Hi y’all: Welcome to the 8th episode of my Hypertravel with Hardie video series of all the trips I've taken over the last twenty years. This coincides with the travel journal that I wrote called Hypertravel: 100 Countries in two years, and many more that came after. So, in effect, these first eight episodes are a pictorial version of the same book, and more, since this episode contains events and pictures that came after. And there is much more to come, with maybe even a Hypertravel II book to match, if all goes well. But this episode is about the South Pacific, including the major countries of the Philippines and Australia. So, let’s start there, then. Are you ready? Let’s go! Sydney is the largest city in Australia, by far, even if not the capital, and that’s where much of the action of the country takes place. Unfortunately for me, Australia was in the midst of its China boom, when they were investing like crazy and driving the value of the Australian dollar to a level higher than that of the US dollar, with resulting high prices. So, there’s not much time to waste chilling, but there is some time to sight-see. So, after the obligatory tourist stops of the opera House and the bridge or whatever, I’m on my way to Melbourne, to check things out there. It’s far to the south and so colder there in the southern hemisphere, appropriate for this Christmas season. The only ethnic neighborhoods in either city, though, are the various Chinatowns, since anyone besides ‘good Asians’ are subject to thorough scrutiny and likely denial of long-term entry. That means that there are many short-time helpers, mostly students and travelers like myself who come for a year to do the work that most Australians aren’t interested in. That means that there are also many low-budget hostels for short-time stays for me and them, too, because by this time I’m a confirmed hostel customer. Does Santa Claus surf? I don’t know, but by this time I’ve got to go, next stop New zealand, little brother to the land of OZ. New Zealand has been on my radar for a long time, though, thanks to its reputation as an ecotopia, just like the ecotopia of Oregon where I was living in the 1980’s. If the capital and largest city of New zealand, Auckland, was analogous to Seattle of the Pacific NW, then I suppose that Wellington would be analogous to Portland where I once lived. But I didn’t make it to Wellington due to time constraints and a previous earthquake in Christchurch, which destroyed much infrastructure in that city, New Zealand’s third largest. I did go to Fangarei, though, spelled Whangerei, at the entrance to Maori territory. So that was nice. And I moved downtown when I got back to Auckland town, in a high-rise hostel that was something like Latino central for the city. I did go to the nearby islands of Waheke and Rangitoto, too, both lovely and I had some good convos with some locals, that made me remember why I’m here and where I came from. Like Oregon, within a minute of meeting these people we’re finishing each others’ sentences and talking about old times the minute before. It’s New Year’s Eve, too, so it’s festive downtown and I’m hanging out with the Hare Krishnas. They always have good parties. Happy New Year! Fiji’s the next stop, but that’s a working concept as the hub of Pacific hub-and-spoke travel, so I’ll be in and out a few times within the next month. So, I stay a day and then head straight to the Solomons Islands, famous for the Battle of Guadalcanal in WWII. That means that if the sea level were to fall a few meters then a battlefield would present itself in the surrounding waters like naval ghosts from Christmases past rising from the ashes like zombies. But I’m just trying to get comfortable, and the rasta-flavored GH where I’m staying on the outskirts of town is just not working for me, so help me, Carmelita, before I sink down. So, even though there’s an ex-pat Britpub in the neighborhood, I bargain for a week in downtown Honiara, knowing the plane only comes once a week, so that’s okay. And I roam around the Chinatown, bruised and battered since the locals tried to shut them down after a fit of spite or jealousy, I suppose, but they always come back like perennials that they are. I consider the nearby islands, even one called Tulagi like my favorite bar in Boulder CO, back in the 1970’s, but spend most of my time studying Melanesian Pidgin language and trying to find similarities between it and the other languages I know like Spanish and Mississippi English. I spend more time in Fiji on the rebound. Nadi is not the largest town, but it/s near the international airport, so that’s convenient. All the groovers go out to the Yasawa Islands, so it’s only the backpackers here on Wailoaloa Beach. But it’s okay, especially on Wednesday night, which is Kava night, featuring the Kavaholics on folk instruments and the rest of us on the slightly tipsy brew called Kava. Then