matt watkinson

The Final Cut

Slideshows:

New Zealand

Sydney

Kyoto

Tokyo

To download wallpapers for your computer screen visit the link below, click on the photo you would like and then click “all sizes”, then “download the original size”
Wallpapers

Thanks are due to Horiuchi Color in Shinjuku/Kyoto, Vision Lab Sydney, The Photographer’s Studio and Lab Wanaka, Ken’s Digital Christchurch and Metro Imaging E6 London for development.

I’ve been back a few days now, and truth be told I’ve put off writing anything about the last part of my lap round the Globeschleife. Not because I am longing to be back on the other side of the planet living la vida loca, in fact I am very much glad to be home.

It’s a question of balance. I feel duty bound to try and write a fair assessment of the place, but must also include my personal thoughts and feelings; the objective and the subjective if you like. The issue is that they are not exactly congruent in this case. The problem is that every time I have started writing something its turned into an acerbic diatribe, lambasting everything from the texture of the sand to the diameter of the lagoon. I was so desperate I nearly brough SWOT, PEST and Porter’s five forces into the mix to better articulate my thoughts.

Anyone who has taken a jumbo out of Heathrow in the last few years will be aware of that o-so-clever advertising campaign by HSBC. For those who have not seen it, there are two pictures with captions written over them, and then further along the wall the same two pictures with the captions reversed, the idea being that clearly one person’s idea of pleasure or pain may be the opposite of another’s.

Anyway, when I was greeted by this platitudinous marketing drivel on arrival at Terminal Three, it finally dawned on me that here was the way to sum up my stay on Aitutaki: One man’s paradise is another man’s hell, and it’s as simple as that.

I was boiled by night and roasted by day, eaten alive by mosquitoes, fiscally raped by a speedboat driver, and driven to extreme boredom by isolation. To make things worse, I couldn’t even whinge at anyone back home: Cook Islands internet access involves two coconut shells, a piece of string, and an etch-a-sketch. As far as I’m concerned, Tom Hanks had it easy; at least he had a volleyball to keep him company and didn’t have the prospect of LAX immigration control swabbing him for explosives to look forward to.

The marketing material on the Cook Island’s makes much of two things: the legendary hospitality and friendliness of the people and the beautiful Aitutaki lagoon, which is famed as one of the top 50 things to see before you die.

The people are predominantly fat, miserable, spade-faced fellows, whose laziness is unparalleled. They would literally ride a moped from the bedroom to the bathroom if they could. Nothing wrong with that of course, until you actually want to do anything, like buy some bread and all the shops are shut because they couldn’t be bothered to open them, or want to go to the airport and have to book a taxi eight hours in advance just to be on the safe side. I personally find their predominant fascinations of tribal status and religion pretty tedious: enduring every person you come across tracing their family tree back to King Kiora is boring frankly, and getting dirty looks when you don’t say Grace before opening a can of Sprite is, well, different.

The lagoon is what I went there for with photography in mind of course: Deserted beaches with pristine white sands, glittering turquoise seas and gently swaying palms; a bounty advert come to life. Well, theres no denying that. Parts of it fulfil the brief to a T. Just try getting there when there isn’t a wedding on or one of the gargantuan tour boats from the private luxury resorts chugging its way up to the beach.
In the end I had to charter a boat to get out there for some photos. He was late so I missed dawn, assured me sunset was a no go because you can’t see the coral heads in the water, and still managed to charge me £130 for the privilege. The light was so harsh I took two frames and then went back to my bungalow to mope.
There is only one way to enjoy Aitutaki. Check in to one of the uber luxury resorts, complete with air conditioned bungalows on stilts and a porfolio of personal minions, with the intention of doing absolutely nothing for a week or two, and you will have a great time. All you need is £400-£800 a night and an underactive imagination.

One Foot Island, Aitutaki Lagoon, The Cook Islands

I am pleased to report that I have done almost nothing since arriving in Christchurch two days ago. In fact, if you exclude the tedious administration that is necessary on this kind of jaunt, and an attempt to rid the entire town of Bombay Sapphire through consumption (incidentally one of the strangest binges in recent memory) I could fairly say I have done nothing at all.

