I am feverishly fascinated by the acceptance of technology and how humans choose to embrace it, and in recent months have found myself becoming more excited by dozens of discussions I have engaged in about the subject. I can’t help feel we have been approaching the foot of a mountain of that will fundamentally improve the way we think of how we use products and interfaces.

I think as an average consumer of a digital diet it is very difficult to ever bridge the gap between the short term understanding of what is achievable, and what remains as the world of The Jetsons.

The Interaction Problem

In Minority Report (2002), the protagonist John Anderton interacts with his devices using an array of super slick arm slinging gestures; probably one of the most widely recognisable and futuristic ideas in the film.

It was very easy to think how that would easily translate into a reality. In fact I was so inspired by the film, within a year the product had designed and prototyped for my A-Level Design & Technology project included my own attempts to bridge the human-digital divide.

This was my first real attempt to conceptualise a solution to these interaction inadequacies, and despite my youthful optimism eventually being dashed by Dick Powell (who quite understandably understood the leaps needed to reach that point better than an 18 year old DT student) I still believed that somehow we still fundamentally were failing to address the gap.

But within a few years my dreams were starting to be realised and in 2006, new gesture based technologies were publicly demonstrated by Jeff Han in his infamous TED talk. These concepts were not new. It was just a case of them being incorporated into products. And Jeff’s demonstration was by no means a full realising of the dream of Anderton’s world and digital immersion. A year later, much of what we’d seen in that demonstration suddenly was bought into focus by the first truly successful touchscreen product, the iPhone.

By this time I studying for my degree in Industrial Design and was aware of projects going on within my own university department that aimed to exploit physical interaction in the modelling of virtual products and environments by human gesticulation. It looked like momentum was building.

Touch screen kiosks been around for years, and were used on millions of Point of Sale (POS) units, but until this point designers and technologists had failed to deliver a pleasurable or easy experience (problems included lack of sensitivity and lack of accurate response). Once the fallacy that you had to use a stylus to interact with a screen was exposed, the sluices were opened and a torrent of consumer-acceptable touch based devices washed in. The technology had reached it’s teenage.

I think this taught me that until the point that somebody can demonstrate actively a simple, cost-effective, well resolved product, most people say it will never work.

And it’s the never short sightedness that always frustrates me.

The reality is that just because we as consumers cannot see how a new technology could ever be useful and not just a gimmick, we often tend to dismiss that technology as ever having any practical use. But thankfully there are plenty of intelligent, curious people out there who do spot the opportunities and deliver new configurations that turn the very crude carbon dust of ideas into glistening gemstones. 

I can’t but help thinking that however big the jump appeared to be, the advent of the useful touchscreen is just the precursor to a far wider revolution, and in recent months, the first true signs of additional new and more important directions have been emerging and this is why.

Firstly, there always are fundamental misconceptions about the immediate future of technology interaction.

I base this on nothing other than anecdotal evidence, but I get the strong impression that most people haven’t got a clue that technologies like augmented reality (AR) are currently so utterly basic that they are practically useless or simple novelties and they will in the not too distant future have a much stronger impact when we broaden our minds.

At a demonstration I went to over a year ago, I was shown a range of ways that AR was being used today. One is the typical ‘reality overlay’ where we superimpose information on the world. This seems great in principle, until you actually try it. You end up with cluttered, jittery overlays that fail to actually filter any discernibly useful information, and in no way seamlessly integrate with any environment. You have to carry a device in front of your face and interact with the data via touch, which obscures your view further.

I think most people believe that AR will one day improve, and the way this will happen is that we will have contact lenses or retina-implants that overlay this information to us. Problem solved? I say no.

I recently came across a video talk where the speaker discussed how naive this long-held belief of what AR is (please can you tell me if you know who it was, and send a link!). To demonstrate, he gave the example of Terminator. In the movie, the Terminator sees various pieces of information presented in front of his eyes. He can read these pieces of information as he surveys his environment and his robotic mind uses this it to label his environment and condition.

But if you think about this, it’s absolutely crazily inefficient. Why on earth would a robot project information into one medium (effectively a transparent screen), only to have to read that back in and reinterpret it using visual sensors? That’s exactly like printing out every email to read it rather than ever using the computer’s display. That’s exactly what a QR code does - and that’s why they are currently a gimmicky half-resolved technology.

He then goes on to demonstrate how if you don’t restrict the AR to a purely visual process, a whole glut of improvements to the experience are available to you.

His is example is this. If you are using a GPS device while driving or walking, you fail to absorb your environment as quickly or as well as you might had you memorised a map-based route in your head, or followed road signs.

I know this myself because if I walk a route with GPS, often I can’t recall that route without double checking because I failed to survey the environment as well as I would have done if I’d navigated using more traditional methods. My visual senses prioritise the output of the GPS device.

The speaker proposes a device you hold in your hand down by your side, which physically leans in the direction you should be travelling rather than giving audible or visual instructions. In this way you can be fully alert to your surrounding and benefit from 100% availability of the senses that you would consider crucial to traditional navigation.

Now this is just an idea, and again demonstrates it’s own naivety. What happens if you need to carry something with both hands? What happens if you have a disability that affords you no feeling in your hands? What happens if your immediate route is incredibly complex?

But it does suddenly suggest we are incredibly blinkered. Revisiting our Minority Report example, many people still think this is way forward for interacting with computers. I think there is definite hints of usefulness, but I also think it will never be a primary method of interaction and we’ve simply stumbled upon an easily imaginable implementation.

It has been shown that this sort of interaction is incredibly tiring for humans and that anything more than short bursts become difficult for the user to sustain. The same applies to desktop based touchscreens. Clearly the success of the Kinect and Wii demonstrate that these full-body recognition technologies do have value, but I’m not convinced we’ll ever use them in isolation like Anderton does in the film.

The Oven Clock Problem

On Christmas day I watched stand up comedian Michael Macintyre lament the complexities of updating his oven clock. Who ever sets it, and for those that do, who ever tackles it first when daylight savings kick in?

This is a fundamental problem. Everyone owns an oven, and everyone has the same problem. For most of us the oven clock is hassle to update and despite the two-button setting mechanism which is used almost universally for setting clocks (chosen for it’s minimum number of mechanical parts) it remains a completely appalling system.

I’m going to suggest to you a far better approach to setting the clock, probably the closest-to-perfect solution, and then I’m going to shoot my suggestion down and give a much better solution.

I think a much better way for a human to set a digital oven clock is by voice. To have to option to control the whole oven by voice is also desirable, but here I shall just discuss this one function.

The reason setting it mechanically is odd is two fold. Firstly, this is a digital device, so why are we interacting with it mechanically at all? Surely this is at odds with the benefits of a digital clock - a device which removes all mechanics in order to demonstrate the full time in the single most easily read way, not limited by the laws of physics upon solid materials.

Secondly, it’s tricky. If you understand the process to setting the clock, it’s simple. You can apply the same logic to every clock you own. But it is nowhere near intuitive. Give a clock like this to a child with no experience of such a system and no instructions and you may as well give them a Rubic’s Cube to solve.

To approach your oven and say, “Oven, set the clock time to ten past eight” is almost infinitely more sensible, human and understandable.

In fact, this approach generally is far more sensible with a whole gamut of tasks we carry out daily.