there are the fire dancers, unsure of what kind of music to dance to. But the kava seems to be ubiquitous in the Melanesia region, and if the Solomons are the ‘real thing’, then Fiji is Melanesia lite, literally, the product of many eggs scrambling over many years to get the mix of features that we call Fiji. But If I imagined it as a tourism monster, then that is not true. And neither is it for me, either, better as a centerpoint to all than a destination in its own right. The town of Nadi is nothing special and I assume the capital of Suva to be not much more, but still interesting for its social structure, if nothing else. At one point the Indians almost equalled the locals in number until the Fijian army sent them packing. They run the military and the Indians run the businesses. They share the government, while the Chinese wait in the wings. The food is killer, Indian or Chinese, vegetarian optional. Next stop is Samoa. Samoa is comprised of west and east, of course, Apia and Pago Pago, independent or American, Sunday or Saturday, since the two capitals straddle the international date line with all the confusion that entails, i.e. they’re separate, as the two airports for the two different regions in Apia would suggest. This is no longer Melanesia, though, but Polynesia, descendants of all the Austronesians that left the Asian continent to Taiwan, all within the last few 1000’s of years, and then spread out from there with excellent navigation skills. Melanesians came much earlier, mostly by land. But this is the cradle of Polynesian culture. There are churches everywhere, so on Sunday I go church-hopping, just follow the music. I don’t want to stay in Apia the whole time, though, so I scout out the outer islands and eventually settle on the most unlikely one, US Samoa, centered on Pago Pago, in the US outlying territories, complete with not only Kmart and KFC, but Napa Auto Parts and the US Post Office. Apia is much cheaper, though, and the people are huge in both. It must be genetic, or diet, or both. The westerners still wear lavalavas, while the easterners have spiked hair and other punk fashion statements. Pago Pago has a beautiful harbor, too. Many of the American Samoans are long gone to America proper, though, so many westerners come over to fill the job corps, just one big happy family. Next stop is Tonga. If you’re saving the best for last, then this is not a bad choice. We beat the rain out of Samoa, but Tonga is not much better, and I’ve got flu-like symptoms, so I’m being cautious. I do the Sunday church scene with a Finnish guy, and we even get to sit in on a traditional wedding ceremony and feast. The city of Nuku’alofa is nothing special, but the graveyards are incredible, folk art of the highest order. They don’t wear lavalavas, either, but real grass skirts. Storms are threatening again, but we manage to make it out on time, just a stop back in Fiji, then on to Honolulu, with a stop in Kiribati, then on to LA. So this trip over, but the narrative is not, because i neglected to mention the trip’s very first stop, in Papua New Guinea. It’s a weird place, so I didn’t want to set the wrong tone for the rest of the trip. How weird? Let’s just say that these are some of the nicest people in one of the world’s most dangerous places. Not weird enough? How’s this, then? Until the advent of airline travel, no one even knew that there were tribes in the interior of PNG, much less the full 800 languages. That’s less than 100 years ago. It’s travel policy for me to do the weirdest things first, so I went straight from Thailand to Brisbane in northern Australia, and from there to PNG. There are no roads out of Port Moresby, so I went to Lae on the northern coast with the idea to continue by road to Goroka, heart of the tribal highlands. The trip got off to a bad start, though, and I missed my ride from the airport to my pre-booked hostel at the Summer Institute of Linguistics, the infamous tribal translators. Nobody knew the place, so I ended up elsewhere, with resulting disruptions to my schedule. Oh, well, that’s life. So, I stayed in Lae, mostly cowering in fear, from the reputation of the place and the looks on people’s faces. I got an earlier flight back to Port Moresby and stayed with the Christian missionaries there, with plenty of stories amongst them, including one who said he was robbed four times on the very road that I wanted to be on in Goroka. So, I satisfied myself with the Port Moresby streetside crafts market to satisfy my vision quest for the interior. That’s all for this particular trip, but there’s another waiting to do, in the North and Central Pacific. 