Likes vs Lives: Hiking in “Heavenly” Hawaii

I recently read Into the Wild, the journalistic book by Jon Krakauer that discusses the life of Chris McCandless and his motivation to venture alone into the Alaskan interior with minimal supplies. After McCandless’s decomposed body was discovered in September 1992, some people labelled the 24-year-old American as an arrogant fool who should have been better prepared for the harsh conditions he would face; Krakauer attempts to explain the reasons McCandless chose to live off the land with little help. He defends the young man’s intentions but acknowledges his mistakes, stating that ultimately it was ignorance, not arrogance, that led to his death.

Reading this book made me think of people I’ve encountered while travelling who have also been inadequately prepared for their undertakings. I can put my hands up and say that, at the age of 19 on my first solo trip, I was one of them as I wore shorts whilst hiking up Whistler Mountain in the Canadian Rockies with its elevation of 2181 metres. Standing level with the clouds, a mid-40s hiker in appropriate gear asked if I was cold, and I knew even as I indignantly shook my head with shivering knees that I should have been more sensible. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again.

However it still shocks me when I see people older than me dressed inappropriately for certain activities and weathers, or attempting feats that are clearly far beyond their fitness level. The single biggest eye-opener was on the island of Kauai in Hawaii, when I and some friends hiked to Hanakapiai Falls in the Nā Pali Coast State Park. You may be thinking how this is a location far different to that of Alaska, but a large difference in temperature doesn’t mean this popular holiday destination is any less dangerous. In fact, the 11-mile trail that encompasses the particular hike I did is regarded as being in the top 10 of America’s most dangerous hikes.

The first two miles of the Kalalau trail along the Nā Pali Coast end at a river that flows into the ocean. As roaring waves thrashed against rocks, I was told by friends native to Kauai that this beach is renowned for the number of drownings that occur as visitors innocently go to the water’s edge, only to be smothered by a wave and swept away by the force of an overwhelming current. Across the river, a trail continues on for two further miles into the Hanakapiai Valley of mud, bamboo trees and rocky river crossings until it comes to the  91 metre-high waterfall where signs warn of falling rocks from the high cliff. If one gets in danger here, there is no mobile signal to call for help.

We set off on the trail at 7 a.m to avoid the tourist trap. Even at this time, the path was muddy and slippery. The rocks over the river glistened with slime. I like to think of myself as quite an experienced hiker – distance and elevation aren’t too big a deal for me – but this trail was definitely one of the most challenging ones I’ve done due to the natural elements it contained. (If you’re not convinced of this by the photos, that’s because my camera was tucked securely in my backpack during these tricky moments!)

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Around midday on the way back we reached Hanakapiai river marking two miles left to go. By now the numbers on the trail had vamped up immensely and people were queuing to cross the river. The sights I saw here and on the last two miles were quite unsettling. I watched with my heart in my mouth as people carrying backpacks far too heavy to support their balance gingerly attempted to cross the river on the slippery rocks. I saw elderly people who could barely walk unaided attempting to climb steps smothered in greasy mud that concealed uneven tree roots. I encountered guys and girls warily descending steep paths drizzled with mud and scarred with skid-marks whilst wearing flimsy flip flops and brand new Nike Airs probably unwrapped from under the Christmas tree a few days earlier. Even at the most challenging times, hiking should be enjoyable. Very few of the inappropriately dressed people I saw looked like they were enjoying themselves.

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Travel has become much more accessible thanks to the likes of of travel blogs and social media. Blogs tell us that “anyone can travel”, encouraging people to quit their day jobs for a life on the road. I think it’s excellent that more people are travelling, and it’s something I hope I myself can inspire in people who read my blog. Social media platforms such as Instagram enable travellers to give others instant access to their experiences. There are benefits to this; in particular, it lets friends and family at home know the traveller is safe. Ironically however, this promotion of travel-for-all and availability of instant access could also be creating a cult of irresponsible travel. In a world where ‘likes’ and retweets are perceived to be indicative of popularity and hence success, some people forget to prepare properly and take precaution when it comes to aspects of travel such as hiking.