I have found this out myself already with the use of Siri. Yes, a cliche I suppose, but I really think voice control is an interface that people can too easily dismiss as a gimmick, especially if you naively believe it should be the only interface to an object.

But I can’t tell you how useful it has become for me setting reminders, timers and how frustrating it is I can’t control other aspects of the device already.

Convergence & Obsolescence

The truth is, as Siri-like technology matures, it will become ever more invaluable, and we will see it and it’s kind spread into thousands more device types in the coming years.

Yes, it feels like a novelty right now, but that’s one absolute hallmark of a great technology waiting fulfil it’s potential. Think of the first time you saw a camera on a phone. The photos were so grainy and impossible to access, how possibly could that ever be useful? Who’s absolute first thought at seeing one of the devices was that with a few just years of development, we would be recording HD footage that rivals traditional compact cameras? I’m not sure too many consumers did.

And if you perhaps think we’re at the pinnacle with this particular example, you are probably once more underestimating the possibilities. I can’t see any reason why in a handful more years that the compact camera becomes entirely obsolete as the cellphone device converge with the camera device so much so that it puts some well known firms out of business.

If you think about it, why would you ever want to carry two or more devices? It’s bizarre. Many people will argue that it can’t work. You will never get the quality right in both devices enough for that idealistic convergence, but I argue differently. I think our desire to keep these two products apart is based on our traditional experiences. Of all the arguments I think for against convergence, I can easily dismiss each:

“If I lose my camera, I lose my phone and I couldn’t risk that”

The physical loss of a device is getting less and less important month by month. Already my own experiences have shown me that the separation of content from hardware means that you can almost instantly replace a device with no loss of data. I would argue the loss of a device will in future be even more distressing to a user, but not because of the loss of data, but entirely because of our greater product dependency. Content reacquisition will be much simpler and far less worrying.

“I won’t have all the functionality and quality of my compact”

I simply do not believe this. High quality lenses, adapters for lenses, cases, software - it all permits a single device to do all the things a traditional camera will do, plus incorporate all the luxuries a modern communications device like a smart phone does (GPS, meta data, graphics processing etc).

If you think of the arguments for using pretty much any non-digital medium is that the digital medium simply doesn’t reproduce the same way, then it is simply a matter of time before that void is admonished.

Anyone can argue that vinyl is better than digital music for a plethora of reasons, but actually the only current reason that stands is physicality. I guarantee every other aspect could be reproduced to perfection with digital techniques (if not now, in the near future). Even random idiosyncrasies (including limiting parameters that ensure an exact result) can be reproduced if enough care it taken. Maybe not right now, but I believe it can be achieved with such authenticity that a human cannot tell.

This is not an argument for doing away with these originals (which I love), but it is an argument against those who say digital cannot create an identical replacement.

“I like the separation”

When convergence is done properly, this is a non issue. Web browser plus cell phone? Until 2007 that was like someone had superglued Ceefax to a Nokia 3210. When you see the elegant solution, it will change your mind.

In fact, I’d present my opinion that Apple, the current king in converging technologies, will in the next few years kill off the iPod as a true standalone device completely. I also believe that they will also kill off DVD drives entirely within 12 months as web based distribution becomes universal, and that they launch a TV based system that will eventually provide convergence for every box you currently place under your TV set. Instead a range of multi-faceted devices will emerge.

And this convergence is why I believer they will never build a Apple branded standalone camera even though they incorporate that technology in most of their products. It is completely at odds with a converging approach.

“It’ll be too expensive to buy a unit that incorporates both”

It’s already possible to buy these phones quite readily, and traditional economics shows the standard model for costs means the price will drop as saturation occurs. The first DVD burner I saw in the UK cost £420 at PC World just a few years ago. Within twelve months the bottom had fallen out of the market. High end costing products cost that and will always exist because they contain the newest features and technologies. Over time they simply become absorbed into normality, just like electric windows in cars.

The Oven Clock Revisited

Coming back to my oven clock example though, I have yet to challenge my own suggestion of voice control to set the time. I still believe this a much better suggestion than our current mechanical system, but why is it not perfect?

Firstly, if you are mute, you cannot use this method. It is therefore no more universal.

Many consumers dismiss universality as an idealistic madness, but a perfect product should be universal. People think this means sacrifices and trade-offs, but it doesn’t. The web has shown you can build incredibly usable products when care is applied without sacrificing quality or endangering the 95th percentile’s experience.

To take the iPhone as the example once more, the most heavy duty of the accessibility controls are entirely hidden from the average user and yet could be considered exceptional in the field.

Why I believe touch screen technology it is still in it’s infancy is because haptic (touch) feedback is still so poor, even non-existent. The key reason for this is the physical limitation of materials being able to deliver localised physical responses, and this is why aural control is far more accessible and likely to be available more widely in the immediate future.

However to think such responses are impossible is again blinkered. The development of smart materials will I believe soon show us that creating surfaces with entirely amorphous, controllable physicality will occur in the coming years and this will again revolutionise and enhance the interface. It might take five years, it might take seventy, but it will occur.

So what do I propose as the ultimate solution for the oven clock? Well it’s simple really and you may have already worked it out. Voice control is likely overkill in the first instance; instead really, the clock should automatically be set. Using the Anthorn (ex-Rugby) transmitter and some basic technology this would be so ridiculously simple to implement, and it’s bizarre that it isn’t done as standard when you really think about it.

For generations oven makers have been churning out ovens with clocks added as afterthoughts, but which fundamental parts of the product which when you think about it is a careless attitude. Why should a consumer be forced to learn how to set up this part of the machine, repeatedly? Surely in these cases, it would almost be better just leave the clock off, and save the parts cost. Or supply a cheap standalone mechanical clock if they really feel it too much effort to address it with the same care as the rest of the functional experience of the product as a whole.

What It May Mean For Web Professionals

What I’m saying is that I think we currently apply too many interfaces with big limitations and as technology is now maturing, we’re about to see a huge shift in the possibilities and the blurring of the line between the physical and digital environment.

As a professional web designer, I think the reason for my fascination in the immediate future of the interface is that I believe that as an industry we soon will need a far greater understanding of the physicality of what we build in our designs as it’s going to become important.

We already are going through a revolution in understanding the impact of a touch or gesture based control of our websites and applications, as well as their place on an ever fragmented range of screen sizes and resolutions.

This is just the start, and I believe that within a decade or so it is very likely that the fundamental level the web will integrate with all sorts of senses through all sorts of interfaces is going to generate yet a further explosion in the fragmentation of our discipline.

It’s a wide, umbrella like statement, and perhaps a little idealistic, but I really cannot see any other way the world will progress.

But despite all this, it’s all just speculation really, and as a consumer I am really just as blind as everyone else as to what the future really holds. It does excite me though.

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Rio de Janeiro

We parted after breakfast and took a damp ferry back to the mainland. Rio was an hour and half away, and by this stage most of us were trying to calculate if we were likely to see any good weather before our flights home.

Most people hedged their bets on doing the sightseeing stuff as far in the future as they could, but for me, Yvonne and Katie, we knew our options were limited as our departure was much sooner than many of the others.

Rio was overcast and sadly as wet as we had expected, so Yvonne took the last opportunity to take a city tour, while the rest of us ate a buffet lunch and rested until the evening.