After my stint up at Fox waiting with the patience of a saint for the lake to do its thing, I returned to the autumnal splendour of Wanaka, which has become my favourite place on the island. Whilst the scenery is by no means the most dramatic, the region of Central Otago is a gorgeous blend of golden grasslands, jagged peaks and crystal clear lakes.

Better yet, the Alps and Fiordland mountains intercept the moist airstreams from the southern ocean, creating a “rainshadow” protected Wanaka and the rest of central Otago from the rain on the other side, so it’s hot in summer, cold in winter and dry most of the year.*

The town itself is small but well equipped with the necessary mod cons and has an upbeat but laid back atmosphere. There is even an excellent cinema where all the seats are battered old sofas and they serve you home made cookies in a short interval. The town is also pretty much in the middle of the island, so getting to any other place of interest is never more than a few hours behind the wheel, There you have it: beautiful scenery, a stable climate, all the creature comforts of a modern town, and slap bang in the centre of everything. If I were a man of more shekels I’d be pouring them into property here much like Shania Twain, who recently spaffed 27 bars on a pad in the hills. I can’t say I care for that droning crap they call country music, but it seems to be the means to considerable ends. I digress.

I spent three of four days there and got a couple of nice photos, one of which is destined for the wall back home. I was stood on a ridge looking out over a vineyard which stretched off to the lake, fringed with trees wearing their yellow autumnal clothes, while mountains loomed over the scene from the background.

I love this photo, not because I think it’s exceptional in some way, but because of the memories I will attach to it. So often taking a photo is such hard work; you find yourself freezing cold, wet, getting massacred by sandflies, or worn out through another early start, but not on that day. Golden sunlight and blue sky with a smattering of fluffy clouds and a composition that just fell into the frame, all at the very reasonable hour of 8am. If you ask me, life just doesn’t get any better (unless you add a bit of rising mist…)

From Wanaka I started to make my way back to Christchurch with just two more stops to make: Cave, to retrieve my possessions, sleep in a bed for the first time since leaving the very same place three weeks ago, and enjoy some company, and the Lindis Pass.

The Lindis Pass is a quite extraordinary sight. Half an hour from Wanaka and true to form, the scenery is different, although this time it’s from a different planet by the looks of things. The entire area is totally barren, except for grassy tussocks and a road slithering through the rounded, irregular peaks. From a distance the mountains almost look like sand dunes, were it not for the tussocks clinging to them all over, like barnacles.

It’s a weird old place and ripe for some photographic endeavour so I found myself a lay by after a semi-successful sunset outing and holed up for the night, and quite a night it was. I spent the entire time drifting in and out of sleep progressively piling more clothing on until 7 in the morning when I awoke to find myself in a sleeping bag, under a duvet and blanket, wearing a pair of trousers, socks, t-shirt, jumper, fleece, bobble hat and a decidedly weary expression. It was the coldest night by far I have to say, so chilly in fact that touching anything metal was rather uncomfortable. To give a bit of perspective, when I told Mandy’s Dad in Cave, he said I was mad, and he cuts his hair with garden shears.

Anyway, all part of the adventure thinks I and hopped out of the van, tooling off up the peak where I planned to shoot the mountains and valley. Tripod out, camera on, compose, focus, take a reading…that’s funny, the light meter ain’t working.

Forty fits later I was back in the camper and off to Cave at the closest the van does to Mach 9 (100kph officer) in search of internet, phone and pentax technical support, filled with dread at having to shed my dwindling pot of rupees for an alternative or replacement (at £600 a pop that’s a jolly frightening prospect I can tell thee. Likelihood of finding another on ebay, almost zero). Roll on nine o’clock UK time and I was bashing the poor clot on technical support’s ear for all it was worth. “No service agents in New Zealand?!? What do you mean you don’t even have a distributor? I have to send it where when I get home??” .