I will happily be the first to acknowledge that I tend to upload a lot of travel photos onto Facebook and my blog. However this is done days, sometimes weeks after the photo has been taken and not as I am having the experience. This not only allows the traveller to make the most of the moment without staring at a screen, but can prevent them taking risks in the hopes of receiving a quick ‘like’ for their pretty selfie in front of a backdrop illustrating a daring adventure. Getting excited or feeling proud about one’s undertaking can cause an impulse to share the moment with the world, leading to spontaneous irrational choices. Posing with a selfie-stick on a narrow cliff edge in windy weather before a beautiful ocean view? Walking down a slippery and uneven rocky path towards a tranquil lake whilst staring at your phone choosing a flattering filter? Not a smart idea.

Any travel blogger who says they don’t want to impress people with their photos and stories is lying. What I and many travel bloggers can confidently say is that I am not wanting to impress with how I look in a photo, but with the scenery I am looking at. Social media tends to take the attention off the environment and onto how people look in the environment. This is turn puts a pressure on some people (mostly young girls) to look their best. Perceptions of what “looking your best” means on Instagram might not necessarily equate to suitable hiking attire.

Ultimately it’s up to people what they wear when hiking, but they must accept that they are responsible for their own welfare, and their choices will govern how easily and successfully they can do something. In some cases, one’s actions and choices can be selfish if, by putting themselves at risk through lack of preparation, they also put others near them at risk should they be needed to help them. Nobody should feel like they can’t travel, but everybody should know their limits.

In their attempts to promote a destination and perhaps receive a cheque or free perk in return, travel bloggers must be careful not to create unrealistic expectations of what one can do in an area. In glorifying locations as exotic paradises, they must remind readers of the fundamental practicalities of hiking, swimming and other general activities. Before starting a trail, people should have the right footwear; they should check weather forecasts; they should pack sensibly but lightly; they should know details about the trail; and they should be alert and aware of others whilst on the trail. Hawaii may be a heavenly escape of stunning beaches, palm trees, chilled music and luscious cocktails, but it also has the potential to bring hell on one’s trip if they do not prepare properly.

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Tips for this hike can be found on this website

If you enjoyed this post, you might also enjoy reading The Rise of Techno-Travellers

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Escape to Portugal: Exploring Porto without a Camera

On my last day in Porto, I decided it would be a no-camera day. My battery on both my DSLR and my phone had already dropped to two bars and I didn’t have a charger with me. With the bigger city of Lisbon coming up, I knew I should save up my shots. The weather didn’t look great anyway, and I had been told by a work colleague that the famous bookshop I intended to see only let visitors take photos early in the morning. Nevertheless it felt strange leaving the camera behind in my locker and I had a feeling I’d regret not having it with me.

I began the day by walking up the famous Rua St Catarina, home to the famous Majestic Café which I had been told by a few people was a must-see. I glanced in at the café with its elegant décor but wasn’t mesmerised enough to warrant going in. I’m not a tea or coffee drinker and am more interested in visiting markets where I can witness more of the local culture. Sure enough, I soon found Mercado do Bolhão where stalls inside a wrought-iron warehouse were laden with fruits, veggies, flowers, deli and various crafts. Rummaging through a box of magnets in search of a cheap memento, I was joined by the old lady behind the stall who would mutter away in Portuguese “1 Euro” before picking up ones she thought I might like. I wasn’t actually that impressed but she had charmed me enough with her motherly nature to make me buy one anyway.

Next it was onto the fruit and veg stall, where the lady said “C’est tout?” having assumed I was French. I went with it and wandered on to buy a chorizo pastry and the famous natas (custard tart) for a packed-lunch later on. On the way out I passed a man with dreads playing with puppets for money whilst his young son, also with dreads, sat in a basket staring at a book. Passing by them calmly walked a lady from the market with a box of fish propped on her head. In her raggy dress, she was such a contrast to the flashy tourists and boutiques seen on Rua St Catarina, but this was like a sight of traditional Portugal, and that was when I wished I had my camera with me.