Whereas last night had been our last meal all together, this supper marked the end of the tour. Juan outdid himself taking us to a traditional Brazilian eatery; one where your plates are filled with cut after cut of beef, shaved in great quantities from skewered joints that swarms of waiters deliver as they whisk around the tables.

The only way to stop your plate from overflowing is to flip over the small coloured disc you are given at the beginning of the meal (it would be impossible to clear your plate at the rate the meat arrives). Red means stop, green means go. It’s straightforward and you have to get pretty good at it pretty quickly. Iguana, chicken’s hearts… I was too full for any of the exotic stuff by the time we’d eaten sixteen other types of beef, including the one stuffed with cheese. They might as well just hand you a form to sign to agree to a heart attack.

The next day marked mine and Katie’s last day on the continent, and we were just relieved it wasn’t raining as we took our final opportunity to see Rio before flying home.

In the morning a number of the remaining party joined us on a tour of the largest favela in the city. I can’t say I had previously understood what this entailed, or what the safety implications of such a venture is, but our tour leader (Marcos) ranks amongst one of the best guides I’ve ever encountered (for any tour), and we all thoroughly enjoyed the experience.

From the base of the favela right up to the horizon (or mountain top) are densely stacked clusters of mostly orange-red house-boxes which squeeze in and amongst grey vertical columns that kind-of glue them together; each single unit a jumble of brick and concrete parts, that ascends and ascends, and eventually is cherry-topped with a big blue water pot, piled perilously atop the highest surface wide enough to hold it.

In the spaces between boxes, squiggly black cables stretch out each way like thick matted hair, and trail above the thin wobbly streets that snake in and out, under and above each other; as though Escher and Pollock had equal hand in the town planning. Where the cables stop, greenery pokes through wherever it can get enough room to find light.

Little cheery faces appear at various heights from windows, doorways and shops along the street yelling comments, questions and greetings - their perceived physical height bearing no relation to how tall or old they are, but entirely dependent on where the floor they stand on happens to be below them.

An elderly gentleman waves at us. He has an automatic weapon lying across his lap.

Being Street Number 1, you would be surprised perhaps to know that at it’s widest, the space between the buildings is perhaps just a meter and a half wide, and at it’s narrowest, just small enough for a dog followed by a child to scurry between your legs. And as the road winds down and down between the shattered terracotta brickwork, little stinking rivulets that flow across it from time to time, which connect little piles of trash left out to be picked apart by the curious chickens and kittens that jump about.

From Marcos’ advice about spotting the drug lords (“they wear pink uniforms, with little yellow flags and have ‘drug dealer’ printed across their backs”) to the furious pillioned motorcycle race up through the shanty town streets; from the kindness and enthusiasm of the local residents and business owners to the poignant physical reminders of the daily violence, drug running and gun crime pock-marked into the walls of many of the buildings - this was an exceptionally enjoyable and eye opening journey.

A good idea is to understand perspective of the Brazilians working on voluntary projects with the children and ordinary residents here. They believe that favela is a cultural existence as much as anything else - a common way of life for millions of Brazil’s residents.

It might be squalid (or at least have it’s roots in squalor), but it is also the normal everyday life for millions of people across the country. They point out that it might be called favela in Brazil, but it’s called ‘The Projects’ in the US. That’s not flippant - the same problems of drug and gun crime, lawlessness and fear or hatred of the police are endemic in both.

The priority and focus is to improve the lot and condition of the locals, but emphasise that the solution is not clearance of these vast illegal estates because the cultural melting pot here is so important and unique, that it actually defines some of the key physical fabrics of Brazil.

Yes, crime is the dark shadow that lurks, but for the majority of people here it is just one unfortunate facet of an existence we struggle to understand in the West, and when relative to the entire world’s vast population, is actually far closer to a “normal existence” than our own lives.

The favela had a big impact on me, and if you go to Rio, I urge you to visit one to try and understand why tourists are actually encouraged (and with surprising levels of safety) to come and help admonish any preconceptions about it being “zoo-like”. I found it enlightening.

It was now past midday, and time to say goodbye to many of our fellow travellers before embarking on the final leg of our city exploration.

Low cloud doesn’t make for the best viewing at the city’s famed high spots; namely Christ the Redeemer (sheet white views) or Sugar Loaf mountain (we didn’t even bother trying), but everything else was more than accessible and we still got some excellent views of the city from St Theresa.

The tiled steps of Selarón and the brutalist cathedral were our final stops. With just a matter of hours left before departure, we made the decision to at least get to the beach and walk it, albeit briefly and in torrential rain.

Luckily our hotel was in Copacabana (just one street behind the sea front), and although we decided not to venture as far as Ipanema, we finally got to see the famous view along the sandy shore of the Rio coastline.

I’m not going to say it was impressive in the wet cloud. It was damp and grey and long and sandy, but not impressive.

What I will say is that I fully intend on returning to both Rio de Janeiro and Buenos Aires again to see them for longer and in warmer weather; to really explore them both more thoroughly and to build upon the small tastes I received on this brief trip. Even though our time in both places was limited, I couldn’t help but really like these towns.

Next time, I also intend to ensure I get to enjoy the beaches a little more away from grey clouds and drab rains. Again, my passport is a little more full this year, and I’m already looking forward to coming back one day.

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Ilha Grande

An 8.30am start, and another bus. This time to a port where we would catch an early afternoon ferry to Ilha Grande (or Big Island for the non-versed).

A sunny boat journey made for a pleasant trip (for all bar Scott, who isn’t so keen on watery expeditions) and the girls spread themselves over the bows to try and absorb up some precious vitamin D.

The pier stretches out from the main beach, and small shops line the sea front. With no cars (it’s a natural reserve) all transport is on foot or by boat.

We settled into our log cabins (complete with hammocks that were comfy but almost certainly constituted a fire hazard) and those who wanted to went off to do a preliminary trek into the island’s rainforest.

Monkeys, snakes, big ants etc - we trod the pink and red sandstone in and amongst the lush vegetation for a couple of hours before eventually emerging onto a beach where most of the sand ran mustard yellow, and just occasionally striped with thick, glistening cobalt-black bands.

When we arrived back at the hotel, the German girls were tucking into one of the peculiar highlights of this establishment. Each afternoon, a large soft home-baked cake, along with a box of teas and canteens of coffee and boiling water were brought out onto the veranda for everyone to dig in to. I spent some time in the hammock.

That evening we experienced the most bizarre of all food services to date. The waitress and waiter took orders for separate dishes, but stopped half way through the order and disappeared, later reappearing behind the bar with no explanation. Juan took matters into his own hands to prevent a disaster; and well over an hour later, the last of the meals arrived just as everyone else finished up.

In the intervening time, we traded riddles, including one about three rabbits, a river and a lion. We’re all pretty sure that one doesn’t even work.

The next day was meant to be the first of two days of relaxation and our own time. Once again, dogged by limited sunshine, we opted to hike across through the rainforest and land ourselves on the best beach which was on the other side of the island.

The going was fairly straightforward, but it was muggy in amongst the occasional burst of warm sunshine. We came across more monkeys, snakes, big ants etc. before finally escaping out onto the first of three beaches on our route.