The following day after being fed and watered in fine fashion by the Cavemen I flapped off to Christchurch wallowing in self-pity at the thought of my broken tool, the only seed of joy in my troubled brain being the prospect of getting my films developed. I wandered into the lab, and whilst handing over the films happened to mention that my spot meter had slipped into a coma and even fresh batteries weren’t doing the trick, woe is me, woe is me etc etc.

Well the long and the short of it is he sent me on what I thought was a mystery tour to see some old goat who had a rough idea which way the glass bit goes, but after knocking on the door in the top office of some odd building in the back of beyond, I was admitted to an Aladdin’s cave of various cameras lenses, scalpels, screwdrivers and the like, with a jolly looking chap in the corner hunched over a magnifying glass. Well, this looks promising I thought, and so it was. Low and behold, the only factory trained Pentax technician in New Zealand. Needless to say, he had whipped the thing into 50 bits and back together again in a matter of minutes and off I went with a spring in my step, all for the paltry sum of $60. Lucky me eh? Emergency repairs aside, it’s been almost like a holiday since getting to Christchurch, were I not being haunted by my murky past…

After that infernal dream of mine where Matron painted my hallowed land yacht the shade of lake Pukaki, my mind has been sauntering back to my salad days at jolly old boarding school. It was nigh on torture at the time, although I do look back on it with a grin on my chops. Allow me to elucidate.

Young Watkinson did not fit the mould I am sad to say, by which I mean they loathed me and I returned the sentiment. The teachers seemed to spend an unhealthy amount of time coming up with elaborate ways to get me evicted from the place, and me getting away with things by the skin of my teeth. Once, the housemaster from the other boarding house swore blind that I had stolen a moped and was riding all about the town when I should have had my head in a book. A bizarre piece of fiction if ever I’ve heard one, and all I can say is thank the Lord I was engaged in an altogether different type of riding with the deputy headmaster’s daughter at the time, or no one would have believed me innocent!

It may be fair to say that I didn’t really help my own cause. One time I was suspended for drunkenness with the most risible consequence of being dispatched to Cambridge University to see big brother, who no doubt was supposed to show me the error of my ways. He did it in fine fashion, and I was so shedded by the evening that I didn’t know which way was up, and I returned to Abingdon on the Sunday night with a horrid headache and a weeks worth of kebab fuelled flatulence, doing my best to skulk about the place looking full of remorse. Mea culpa, mea culpa.

Mon frere you see, was a shining example of public school excellence. Straight A’s, first XV rugger, school prefect, the whole caboodle. If only they knew the half of it, the sly old dog. How he became a paragon of virtue while he was off getting his stomach pumped at the weekend is beyond me, but one thing was for sure: Watkinson junior, with the academic rigour of two short planks, was going to be in for a bumpy ride unless he “Bucked his ideas up, Respected the System and Stopped being such a Distraction”. Those school reports of mine left my mother in a state of abject worry at times, with that great crew of idiots painting a rosy picture of young Matthew deserting the rails with carefree abandon. Dear old Dad took it all in his stride, confident I would “Plough my own furrow” as he later remarked to Grenville-Jones. Both approaches equally valid, all things considered.

By the time I got to my A-levels I was, quite predictably, drowning in my own pickle. Unable to integrate trigonometric expressions and without a clue who was prime minister in 1957, the forecast from my superiors was nothing but doom and gloom, and they weren’t shy of telling me. Surely there must be something I could do that would win hearts and minds, and make my fretting folks beam with pride? There I was, deep in the mire with nothing but quadratic equations on the horizon, when a ray of sunshine appeared at the end of the tunnel, in the form of Tschaikovsky’s First Piano Concerto. The crashing chords of the opening, and the exuberant virtuosity of the cadenzas had me hooked and I decided there and then that I was going to play it.

The music staff actually laughed when I told them, but assigned a new piano teacher to instruct me when they finally saw I was serious, but there was no doubt they did this so they could see me fall flat on my face and have a grand old giggle at my expense.

Undeterred by their callous knavery, the honest truth is I have not worked so hard at anything before or since. I was doing scales and arpeggios before breakfast and after dinner, and every free period was devoted to it. Three, four, five hours would pass while I drove everyone else insane playing the same section over and over again until the chord sequences and progressions passed into my sub-conscience. I was also my teacher’s favourite pupil for the first time in my life, which was a novel experience after reducing half of them to tears and nearly causing the other half to explode with rage.