Lovraria Lello was my only set plan for the day, having been told that it was a must-see. However when I reached the famous book shop on Rua das Carmelitas, I discovered that a voucher had to be bought for entry and the queue was pretty substantial. I decided to come back later and instead roamed down cobbled streets with stray cats dashing underneath cars. By now I had really fallen in love with the design of Portuguese houses, sometimes decorated with floral patterns, sometimes a blue-checked style, sometimes painted in the form of green tiles, or sometimes just painted one single pastel tone with a balcony underneath each window corresponding in colour. I was wandering down random little streets with no real idea where I was going, but I didn’t feel like a tourist. I realised this was because I didn’t have my camera with me. Its lack of presence seemed to give me a greater sense of familiarity with the area, making me feel like a local just going on a relaxing ramble, rather than a tourist following an itinerary with the objective of finding a specific new destination.

Walking alone along the riverside on a dainty narrow metal bridge to the left of the road, I had one of those sudden “Am I actually allowed to be here?” thoughts before connecting back to the road and walking up the Rua da Restauração towards the Jardins do Palácio de Cristal. The ancient tram churned past me up the steep street where golden leaves bunched up underneath the line of trees. With free entry to the grounds, this botanical garden is a nice oasis away from the bustling Ribeira district. Past the pretty pond where ducks and peacocks loiter is a lovely viewpoint of the river Douro. Cue another moment where I wished I had my camera.

Down some steps you’ll find various manicured lawns decorated with flowers, ponds and sculptures. On a bench in the quiet serenity I bit into a squashed plum and its juice dribbled down my shirt. But there weren’t many people around to witness, nor to give me odd looks as I sat staring into space feeling frustrated but not knowing why. The state of not feeling like a tourist had also given me a sense of aimlessness which made me feel almost bored. I realised just how much entertainment having a camera can bring, and how much I love creating photos even when there isn’t much around me to inspire something. I began to ask myself why people take photos in the first place. Is it to document an established piece of art (whether natural or manmade) or to create art?  As I write this I still haven’t forgotten the view of the river from the lookout, since I was forced to really embed it in my mind, knowing that I would receive no stimulus to the memory otherwise. I decided that for me a camera is valuable for making a scene out of something and putting my own touch on it, rather than taking the textbook ‘perfect’ holiday snap.

At 4pm and with the midges starting to attack, I finally left the gardens to give Lovraria Lello another shot. By now my feet were starting to complain from walking in flat-soled sandals. Thankfully the queue outside the shop was much smaller now. At the kiosk I asked for a visitor ticket in what I thought was satisfactory Portuguese, only for the boy to respond with a  blank look. I repeated in English but, having heard mutterings of French behind me, found myself saying “Oui” when he asked if I just wanted one. “I’m confused – are you French or English?” he asked. I felt like saying “Nej, svenska” and giving him my best Viking glare. My mood got worse when an obese English woman pushed past me in the queue with a pitiful attempt to speak clearly given that I may not have been a native speaker (at least I try with other languages, even if I just receive puzzled looks in return…)

In the queue I studied the guide pamphlet given to all ticket-buyers in order to scout out the location of the genres I was most interested in. However, it soon became clear that few people visit this shop to buy books. It turned out that the rules had changed since my work colleague came here – now cameras were permitted all day. But I wasn’t disappointed by this, because this change in regulations in fact made my experience a disappointing one. Squeezing past mobs of tourists, I noticed that the shop was much smaller than I had expected. The red spiral staircase and the ceiling above were pretty but not mind-blowing, and they could hardly be appreciated anyway because there were so many people queuing up to take photos. ‘Snap snap snap’ was all I heard. After having waited what felt like an eternity for a girl to finish her wide-eyed mouth-open ‘Oh my God!’ pose, I began climbing the stairs only to have to pause again for another poser.

On the upper floor I found myself in a mosh pit of tourists constantly banging into each other in their quest to get a perfect selfie. I was disappointed to learn that the regal-looking beams weren’t even made of real wood, but plaster. The languages section was pretty good but I don’t have a particular desire to master Portuguese so moved on towards the arts section where I found some memoirs of Jimi Hendrix, although I wasn’t inclined to spend 16Euros on them. When a Chinese man stood on my toe without saying sorry, I knew it was time to go. Another traffic jam down the staircase and I was rushing out of the door in relief. I had spent about eight minutes in the shop, four of them spent just trying to get up and down the stairs. It hadn’t even been worth the 3Euros to get in.