When we reached the final beach the first thing I did was devour an ice-cold Coke from one of the hesky-vendors. It came complete with little icy crystal chips glittering all over the misty aluminium lid, and popped open with a crisp clank and smokey whisp. Perfect.

The beach was maybe fifty yards deep, but lined by palms and swept roundly uninterrupted for around two kilometres.

Us boys headed straight for the water and spent sometime wrestling waves and diving around like proper children. The girls hadn’t been so enthused by the saltwater, and spent their time sunning themselves.

That was until the rain began, and a group vote ruled abandonment of play, so it saw us slip-slapping back over the melting red rock of the rainforest until we were back at the previous beach and able to jump on the first available boat back around to our side of the island.
More cake, more tea.

The evening was another barbecue, to be shared with yet another Gap group who were heading in the other direction to us. We sat on the balcony sipping at our contraband vodka, and I did some reading for the first time this trip (Seven Pillars of Wisdom, T.E. Lawrence). Eventually we got into conversation with one or two of the other group, and then the cards came out, it soon bled into food time; we moved up to the covered area as the rain began to pour down.

It was snug under the covered area, with thirty hungry faces clamouring for hot dogs and steak.

The night went on.

When I awoke the next day, Scott wasn’t in the room. I’ll point out this wasn’t unusual being that he’s almost entirely a night time operator, so I wasn’t entirely surprised, but this was the first time he’d not arrived back before I’d actually got up. It wasn’t until I returned much later in the day that I found he’d spent the whole night on the beach drinking tequila, making friends with stray dogs, sleeping on canoes and ‘frolicking’ - of which the latter there is disturbing video evidence.

In the meanwhile me, and pretty much everyone else, had gone to take some time on a boat. The tour of the the islands best lagoons and beaches by sea really appealed and, it was really nice to finally dive into the azure waters and explore.

Anyone who knows me well knows that I can’t resist being out on the waves; and I don’t care how rough it gets. There is no greater pleasure than being on a boat, making slow progress, listening to Fat Freddy’s Drop or some other dub mix and soaking up the rays. Ok, so it could have been sunnier, but I was pretty much 95% of the way there.

So this was our last day in Ilha Grande, and also the final day with the German girls who were staying behind in hope of a few days of clear skies. The farewell dinner was punctuated with horrendously-coloured cocktails; partially a result of a game Caroline invented which bore two simple rules: 1. pick a cocktail 2. drink it. We eventually ended up at the local club, and the less said about it the better.

 

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Iguassu Falls & Paraguay

Iguassu was hot with a capital H O T. If only this deceptively clear weather had stuck with us on the following days, I might eventually have tempted a tan. Sadly that wasn’t to be the case.

But for the time-being it was gloriously sunny, and a handful of us decided to partake in a little illegal trip over the border to neighbouring Paraguay. This was never going to be a particularly cultural affair; hundreds of thousands flock over the border to the markets daily from Brazil to take advantage of the lax tax laws and ambivalent customs and excise arrangements.

Due to the brevity of the trip, I cannot comment much on Paraguay much other than saying that if the whole country is like what we saw in our brief two hour trip, tasers and musical condoms are probably the staple national exports. Also, no where else have I seen a place where on a single stall you can purchase both women’s lingerie and a selection of domestic power tools.

Notably, the mall guards carry pump-action shotguns, and the price of premium spirits is astonishingly low, so we made the most of this latter perk and acquired a quantity that would fill a small paddling pool.

That evening, those who were not feeling horrendously ill partook in a grill session out by the hotel pool. Scott and Katie had been missing for number of hours, so I went to discover them, and found them languishing in my room.

Scott explained to me that they had so far taken it in turns to challenge each other to get, letter-by-letter, down the bottle to below the ‘E’ in Cuervo. This wasn’t a small bottle of tequila, and between the two of them had managed to get through three quarters of it in one sitting, with no mixer. It went some way to explain why Scott was talking to the salt pot.

It was decided the best remedial course of action was to go to a bar, so we headed to a place called Zeppelin. The strict age policy here is relatively straightforward. It involves the doorman asking for ID, then when you complain you haven’t brought any with you, you simply write your birthday down on a post it note and they let you in.

We stayed here for a bit, drank down a few caprinihas, actively avoided the other Gap tour who had turned down our offer of a party, and then squeezed way too many of us into a cab for the trip home.

We awoke the next morning to the dissappointing sound of torrential rain. It had cleared the mugginess of the day before, but this was not ideal Iguassu Falls-viewing weather. I felt quite annoyed, but tried to remain optimistic.

Thankfully it doesn’t matter what the weather conditions are like at Iguassu. It really doesn’t.

With half the group dressed like a bunch of musical condoms (or like a visiting party of forensic scientists) our wet poncho-clad bodies were filled with hot coffee then laden into a 4x4 for a journey through the rainforest (living up to it’s name) and then onto a speed boat for the six kilometre race up to the base of The Falls.

It was spectacular, and all the more enjoyable for the drenching we received as they dipped the nose of the boat under a couple of the less torrential flows.

Afterwards, we walked the trail back up to grab lunch and catch the sit-on train to the top of the falls. From the station to the falls is a twenty minute boardwalk, and thankfully the rain was subsiding as we approached the most spectacular part.

Words cannot entirely describe the sight. I’ve seen Niagara twice and been thoroughly impressed each time with the Horseshoe, but I don’t remember as being quite so mesmerised by the sheer scale of the place, and how the seething foams unrelentingly burst out in ochre-tinted, battleship-grey and bright-white froths all around you. It really messes with your eyes, but is a stunning sight to behold.

Thousands of small birds dart around the thick misty clouds that bloom up from the pit the water falls into, and this means there is no chance of seeing anything much down below.

We stopped, did the obligatory tourist photo thing and then headed back. I was impressed. Very impressed.

That evening we let what we’d seen settle in. Juan took us to a favourite restaurant of his, where we were dished up guinea pig-sized steaks with minimal vegetable accompaniments. Mine came with two globs of dijon mustard; but there were a whole range of mouth watering accompaniments to choose from.

It was sensational stuff and I was very full.

The next day we departed. Locking our bags in a room for the morning, transport had been arranged to slip over to the Brazilian side once more to see it from the other side. The weather had marginally improved since yesterday and this made it good for a helicopter trip.

This was my fourth or fifth time doing such a thing, and once more I relished the initial sensation of rising above the treetops and taking in a fifteen minute exploration over the falls. The pilot threw in a few sneaky moves which went down well with me, but upon our return a very unwell looking Scott indicated he hadn’t been such a fan.

By this stage Sarah and Kristie were by now falling over themselves to get up close and see the spectacle, as neither had done the helicopter trip, and had both been afflicted by the messy illness the previous day, so they still hadn’t seen any of it.

Luckily they now got their chance. The Brazilian side is a much smaller affair, and consists of a long walkway that traces the edge of river then brings you up and over the two tiers of the falls, allowing you to walk out and amongst on the first level.

Equally impressive, if not more so than the previous day, the views were spectacular.

We retired to the bus and began the next night journey to Sao Paulo.

I had expected to spend some time in this city, but apparently our timetable didn’t permit it, so we only briefly skirted through. The night had been eventful. Firstly Juan had spotted someone loading contraband into the hold, so we were all praying that we wouldn’t get stopped at one of the police checkpoints.

