Blue Ice

The imposing Franz Josef glacier and its 7km wide ice field
(click on each photo to enlarge)

Franz Josef is a magnificent glacier which plunges from a height of 2700 meters above sea level to less than 300 meters in just 11 kilometers. It begins high up the southern alps and slopes steeply down toward the western coast of South Island, New Zealand, 19 kilometers short of the Tasman Sea. Its advance and retreat is cyclical depending on snowfall and meltwater. Not surprisingly, it is currently in retreat due to global warming. It was named after the Austrian Kaiser by a German explorer in the 1800's. It's Maori name is Ka Roimata o Hinehukatere or tears of Hinekukatere after a local legend.

Loose rocks along the path to the glacier

The hike begins at the banks of the Waiho River which is fed by glacial melt waters. The surrounding area is a World Heritage Site, a temperate rainforest, green and lush with unique foliage endemic to this isolated region. The trek to the glacier terminal is long and arduous. Large, loose boulders are scattered throughout the path. As we near the glacier, the guides advise us to stay clear of the face. Chunks of ice are known to break off and fatalities are not uncommon. It is here we sit and fasten the crampons supplied by the guide company to our hiking boots. This provides the traction we will need while walking on the slippery ice.

Attaching steel crampons to water-proof hiking boots

The face of Franz Josef glacier as it meets the rocky valley floor

Steps are carved by guides for an "easier" climb. As we trek higher up the glacier, it takes on a luminous tinge. It transforms into pure, uncontaminated ice, the dust and mud disappearing. We enter a frozen realm of strange blue forms and deep crevasses. One false step could take us into a bottomless fissure. Our senses are heightened by the danger around us, yet we are fascinated by this alien world and continue unmindful of the risks.

Glacier guide and her handy-dandy ice axe paves the way on slippery slopes.
She is incredibly fit!

The view on top is magnificent, giving us a wide vista of the steep canyon walls and  the valley floor below. Blue ice caverns and freezing pools of melt-off are everywhere. Twelve kilometers of massive, solid ice stretch out before us. It is a grueling trek, good balance and physical fitness a must. Finally a break for lunch, away from the ice by the side of the canyon. The guide is wise to bring a high carb, pasta meal while the rest of us foolishly munch on meager sandwiches.

View of the valley below, the mischievous kea parrot pecking on the ice

Climbing icy steps into the heart of the glacier

Up the canyon wall for a spot of lunch with a view of the glacier

Contemplating on the glacier during a much needed lunch break

Traversing the bottom of a crevasse

We have been on the ice for two hours and have covered just a little under two kilometers. It is punishing. And cold. We see a group who opted for a whole day hike and we wonder at their imprudence. The way down is even more treacherous and exhausting. Our thighs, knees and ankles are fatigued from the unfamiliar stride of the heavy crampons. It is extremely slippery and falls are frequent. Our adrenaline has given way to distress. Thoughts of dry clothes, hot soup, a sumptuous dinner, and a warm, soft bed dance in our heads. Everyone is silent.

A group of trekkers at the very top of the glacier, a whole day trip

Trekking the river bed on the way back home

We reach the valley floor and hike another hour through the rugged terrain back to the waiting bus that takes us into town. We are dead-tired and starving, feeling like we trekked the peaks of the Himalayas. Every bit of muscle cramping in pain.

Finally a hot shower and a change of fresh, warm clothes. We walk over to the only gourmet restaurant in town, the Blue Ice Café. We order lamb, venison, steak, and just about everything there is on the menu. It is a wonderful meal. The chef is a young, talented Kiwi. And yes, the front of the house is run very efficiently by his Filipina wife and her sisters. They are overcome with excitement to meet compatriots in this remote corner of the planet. They lavish us with constant attention. A fitting end to an enervating but remarkable day.

The southern alps from Franz Josef town. The glacier in the distance, mid-left.

How I became Catholic

No, I don't mean this as a theatrical metaphor describing my life, I mean it literally. I'm not particularly devout or fanatical about my faith. In reality, I continually question the tenets of religion, especially now with the ongoing controversy between Church and State. Apart from being baptized as a baby and taught to pray to my guardian angel as a young child, there were other definitive events that encompass the stages of my life which makes me the Catholic I am today.