I can understand why the managers of Livraria Lello changed the rules so that cameras are permitted in the shop all day – they must have received unmanageable rushes of people in the early morning and subsequent complaints when people had to be turned away. But the swarm of paparazzi ruined the place for me, the saturation of tourists taking away its integrity as a bookshop. People came here to take a photo and then left. All they wanted was to say they had visited this famous place; they didn’t want to experience it. I felt even more glad that I hadn’t brought my camera with me; I didn’t want to be one of these people. Their intention may have been to capture and document art, but for me their overbearing presence erased the art.

By now the weather had cooled and I took a seat at one of the tables by the olive trees on Avenue dos Aliados. It began to drizzle faintly but I remained put, eating croissants and enjoying watching people go by. I felt no sense of rush, no need to see places and take photos of things. Eventually I decided to head back to the hostel via a supermarket to get breakfast for the next morning, as I would be catching my bus to Lisbon early. Pingo Doce was packed with shoppers and I appeared to be the only non-Portuguese around. Joining a queue with some baps and bananas, an old lady in front started jabbering away to me. I shrugged my shoulders apologetically and said “Sou inglês .” The lady continued to jabber away with me standing there awkwardly. Then a lady in the queue next to us joined in, nodding in front of me. I could feel others’ eyes begin to close on me as I stood lost in translation. What had I done wrong? It was only when the lady to my left physically put her hands on my waist and gently but firmly pushed me forwards that I realised the other had been telling me to go in front of her because I had fewer items. In the end the cashier got confused and went to process the lady’s items first afterall. As I went to stand behind her again, the old lady rolled her eyes at me as if to say “These staff are useless.”

Scary Russian lady was just leaving my dorm as I arrived back, but no-English Nicky Minaj-fan had moved out. I was joined by two tired German girls who were shocked when I said “Schlaf gut”, remarking how it was ‘komisch’ that English people learn other languages in school. If anything, today had proved there should be more value placed on learning languages in the British curriculum. At the same time however, it does seem to be the case that the stereotype of native English-speakers being lazy with other languages leads to pickiness by foreign-linguists when one does attempt their language. Any slight mistake in the accent seems to result in incomprehension, whereas with English people it tends to be that anything goes.

Tonight a trashy rock band was playing in the Festival das Francesinhas, covering the likes of Eric Clapton and the Rolling Stones. Midges partied hard to the music by attacking my legs. I tossed and turned trying not to scratch my skin to pieces, but it was too difficult. Feeling desperate, I descended my bunk and rummaged in my wash bag for toothpaste. I figured that it would have a cooling effect whilst also repelling the buggers, so I went to bed with my legs smothered in Colgate…and it worked!

Lying down finally in comfort and feeling like a genius, I thought back over the day and how refreshing it was, not only to be surrounded by a constant whiff of mint, but to have gone a day without a camera, being a local rather than a tourist. I had had a nice enough time in Porto but two days was enough and I was ready to leave, feeling I’d enjoy Lisbon more. I would miss the old ladies in local markets, but not the paparazzi in tourist hotspots.

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Part Four: Loyalty and Loneliness in Lisbon

Harming Nature Through Human Nature

In the past couple of weeks as I write this post in November 2014, a rogue artist from New York has been in the news for vandalising some of America’s national parks with artistic graffiti. As expected, this activity has been condemned by both national park rangers and the public. Type ‘lady defacing national parks’ into Google and the top searches begin with the terms ‘awful person’ and ‘terrible human’. The perpetrator has been slammed for drawing these images and uploading them to Instagram, i.e. for seeking fame and attention at the expense of nature.

I of course was also appalled when I heard about these acts , especially as I have many special memories of the magnificent topography in some of the victimised parks – including Canyonlands and Zion – that were formed only weeks before these images were drawn. But then I thought about this issue some more and asked myself: regardless of spray-paint, are tourists not already defacing the nature of the parks? Through our own desires to find fame from capturing the best photo of a wild animal, are we camera-crazy (albeit well-meaning) humans not causing harm too? Harm that is subtle and unintended in nature, but still damaging to nature’s routine.