2012 This trip got reignited a year or so later, with a trip to the Philippines and nearby environs. The Philippines is one of the more popular destinations in the Pacific, but at the same time one of the more difficult to get to traditionally, though that is changing now with the advent of budget airlines, of which the Philippines has a few. But at this time, 2011-12, the big boys still largely controlled the skies and so prices were equally high. Which is good, in a way, because otherwise I might not have bothered with Guam, the Marshall Islands, and the Federated States of Micronesia, which are also in my month-long itinerary of January 2012. But the Philippines are the largest peach in this pie, and that’s where the trip starts. Manila reminds me of nothing so much as Bangkok, Thailand, where I’ve also spent much time and energy. And if the bars and prostitution are the starkest reminder of that, then the signs are also much in evidence elsewhere: the street food and the street scene most notably. The biggest differences lie in Manila’s relatively less development and the lower tourist numbers to match. Part of that could be the Philippines more remote location, and then there’s the greater poverty. There’s also the relative difference in their response to the Chinese presence, but be sure that they both have Chinatowns, Jake. Then there’s Makati, Ermita, old town Intramuros and still more, but they’re all crowded, as the inflated family sizes would indicate, one of the largest outside Africa. This trip will only cover the main island of Luzon, though, so I’m immediately drawn to the north. That’s where you’ll find one of the rarest places in all the country, Baguio City, onetime hill station for the resident Americans who controlled the country. Call me American and count me in. The Philippines is generally hot and sweaty, even for a Mississippian, so Baguio is a welcome relief, at almost a mile high. That elevation is nice anywhere in the tropics I find. At only 150mi/250km from the capital, that is convenient, also. The going is slow on the roads in the Cordillera, though, and that’s Spanish FYI, which is one of my hobbies here, mixing and mashing Spanish with the Tagalog equivalents which are many, usually distinguished more by spelling than meaning, which are often absent as the many women named Corazon can easily attest to. They have no idea what it means. Language evolves like DNA, almost exactly. So, I go to the most Spanish of Filipino towns, which is Vigan, but nobody speaks Spanish. The architecture is nice, though. But my main interests are the tribal areas, and that requires a backtrack to Baguio before traveling into the interior. The rice terraces are beautiful there, down the road in Banaue. But first there is Sagada, the hippie capital of the north. That means banana pancakes and more, of course, like reggae bars and yogurt parlors. But the drive is the real thrill, through beautiful scenery and winding roads. I’ve finally got a window in my room, too, so I’m happy about that. Banaue is nice, too, though notable for its differences, in price and custom. It likes to shut down early at night. There are tribal people, though, and not shy about it, so that’s nice, even if they are looking for tips. Given my limited time, this is a nice little taste, but it will have to do for the time being. Next stop is Guam. Guam shares much of the same history as the Philippines, first with Spain, and then with the USA. The big difference, of course, is that they never got independence, whether they ever wanted it or not. It feels Japanese, though, even if the culture is technically Micronesian, as distinct from the Melanesian and Polynesian of the south Pacific. The restaurants are Asian. The bars are American. But if this is the crossroads of culture, then Pohnpeio, FSM, is the Micronesian ‘real thing’ and almost the opposite of Guam. Because they have the historic ruins of Nan Madol, second only to Easter Island is terms of Pacific island archeology. They also have ‘sakau’, their version of kava, no ceremony required. It’s stronger, also. But the power is off much of the time, taking much of the shine off of what would otherwise be a splendid place. Then there’s Majuro, major city of the Marshall Islands. These are atolls, not volcanoes, so when the sea levels rise, then they will be the first to go. The Chinese are there in full force, too, likely as a stepping stone to the USA, of which it is a part. They are most famous for their nuclear tests, though, so that is a dubious distinction. Do you remember the song, “No Bikini Atoll?” That’s here. Again, like Pohnpei, FSM, there are few tourists, so that’s enormous potential being wasted. There are good churches, though, flowery shirts and all. I feel right at home. You gotta’ believe in something. This island is the perfect metaphor, a long narrow chain of livability surrounded by doubts and uncertainties. Did mention that you can walk down the only road looking to separate and different oceans on either side. This trip is over. C U in Honolulu. If you like these pictures and this story then please LIKE and SUBSCRIBE. It goes a long way. Thanks! C U next time, I hope.