My very first realization that religion is an all powerful force was my First Confession. We had numerous practice runs for this occasion and finally the big day was at hand. We all lined up in the confessional, making sure we memorized every single mortal sin we had committed. It was to be divulged solely to the priest and no one else. We wondered what sort of punishment would be meted out, particularly to the hardened delinquents in my second grade class. Penance could only mean torture to a schoolgirl who for the first time would enter a dark cubicle and face a curtained window from which a booming voice would proclaim dire punishment for all the lies she told her mother. Finally it was my turn in the confessional and it was into a pool of wet stuff I knelt on. It was all too much for the frightened little girl ahead of me. Her sins made her lose control over her bodily functions, I thought to myself. This, without doubt, had put the fear of God in me. The curtain then parted and I heard myself say in a trembling voice the oft-rehearsed prayer, "Forgive me father for I have sinned..." 

Ora et Labora. Pray and work is the motto of the convent school I went to. It was founded by German missionary nuns from Tutzing more than a hundred years ago. I remember them vividly. I even remember having to curtsey when we would meet Mother Prioress in the hallways. They were effective teachers but by the time I reached the upper grades, most of the Germans had relinquished their teaching positions, content to pray, bake their kuchens and drink their beer. The strict regimen they imposed was relaxed a bit. In high school, experimentation was the norm. We saw the emergence of a bizarre charismatic movement—girls in rapture talking in strange tongues. Alternative beliefs were introduced like Ananda Marga. There were the cute, young chaplains many girls had crushes on. We still had the Sodality and Marian movements but we thought that too square. Religion had  become immensely boring for a teenager with runaway hormones and confused logic. It didn't surprise me that not a single girl from my generation entered the convent.

I am invincible, who needs divine intervention. That was me when I was young. Nothing ever went wrong. Prayer was meant for asking things. Dear God, I need to pass that exam, make him notice me, I want new shoes. Then there was the flirting with new age ideas and Zen Buddhism, the study of philosophy and socialism. But I wake up one day and everything does go wrong. What happened? Life. I've become vulnerable, my spirituality is reawakened. Is this a natural progression? I return to things that comfort me in times of trouble. The prayers I learned as a child, the ritual, even the smell of incense evokes a certain sense of security. Miracles begin to happen and my faith is restored—I'm tempted to add a smiley because it sounds so simplistic, but it is!

I don't want to go into a deep theological discussion much less a philosophical debate about doctrine. Faith is a difficult thing to talk about without sounding self-righteous, we each have our own belief systems. Whether you ascribe to strict Vatican dogma or a loose interpretation of things, the crux is you believe there is a God who governs over all the laws of the universe. It's annoying when people foist their religion on me. It always seems like theirs is the best way to worship. My faith is private, it's my own deal with God. I still go to confession but before I kneel, I have the habit of checking to see if the confessional is dry. It always is. 

And I don't believe the Dalai Lama will go to hell either.

Pastrami palace

This is Where Harry Met Sally, at Katz's, a kosher-style Jewish delicatessen in the lower east side of Manhattan on Houston street (pronounced house-ton and not like houston, texas). There are tons of people here so expect to wait in line, but it's really just enough time to make you ravenous for that legendary monster sandwich. A great deal of shouting goes on and controlled mayhem takes place behind the sandwich counter, intimidating for sure if you're the shy tourist from Manila. Each sandwich maker has his own queue and you're discouraged from dithering when you order. Just make it simple, order the pastrami on rye and you won't be disappointed. What you get is a mountain of meat, juicy and cut to perfection. A daub of mustard and a kosher pickle complete the meal. If you don't want to wait in line, do what the locals do and get a "hotdoag" from another section of the order counter (but really, didn't you have enough of those at Papaya King?). In addition, you can order a reuben if you're not into pastrami. They also have knishes, salami, hot or cold tongue, all typical Jewish deli fare. If you're vegan, then it's best to stay away.

Yes it's touristy but it's the synagogue for food in New York and really should be experienced by every visitor to Gotham. It's the oldest Jewish deli in the city, established in 1888. It exudes atmosphere aplenty with a dizzying array of pictures and knicknacks all over. Their quaint tagline, 'send a salami to your boy in the army,' posted on the walls, is a reminder of world wars past yet still so apt today. One caveat, it's not cheap and, depending on your frame of mind for the day, can feel like the proverbial tourist trap. I guarantee you though, it's one meal you're not likely to forget. Any other pastrami sandwich will be feeble in comparison to Katz's.