In addition, a bunch of noisy Brazilian males seemed to be unnerving some of the girls, and in fear of being ‘snatched away‘, they all did their seatbelts up, much to our amusement. Luckily, and perhaps not surprisingly, no one was stolen in the end.

Heavy thunder and forked lightening provided a spectacular lightshow for the first part of the journey, and at the service station, the ritual of watching the girls going back to the toilet to root around in the cubicle bins to find the little yellow paper slips they had been handed when they entered the building was quite amusing. It turns out they wouldn’t let you back out without it (although this wasn’t explained at the time), so it was a case of rolling up sleeves and going back in.

At around five in the morning, I was awoken by a loud bang. I assumed my water had fallen down from the overhead storage, but it wasn’t until I got a tap on the shoulder and it was pointed out to me that the window behind had shattered spectacularly.

Being safety glass, it had crystallised, but with no spare seats on the bus, and the driver refusing to stop, we just played musical chairs until about forty minutes later the whole thing collapsed in on itself and over the people behind me.

Eventually the driver thought it worth having a look. He rocked up in his tired red jacket, rolling his moustache between the fingers of his left hand and with his right hand stuffed deeply into his pocket. He made a quick thoughtful assessment, laughed a little, proffered something in Portuguese, then went back into the cab and continued the journey regardless.

Thankfully the rain had stopped by now, so the next two hours weren’t so bad, if not a little windy. We hung around at Sao Paulo a little while until our transfer arrived and took us on the long and winding road through the hills to our next destination, Paraty.

Paraty

This was the second quaint colonial town we’d stopped at, this time a Portuguese settlement (this being Brazil; opposed to being Spanish like everywhere else in South America).

Boulder-sized cobbles here make road-travel through the streets like dustbin-lidding on a cattle grid, but the place was very pleasant and the surrounding hills bathed in a rich evening warmth.

Naturally, the weather wasn’t to last beyond the first day, but that balmy evening we walked into town for food at a quirky bar called Paraty 33, where we feasted on pasta and seafood. I got dragged up to dance a little here, and decided I’d have just one more drink. Inevitably the little street bar we chose was selling 5R$ caprinihas, so I later revised my night plans into a more long-term arrangement.

There was drinking and dancing, cocktail mixing, quite a few smashed glasses (I was covered in lime and sugar) and a good night had by all.

Also, never before have I watched a man with a plaster cast leg, backwards donkey kick his friend, then follow up the attack wielding a crutch like a sword. Spectacular and probably never to be seen again.

The next day was for us to do as we wished, and so a handful of us chose to jump on a local bus and make our way to something called the waterslide waterfall a few miles away.

Bearing in mind our previous experiences at South American water-based attractions, you might have assumed this could have been a little disappointing. In the event, it was nothing like what I expected at all. Rather than a carved channel in the stone, it was one huge flat slab of rock, polished by a sheet of constant running water, and made dangerously slippy by a liberal coating of green algae.

It was great fun to watch Caroline, Stephen, Matthew, Soren and Kasper glide down with such ease, but my arse is not the polished marble puck that the others seem to possess, and I constantly found myself blue-tak like, clinging to the rock like a limpit made of pure friction.

Anyway, despite these issues, I was eventually able to overcome my disabilities and build up enough momentum on the slide. For a while we all gracefully and repeatedly plunged into the murky pool at the end of the great granite sheet. Very good fun.

The spacious local bus which had bought us up to the waterfall had somewhere along the line been chop-shopped into a small rickety minibus in time for our return. At least we assumed it was our bus - there wasn’t a sign, but the bloke driving seemed quite happy to accept our money and cram us on top of other people on board, so we assumed it was right.

By the time we got to town all forty of the people on the minibus were quite relieved to get off (I may have exaggerated the number to stress a point) and go find some lunch.

After a sustained fight with a Portuguese hole in the wall, I located the others who were still waiting for their food to show up after about a hours waiting. I did ask whether they had actually placed their order. When they confirmed they had, I checked to see if they had done so in this particular restaurant, or somewhere else.

They were soon saved from my flippancy when the meals turned up. A couple of steaks, some pasta, chips, and like with everything edible in South America, four big bowls of rice.

After lunch we all went our different ways. Scott and I trekked around the harbour, beaches then up to the old fort and wasted the afternoon there.

That evening we arranged to go for pizza at a local hostel (a cute place far more appealing than that actually sounds). Perched up on the first floor with an open view out, it reminded me a little of the restaurants in Thamel, Nepal - and for the first time on the trip I found myself engaged in a thoroughly serious and cultural discussion, this one with Stefanie about British art history.

I decided to call it a night, and along with Katie and Sarah, arranged to take a lift back to the hotel with a friend of the barman.

It turns out the unexpected part of the arrangement was we hadn’t bargained for was the transport being a refrigerated van. Kristie made good of the shotgun rule, so the remaining three of us bolted into the ‘containment area’.

I think you will be most surprised to learn that just because a refrigerated van can be refrigerated, it doesn’t mean that it actually is.

After about five minutes things were getting pretty warm, and after ten, ‘sweaty’. So it’s probably just as well that the driver pulled over. We thought we had arrived, but a muffled shout from the front cab by Kristie indicated he was just running an errand. No problem Mr. Driver - after all we weren’t paying for this lift. Open-popped the back door, and in-thrown was a bag of ice. I positioned it on top of the wheelbarrow we were squatting around, and on we went again.

Just in case we were concerned about our own safety, or what the authorities might think if they caught a fifty year old man with three portuguese non-speaking adults locked in the back of his van with a bag of ice and gardening equipment, he drove really slowly, but needless to say the cobbled bit was the most uncomfortable leg. Having finally parked up right next to two full police cars, the look on the officers’ faces as we emerged was bemusement, but in the end they didn’t seem too fussed. Probably happens all the time.

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Colonia

Our first destination in Uruguay was the pretty and historical port of Colonia. Once a smuggler’s haven, it’s quaint cobbled streets are now more suited to tourists bombing it around in half-broken beach buggies and golf carts, or at least that’s how things panned out when we turned up. The market was somewhat disappointing (if it was big enough to write Uruguay on it, it’s sold in that market), and so we found a bar and made that our base for a little while during the afternoon. The town and hotel itself was very nice.

That evening food was at a local restaurant, and it became quite a merry affair. Lubricated with alcohol, fussball, throwing games, dares and late night salsa dancing - it went down well. It also was the day that the wheels of the rumour mill began to turn.

Montevideo

The next and slightly hungover destination was Montevideo, the luxuriant capital of the famously cosmopolitan Uruguay.

It might be sensible to highlight that this last statement maybe include both flippancy and sarcasm. Although personally I enjoyed this bit of the trip, I would concede I found the grey buildings and drab beaches a little disappointing compared to some of the other locations we were lucky enough to visit. For some it was too much, and not ever since has Jade been able to reconcile her loathing of the place. But for all the negativity of the location, the highlights together as a group were excellent.

Stephen had become somewhat obsessed with balancing the zen of the hotel lobby, and the group took great pleasure rearranging the two stick-mounted fish ornaments in whatever way would cause the most discomfort for him at any given opportunity.

