. The shuttle bus driver quipped that the ride back to base would be 40 minutes.

That confused me, until I asked why. Minutes later I saw with my own two eyes. The same flat, white, sterile scene I have looked at day in and day out for three months vanquished and before me erupted 10,000 foot mountain peaks, bays of water, and volcanic rock forming hillsides. Once we got to McMurdo I noticed the complete lack of snow on the ground and even saw a guy walking around in shorts. Don’t think it’s warm; it’s still only twenty degrees as I type. But twenty feels down right pleasant after working in negative 55 wind-chill for the past week. I saw the first bird I’ve seen in three months glide in huge circles above me as I stared mesmerized. Soon I saw another and then another. I walked closer towards the water hoping perhaps to spot some penguins and seals. I saw neither so I wandered back to a main building.

I still didn’t know where my room was, where I was supposed to be working tomorrow, what time to be there, where my bags were or anything. I ate dinner in the galley looking around at all the new faces, but trying not to be too obvious that I was a newbie. I finally went to the general store and asked the clerk where I should go to find my room. She told me where housing was located and found an envelope with my name and key inside, dangling on one of several small hooks attatched to the door. They had been closed since the time I arrived. I huffed up a hill to the cargo area and grabbed my bags before heading to my room, complete with new roommate. Our beds are two feet apart. This should be interesting. I haven’t met him yet but from the looks of his bags, he’s from Arizona.

So as one door in my life closes, others open, and those will open more. I feel privileged and honored to have worked at the South Pole. I know most people at this base would like to even just take a photo next to the pole marker. I felt sad leaving today, even though I have been looking forward to the moment for some time. I said goodbye to friends I became quite close with. I'll miss their smiles and laughs, their sense of adventure, and our relationship. And while I will undoubtedly see some again, others I know, I just crossed paths with for a brief moment in each of our weird and wonderful stories.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on February 7, 2010 from Escalante, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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We had more visits from the BBC for their Frozen Planet series. In fact, the famed BBC broadcaster and naturalist Sir David Attenborough himself stayed at the Pole for a couple of days to lend his voice and face to the harsh environment. The film crew took off in a Twin Otter airplane and circled overhead several times as the entire station population posed for a photograph in front of the final piece of the recently deconstructed geodesic dome. The outdated building became a causality of the new, elevated station that I came here to complete. The remaining section of the dome’s triangular iron flew an American flag high above, as a photographer captured the moment. Later that evening crews would remove the ironwork, leaving a massive cavity in the ground. The South Pole Dome was now just a heap of nuts, bolts, and scrap metal. And while the demolition of this iconic building occurred without incident , tragedy almost struck at the original South Pole Station.

An 18-man U.S. Navy crew built “Old Pole” in the mid 1950’s. But due to being buried at a rate of four feet of snow per year, the site was abandoned in the mid-seventies, as the completion of the geodesic dome became the new home for researchers and personnel. However, because the place was deserted before the U.S. government signed the Antarctic Treaty, which required the removal of all unnatural materials, Old Pole was simply left with dishes in the cupboards to be buried forever in the polar tundra. With years of accumulated snow drifts piling up the structural integrity decreased exponentially.

A crew deployed with ground resonance imaging equipment to detail precise locations of the building for some upcoming work. Due to being an “eye sore” out of the galley windows of the new station, authorities decided to relocate the very few tourists who make it to the South Pole each year. The area they chose was near Old Pole. So with hazardous areas marked and flagged, a heavy equipment operator began work to create a new camping spot for the visitors. After working for over an hour his bulldozer suddenly and unexpectedly broke through the ice and plummeted 40 feet before crashing through a network of old wooden framing.

With cracked glass and snow trapping the doorway closed, the driver got on his radio and called for help. Two other heavy equipment operators hurried out to the site to try and rescue their coworker. Arriving at the scene they assessed the situation and began performing a retrieving mission. But as soon as they started, the snows weight gave out again and another of the machines fell through the crumbling sinkhole. Although he didn’t fall as far as the first dozer, the situation became a little more desperate and dangerous. Through much work and calculations, crews safely rescued both operators, who came out with nothing more than scared psyches, bumps and bruises. I talked with the first operator that fell through and was trapped for over an hour, later that evening at a party. He showed me several pictures of the cracked windshield, caved in snow, and then aerial views of the wreckage once he was removed.

I’m not exactly sure what they are going to do with the area at this point or if they were able to tow the equipment out. They may just end up slowly being buried themselves and drifting along with the ice cap until they spill into the ocean thousands of years from now. Working outside at the South Pole is inherently dangerous. It’s a harsh continent and not for the weak hearted, or namby pamby in spirit. While I am one of the few on station that work outside each and every day I was reminded of how privileged we have things here at the new station as one of the early Antarctic explorers from the 1950’s gave a symposium in the galley. Charles Bentley spent several years as a scientist and slept outside, had to build shelters, prepare food, because the infrastructure hadn't been set up yet.

He was a real Antarctic explorer and researcher. While I am working on a building and have very limited freedom and mobility, they were surveying mountain ranges and scaling glaciers that no human had ever laid eye upon. As a result Mount Bentley and the Bentley Subglacial Trench were named after this young college kid who devoted his life to Antarctic science. His accounts were amazing and made me feel like a creature of comfort, Manhattan socialite. While he told stories of how the snow was deeper uphill in both directions, I sipped on a freshly brewed coffee and snacked on some crème brule before heading to the computer lab to check my email before the satellite passes. My how technology has changed in 50 years.

In fact, debuting last night was the 2010 South Pole International Film Festival (SPIFF).
All films are written, directed, and contained actors that currently live at the South Pole. Had I have known, I would have conjured an idea and checked out a camera from the IT department to shoot the video. Instead I had a small part in a silent comedy about a gas line that ate up a fuel operator and another part in the opening welcome scene to the entire festival. About a dozen movies were made, each less than ten minutes in length. There were a few technical difficulties but hopefully I can obtain a disk and watch them in the comfort of my own bedroom. So as my time here winds down I feel like I have been a part of something very special and unique and am just trying to soak it in, because all good things must come to an end. And that’s when the next adventure starts.

written by  JCinTheSouthPole on January 23, 2010 from Missoula, United States
from the travel blog: South Pole
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