The other day I read the George Orwell classic ‘Animal Farm’. Published in 1945 and banned in the USSR for its anti-Stalin sentiment, the beginning of the story involves the animals of a farm rising up in rebellion against their greedy human owner and establishing control of the farm themselves. As I read the (highly-recommended) novel, I thought back to the encounters I had with wildlife during my American road trip this past summer.

I thought about the Rocky Mountain goats in Glacier National Park being woken from their afternoon naps by invading tourists trying to take a photo of their babies. Often the mother goat would nudge her kid to its feet and they would trot off to find a new secret place – something hard to find on the particularly popular Hidden Lake Overlook trail. People would watch them go almost offended, as if it was an insult for an animal to reject human advances.

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I thought about the bison in Yellowstone demanding that traffic come to a standstill while they marched across the road to new pastures. For all I know, their deep grunts were a sign of resentment towards the cars that clogged the man-made partition of their resources. I was surprised at how gentle they were; they were more than capable of causing damage to the monstrous RV that obstructed their path, by bashing their huge heads against its artificial walls in a determined declaration of  “We were here first.”

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I thought about the regular signs on the roads of Yosemite that reminded tourists to drive carefully, citing recent bear fatalities (reports state that so far this year, the figure is at 25). How ironic that in our quest to see a bear, we actually end up killing them? We contradict the whole purpose of a national park to conserve a species. It is in Yosemite’s campgrounds that keeping food in cars is prohibited, since recently a few bears learned how to open doors. These bears were then destroyed to prevent the trait being learned by others and to avoid human casualties. But is it not humans that are invading the bears’ space, rather than vice versa?

Finally, I thought about the large group of elk on Highway 101 just outside Redwood National Park, who caused a traffic jam when they decided to block part of the road. I remembered a man with long hair who drove a VW campervan videoing the scene and asking out-loud, “What does this mean, animals blocking a man-made road?” At first I had smiled to myself at this apparent hippy-expressionism, then I realised that he actually raised an interesting question. Was this group behaviour a form of defiance against man’s interference in nature?

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Does our greed as humans for viewings of rare wildlife touch on the verge of exploitation? Are we not slightly reminiscent of the white man colonising sparse lands in order to generate revenue, killing native inhabitants in the process? It should be mentioned that it is because bison were brought under conservation in Yellowstone that the species was protected from poaching and was subsequently able to grow in numbers within the last century. But back when the park was established in 1872, who was to know that these animals would eventually become the target of the tourist paparazzi? For it has become human nature to stalk the world’s rarest wildlife through a lens.

Obviously tourists, including myself, want to get a close look at wildlife; it’s only human nature. Personally however, I try to respect animals’ privacy in doing so and not disturb them from their natural state. It’s the same way that I would attempt to be discreet if taking a photo of a human stranger doing something interesting, if it was a situation where asking for permission would ruin the moment. Animals have no voice to give consent and therefore cannot be ‘asked’ in the way we humans are familiar with, but that doesn’t mean they condone the behaviour.

After reading ‘Animal Farm’ and thinking about these issues, it almost seems plausible to imagine these animals calling for a revolution against us human tourists.

But then there is the issue of squirrels. At first, it’s cute and endearing when the tame, chubby ones in Zion scamper over to your feet and look up expectantly for food with their tiny paws out like Oliver Twist. Even my friend and I were at first caught in the trap of taking photos and ‘awwww’ing at them. However, you then see them picking on the skinnier squirrels, consequently depriving them of food. Like in ‘Animal Farm’, those animals that interact with humans benefit, and it becomes the case that ‘all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others’. If humans weren’t feeding these squirrels, the inequality within the species would be smaller. Like the British Raj in India, it seems that human tourists have cemented power through a policy of ‘divide and rule’. Perhaps if the intrusive human presence left, the animal kingdoms would disintegrate into a state of instability and corruption.

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Of course, I expect many people reading to view the idea of an animal rebellion as an eccentric, far-fetched vision. But it is easy to imagine innocent things, just like it is easy to harm innocent beings. As history has shown, both are only human nature.