Lunch on the first day was traditional Uruguayan fayre - McDonalds - which might go someway to indicating the lack of interestingness in this aspect of their culture. The evening was spent at the cinema watching Bridesmaids. It’s the sort of town Montevideo is.

To be perfectly fair, by the next day when we rode on bikes around the city, the lunch offering had far improved - a Chivito - a traditional sandwich which is made by stuffing anything that is both edible and sandwich-sized between the hulking loaves. The bike tour was extensive; so much so that Matthew broke his saddle. Other than this, the highlight of the day by far was a visit to the grey monolithic bowl of the original football World Cup stadium.

Quite unbelievably, in the 1930s Uruguay had fielded the best football players in the world, and in two consecutive Olympics had sailed to magnificent gold medals (as the eight-minute video explained). As a consequence, they were the ideal choice as hosts, and Montevideo’s new stadium was the envy of the world. They even went on to crown their previous glories by being the first to win this new World Cup.

Now it’s a slightly faded relic, and feels much like all of the rest of the city; a reflection of a perhaps once interesting and vibrant time. It has has had seven or so decades to let the past glories fade away; and apparently has quite successfully achieved that feat.
The final evening here was in a cosy restaurant down by the old markets. We’d had a few primer drinks in Juan’s accommodation, and by the time food had arrived, Stephen had already committed to doing 100 shots in a 100 minutes. Now, Centurions were nothing new to most of the party, but even the most hardened drinkers don’t usually take on this task lightly, at dinner, or alone.

My meal was delicious; two slab-like pork steaks, swimming in a rich plum sauce and shoved up against a huge foil-wrapped portion of sweet potato mash. One of the first of the really great meals I was lucky enough to enjoy on the trip.

However, things weren’t looking so hot for Stephen by now. Unassumingly pole-axed by the task, he actually seemed quite happy and blissfully unaware of his own state. After declaring his love for most of us, making some fairly profound observations, then walking into a telephone box, it was decided he should return to the hotel.

Those who remained took to a local bar. There were cocktails, long measures, some shots and ultimately Scott, Katie and myself remained. The end of the night came when we were escorted from the premises; something to do with Scott rolling around on the floor in pain. Good times.

Adios Montevideo.

Salto

The following morning a new bus transfered us to our next destination, Salto.

Improved weather made the place pleasantly enjoyable. At evening time we were stuffed into a local restaurant “El Rancho” (I believe it means “The Ranch”) to fill ourselves with mountain-loads of grilled meat. This became a reoccurring theme as our travels progressed, and South America can be very enjoyable if you are a fan of eating animals.

The evening concluded with the world’s longest sustained game of ‘I Have Never’. As most of us had not played this since we were teenagers, it was a bit of a thrill, and incredibly revealing. I won’t ever manage to forget Jade, Scott’s and Sarah’s contributions. Never. Never ever.

The ‘waterpark or spa’ choice the next day was clearcut for most of us. The girls wanting pampering and paid to receive their (apparently) pervy massages, while us lads made the most of the four or so water slides and the “lazy river” at Salto’s best (only) aquatic attraction.

Incoming lightening storms closed some of the high-rides for a while, and the crazy golf had been shut down for still undisclosed reasons, but despite the limited options, good times were still possible. The red and black slide was definitely the best. The frog that joined us in the pool for a while might not have agreed.

We’d been warned that strikes on the Uruguayan/Argentinean border are not infrequent, and there was a good chance that if one occurred, we might be stranded for a few days until the dispute was resolved. Frustratingly news of such a strike had come that morning. We didn’t know until the end of the day that luck was on our side, and a long crisis had been averted. We were only delayed by an hour in the end.

On the way to the bus station, Jade had wrestled a CD from the taxi driver as a memento of the trip. She genuinely had enjoyed the music, so it was amusing when Juan later explained that the tunes in question were hot-favourites of the Uruguayan mafia, and pretty much unacceptably-awful to the ears of the rest of the population.

Now began our fast flip-flop like exploration of the border lands as we neared Iguassu Falls. Splitting Argentina from Brazil, there is no direct access from Uruguay, so the night bus would take us north on the Argentinian side. It would be a long slog, and although in comfortable conditions, it also proved to be the downfall of a number of members of our party.

The absolute cause is unknown, but over the coming days several people fell ill and it seemed the rather unsanitary onboard toilet facilities might have been a factor.

As we crossed into Brazil, we now moved into our third currency of the journey, and my pockets were awash with a mixture of peso shrapnel that no one would take or exchange. I still hadn’t managed to figure out the conversion rates, so it was all inconsequential to me anyway.

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Inevitably, my summer travels this year became somewhat a last minute affair. Originally I’d planned to make a beeline for Cuba (the thought of sitting on a veranda, with a thick-rolled cigar in one hand and an ice-stacked rum glass in the other appealed greatly) but apparently this time of year can be a bit “typhoon-y” and I’d had my fill of cold and dull weather on my adventures abroad in the past two years.

I was lusting for some sunshine. Despite my acquiring of a tan generally follows a period of burning then peels away like snake skin before I’ve stepped off the plane home, I do enjoy sun drenched countries, and apart from the odd wedding in Spain I’ve not been anywhere really hot since 2007.

So it was decided. South America.

This is quite a big deal for me as it was and is the ‘Elderado’ continent that got me interested in visiting far flung parts of the world in the first place, and a location I had never seriously planned to go to until I had enough time to tackle it properly.

My limited trip this year hasn’t shattered those ambitions. In fact, having just three weeks there, I’m still bound to return to see the parts that really intrigue me (the countries I’ve visited this year were only ever going to be side-notes to my child-borne dreams of seeing the Inca ruins in Peru).

Also this year was the first time I had done the whole trip solo. For at least part of all my previous trips, I have always travelled or met with at least one other person I know. Some people like the complete solace, but I’m not like that. If I’m ill or tired, I like that someone else can read the map or figure out what’s coming next. It’s teamwork and it’s enjoyable. For short bursts I can cope like that, but for three weeks, I’d have been pining for a break from it.

So it was all but inevitable that I would seek out others to travel with, and with the absence of any of my usual Grand Tour companions, I decided to travel with a group organised by Gap. It’s basically just transport, accommodation and a group of likeminded people thrown together (so it’s up to you what you actually do during the trip), and having experienced one before when I travelled in California, I knew and looked forward to what I was getting into.

And so with just ten days to go, the nurse stabbed me with the obligatory set of needles and I was ready to go. A stack of unread paperbacks were stuffed into my trusty rucksack (ten years old, and bound together with 35lb fish wire, but still reliable), a freshly bound moleskiene notebook and quite a lot of clothes that I really should get around to replacing also joined me.

To Buenos Aires I flew.

Argentina

I’d already sampled a little Argentinean culture before. A few years ago I’d been lucky enough to drink maté and join in at a number of asados when a friend of mine was playing host to a couple of Argentinian visitors, but that had been the limit of my experience.

It was probably just as well I’d tried these things before, because we didn’t have much time in Buenos Aires (or ‘BA’ for short; a city I quickly came to like) and so I didn’t get a second chance to sample them again here.

I’d been collected from the airport by the immaculately dressed driver called Eduardo. In his seventies he wore a thin black suit, sported a thin grey moustache and flicked tobacco ash from the end of his thinly rolled cigarettes through the half-open car window. As he couldn’t speak a word of English, and my Spanish is limited to asking for beer, I just sat back and enjoyed the journey and his dangerous driving. Ah, at last, truly abroad once more.

BA itself was basking in sunshine when I arrived. I soon met my roommate Scott (or Reed if you believed his passport). Belfast-bred, tequila-infused and (as became quickly apparent) almost entirely nocturnal. The sort of person who is good to spend time in a bar with. We got on well, even if he did manage to out-drink me every night from this point on.

We meandered around the city until it was time to meet the rest of our travel companions. In total we were two Danish, a Dutch, a Kiwi, three Aussies, one Swede, three Germans, two English, a Welsh, an Irish, and our Argentinian tour leader, Juan. Everyone spoke English; no one spoke Spanish.

The first night was a quiet one. Scott needed to rest from prolonged exposure to ‘party hostels’, and I needed to rest from my wonderful (ahem) experiences with American Airlines.

The next day a number of the girls and myself decided to explore the city (the other lads had already spent some time here). With just a day in this European-esque town, we opted to take a bus around to see the major sites.

Lunch had been at a parisian-style street cafe, and being surrounded by six or so beautiful girls, it was quickly apparent that I looked like some kind of accidental pimp daddy; the group attracting a fair bit of attention from the passing traffic.

We boarded the tourist bus and ambled it’s way around the main sights like a lazy old dog. Once we disembarked at the vibrant La Boca district, we were pretty sure we weren’t going to be able to get back on again.

Juan had already warned us that patience in South America is not just a virtue, it’s an absolute necessity, and we quickly became acquainted with the concept.

Tango dancing, artwork, painted houses and the apparently dangerous neighbourhood around the Boca Juniors stadium entertained us for an hour or two until coldness set in and the group split up into bits. I remained with Jade and Katie to go and explore Recoletto (near the affluent Palermo district) to find where Eva Peron is buried, a cemetery that is apparently quite spectacularly crammed with ornate memorials.

Unfortunately we arrived too late to get inside, but the park right by was already awash with the Saturday evening crowd, who sat sipping at their matés accompanied by their dogs and friends, soaking in the live music and what was left of the setting sunshine.

Food that evening was our first chance to all get around a table together. Downstairs in a hostel basement we ate well and watched a couple of world cup rugby matches over beers and introductions.

It wasn’t a late night particularly, but an early start after drinks is only enjoyed by fools, and so the minibus journey to the ferry gave little time to sober up and recover.

Jade amused us all by routing around in another passenger’s bag (it was accidental) but once she’d finished, we hopped onto the ferry across the Rio de la Plata and into Uruguay for the first time.

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When I realised Taiwan was again on the cards for 2010, I quickly had to make my mind up on any other destinations I would like to tag onto the trip.

Korea was my wildcard choice, just two hours flying time from Shanghai and wonderfully packed with mystery; being both a country I know precious little about, and somewhere I have never been before.

Once concession I must admit is that I had originally planned to split my accommodation between hotels and a traditional Hanook guesthouse experience (tea, sleeping on futons etc) but last minute panic to organise some accommodation meant that I’ve ended up in a rather glorious boutique hotel for all four nights. Substitute culture and history for modern art and ubiquitous wi-fi (not that that matters in Seoul, the most connected up city on earth, and bleeding with signal, even on the subway).

I arrived on Monday afternoon, but it barely left me time to explore the area in the evening after a long wait at customs and the bus ride from the station. Perhaps I am more out of my depth here than any other place I’ve been before, mainly on the grounds that I’m travelling alone and have no understanding of the language at all. For the life of me, I still can’t recall “annyeong hasayo” when I need it - much harder than the bi-sybalic Manderin “ni hao” or the simple Japanese “konichiwa”. And then of course, they use their own bespoke character set too, just to make things awkward.

I’m staying in the Itaewon district of Seoul (through chance rather than by planning) and it becomes instantly apparent when you arrive here that this place caters largely for the 30,000 US troops stationed just a stones throw away.

If until now, you are not at all familiar with Seoul; it’s geography, it’s history or it’s knife edge existence, you should probably know two key things. Firstly, that is that it is so close to the North Korean border that it’s within shelling distance; and secondly, for all intents and purposes, it is the key and gateway to the whole of South Korea.

This is probably why there are glass cabinets full of gas masks on the subways. Mercifully the usage instructions spare the usual anime cartoon style that is used wholesale to communicate any visual message across metropolitan Asia (I refer you to such gems as “The Ecstasy Family” - a Simpsons-esque group of cheerfully illustrated crack-addicts who hazily promote a trendy design shop in Taiwan, as just one example).

This titbit should not mislead you however. Inside this massive city, there is little noticeable paranoia - the situation has been roughly stable for some time now, and in fact Seoul has a considerable amount going for it. Impressive boulevards slice across sprawling market streets, and the various ends of the city centre are pinned down by the ancient palaces of the Josean-era kings - and this city feels every bit the modern Asian tiger that I was hoping it would be.

On my first full day, I wandered around this central area for a while before stumbling into a music video being shot on the main drag, then hooked right onto a side street for some lunch. It took about five minutes for me to establish how the restaurant worked, and similarly for the waitress to work out how to best deal with me, but I was eventually fed, and I had my first experience of gimchi - spicy fermented vegetables (cabbage or radish) which are a staple sidedish to every meal here.

The architecture is distinctly less Chinese in style than I had expected (reading up on it, there is little reason for it to have much connection) and often more handsome. I took my first full day to explore the UNESCO protected Changdeokgung temple in the super-clear but chilly four degree sunshine. This was a slight variation on my initial plan, to explore the larger and arguably more significant Gyeongbokgung temple complex, but I soon discovered it was closed on Tuesdays, much to my chagrin. But no regrets; the temple I replaced it with was thoroughly different to the others I’ve seen on this trip so far, and enhanced tenfold by the stunning autumn setting.

Everywhere here is now gold and amber in colour, as the trees are in full autumn attire. This made my trip up the slopes to Namsam even more spectacular; a glowing canopy of woodland spread out below the cable car gondola.

Standing to the south of the jumble of the city centre, this mountain and National Park rises steeply out of the neon and concrete. Atop it is the key modern attraction, the N Seoul Tower, but also the more ancient five-beacons that sit like stone beehives to the one side of the summit.

Up here is a fence covered in locked padlocks littered with lovers’ messages, and a pleasant open space, but I was really there to watch the sun go down over the city.

I took my time, then headed to the top of the tower where I got into a great spot for taking photographs, and was able to capture the quivering red disc as it dropped out of view behind the mountains. I hadn’t appreciated how quickly the city below would react. Within seconds the spread of the city below transformed from a silver-pink acropolis into a labyrinth of snaking fluorescent traffic streams and neon matchbox-buildings.

Once darked-out, I headed back to Itaewon. I’ve mentioned the subway already, but for the sake of slightly more detail, it’s very simple to use and navigate. Most fares are around £0.75, of which £0.25 is refundable on the basis that you return your travel card at the end of your journey. I’ve been flitting around on it with no problem, and like most other transport systems in the world, I’m inclined to compare it to the Tube, which is tiny and less-phone riddled by comparison.

However, I didn’t need it this morning.

I was called at 7:43am by the front desk of the hotel. “Good morning Mr Higgs, your guide is waiting in reception.”

Setting aside that I had been called a full seven minutes before the planned meeting time, I was pleased to discover that I wasn’t late, and Kelly (our tour guide) was running a little early (lest I remind you last time I was called by hotel reception in Asia to tell me that if I wasn’t checked-out in 15 minutes, I’d be charged for another night).

Today was to be the highlight of my trip to Korea so far, and all likelihood, in totality. Today I got right up-close to North Korea.

Another confession to make here is that this wasn’t the trip I had wanted. There are two parts to a visit to the De-militarised Zone (DMZ), and unfortunately, the best of the two had sold out by the time I was able to book.

This second, more-exciting part actually involves stepping inside the blue UN building right in the middle of the no man’s land and taking a step over into the chilly communist half of the Korean Peninsular. For those able to do it, you must dress smartly, keep a straight face, forgo photographs, and sign a waiver to agree that you won’t get angry in the event that you get shot if things turn sour. Apart from these minor caveats, it’s a opportunity that should be seized with both hands if you are presented with the option.

Ultimately however, I was left only with the first part of the tour, which turned out to be really good anyway. The rules are a lot less strict, and not being from a country on a list of banned citizens, we were loaded onto a coach for the great schlep to the world’s frostiest border.

As you might expect, the decor is mostly barbed wire, fortifications and landmine warning tags along the edge of the great Han river which separates North from South in places. In 1953, when an armistice was signed after three years of almost forgotten bloodshed (a shame because the UK lost the second most troops out of the supporting nations) and a rough line was drawn across the 38th parallel, along which the two countries still remain divided.

Not that this suited either side particularly. Both still long for re-unification, but when the ideologies differ so greatly, 60 years on it still seems a distant possibility. North Korea had a plan to speed it all up though, and between the mid-1970s and 1990, South Korea discovered four manmade tunnels below the DMZ, stretching out in the direction of Seoul.

North Korea decried them as something the South had fabricated to sully their good name, but also claimed some were coal mines. This was all well and good, except for the distinct lack of coal, something which became apparent when the black paint began to peel off the walls. Nice try though.

We got to descend the Third Tunnel (as it known); the whole experience is quite eerie, from the exploratory bore-holes right up to the CCTV-watched “final blockage” (they installed three between this point and the border). Everything you are told is of course very South-centric, especially the wonderful seven minute video you get treated to, but the highlight is definitely getting the opportunity to observe Kim Jong-il’s realm first hand.

They are quite strict about photography here, but the observatory has been built sufficiently high to get a good view over the border, and the young South Korean conscripts are far more willing to pose for a photo with the tourists than perhaps you might expect.

If you want to understand how absurd the whole standoff is, there are a number of great examples of the level of one-up-manship these two nations practice.

A good one is the size of the flag poles in the two closest villages to the respective borders, which lie just 1800m apart. For a protracted period, each flag pole and flag was replaced with an alarming regularity and with ever increasing size until the South realised it was all getting a bit silly and just gave up. For the record, the two flag poles are now mounted on top of what could now only reasonably be compared in size and structure to super-sized electricity pylons.

One of the reasons you are required to dress up for access to the Joint Security Area (alas the bit I missed out on) is so that the North is not fed any material to use as propaganda. Not that they needed to wait for a Westerner to turn up in a mini-skirt - Koreans aren’t allowed on the tours anyway - but when those north of the border realised the closest Southern village was a model of respectability, they setup their own ‘propaganda village’ and so every morning before the tourists arrive at the observatory, they bus in a load of fresh-faced comrade kiddywinks to play outside for the duration, then bus them all back out at the end of the day once the last of the coaches have departed.

It’s all quite surreal.

As you might guess, I’ve become somewhat fascinated by it all. Another interesting thing indelibly marked into my memory today will be the relieved expressions of the three stranded Americans who were reunited with our tour party after the coach left without them. Only after the military policeman pointed out there were less passports shown to him than the manifest indicated did the tour guide have a quick panic attack, turn the bus around, and make a hasty and highly apologetic beeline back to the compound to pick them up.

In someways this was a bit of a shame, as some of the comments these strandees decided to share later in the day would have been better kept to themselves.

The final stop of the day was Dorasan train station. A bizarrely empty terminus branded “the first stop towards the North”, it was opened by President Bush in 2002 with much fanfare and the expectation that it might aggravate regular train travel into the mysterious North, into the continent and beyond. However, the plug was pulled almost immediately after it opened, and to date, only one passenger train has ever departed it.

As a consequence, it may now well represent the largest ratio of empty public space to gift shop in the country.

And for the moment, that is all. I have another day here, but unless the DPRK (Democratic Peoples Republic of Korea) decides to popup another tunnel surprise in the next 24 hours, I think the best of my Korea trip has passed. It’s been really good though, and I certainly will be doing some more reading up on it all when I get back. 

Update:

I didn’t manage to post the above yesterday, so have tacked on this addendum. This morning I took it easy, but headed out at 11am to explore the markets and sunken river that flows through the city centre.

A few years ago this was just a dirty stream, but a clean up operation saw it sunken a few metres below street level, lined with cream stone to create a walkway, and planted with rushes and grasses.

It was great, much better than I had expected, and is remarkably quiet considering two major roads flank it at building level. Cleverly, they have installed a number of stones and artworks to the centre of this flowing body of water, and the sound of it rushing into these obstacles breaks up the city noise much further still.

On a number of occasions people have engaged me in conversations as I’ve walked through the city since I’ve been here. One guy stopped me to point out two large fish he had spotted in the stream (he walks along it every day during his lunch break), and an immaculately dressed elderly gentlemen started a conversation with me on the subway, amongst various other encounters I’ve had. People are very friendly and obliging here on the whole, something which the guidebook had already stressed would be an impression that I would struggle to evade.

I was also glad to dive out of the path of the stream at one point. It had been an effort to see what was going on in the streets I was passing, and by sheer coincidence I ended up at one of the markets I had been hoping to explore.

I’ve previously done markets in Malaysia, Singapore, Taiwan, China and Nepal, but nowhere have I had so much fun browsing as here. I only wish I had had more time and a budget to burn on clothes, as the choice here is both refreshing and of a really good quality. I’m also glad I checked this place out because the much hyped Insadong-gil part of the city was somewhat of a letdown for me.

I can’t really convey what makes the shopping here better than elsewhere - perhaps the stall owners give you more room to breathe than at other markets I have experienced, whilst the quality remains extremely high and the selection unimaginably vast. My only concern was the lack of changing rooms, as I’ve already discovered that my UK size here fits my collar, but practically nothing else - Asians seem to be somewhat more slightly built than me!

Tomorrow I start my return home. I will have fond memories of this trip, and most definitely Korea which has really warmed on me in the past couple of days, apart from the food, of which I still can’t say I’m a great fan of. One brief rule of thumb; if it smells sweet and looks sweet, it probably isn’t sweet. I’ve tried enough street food to understand it probably has fish in it. Likewise, with one “western” dish, I was served olive oil, balsamic vinegar and bread, but the latter was so sugary it could have been a cake. Tip: expect anything.

I wonder where I will end up next year.

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