Nearly two years passed before I finished learning it, and when it came to the performance I walked onto the stage in the grip of terror, wondering how on earth I could play chopsticks let alone anything else with my hands trembling so much, but I settled into it after about five minutes of crazed panic, and at three minutes to go I was counting the pages in my head until the end, which as far as I was concerned couldn’t come soon enough.

As I boshed out the last chords the audience fairly descended into anarchy from what I can remember (although I may be deluding myself), with a few of them even ovating in an upstanding fashion while I trooped on and off the stage bowing all over the shop, as is the custom. Watkinson M: the smuggest man in NATO at the time, without a doubt.

What has all this reminiscent twaddle got to do with anything?

As it happens, I listened to that piece of music last night as I drifted off to sleep, and as I thought back over my time in New Zealand, each melody and motif started to remind me of places I have visited in this wonderful country. That majestic opening could have been written about those iconic peaks of Milford Sound and Mount Cook. The cascading arpeggios make the perfect musical metaphor for the endless streams, rivers and creeks that flow through the rainforest of Fiordland. Those sinister harmonies and simple Russian melodies even evoke the lunar, barren landscape of the Lindis Pass. Both are compact yet expansive, accessible but challenging, and different at every turn of page or wheel; and if this paragraph isn’t a symptom of spending too much time by yourself then nothing is.

From mountain peak to sandy bay via rainforest and pasture, South New Zealand is an entire continent shrunk into a small isle. A place of such astounding beauty it can genuinely leave you breathless; a place so undisturbed by human hand sometimes you wonder if you are the first to see it, and last but not least, home of the Kiwi’s; a famously friendly bunch if a little temperamental (half temper, half mental from my experience).

Enough of my ramblings. Time is marching on, and it’s pub time for me. I’m off to celebrate my last night with those cheeky Canadian’s, who after ensuring my birthday was a fine occasion, have reappeared in Christchurch just in the nick of time to save the last night of the Proms. I wonder if that other Tscaikovsky masterpiece, the 1812, will make an appearance? Here’s hoping I’m up in time for the silver bird to the Cook Islands for the last leg before home.

Photo Babble (as an appendix you may note)
The yield hasn’t been as high as I hoped but the value of the experience has been immeasurable.

New Zealand has presented numerous technical challenges. The light here is very cold, and using film (which is more sensitive to colour temperature than the eye) and in particular using velvia (which has strong blue saturation) filtering for colour correction has been a necessity in the mornings to bring out the great colour of the yellow grassland, but rarely stronger than an 81A warm up. Whilst on the topic of filtration, I have often been using the polariser on a half setting because when the sky here is clear it’s really, really blue, and full polarisation has often resulted in unnatural darkness.

The majority of the scenes I have been trying to shoot are very high contrast either with the sky and land, or lit and dark areas in the rainforest, so I have learnt a lot about exposure for these difficult conditions. There are two considerations: can you filter to bring the contrast within the film’s range (I estimate that velvia 100F is about 4 stops from black to white) and if not what decisions should you make about place and fall of meter readings?

Here is how I have been doing it: I take a spot reading from the darkest part of the scene. If I am happy for it to be black I place this in zone 3.5 (1.5 stops underexposed) and if I want to keep texture in it as shadow detail I put this reading in zone 4 (1 stop under). I then take a reading from the highlights using the same principles: do I want this to be white? (Zone 7-7.5) or is it simply lighter than a mid tone (zone 6-6.5)? I then look at the difference between the two readings. More often than not the reading for the highlight is something in the sky and is usually two stops off the end of the range of the film, so in order to record the detail in the highlights and the shadows together, in a simple landscape situation, a 0.6ND grad is all that is required to balance the exposures. The problem comes when there are high contrast scenes where ND filters are not suitable because of the composition or shape of the landscape.

There are two options here: Take two or three frames at different exposures and then merge them with photoshop (despite taking all attempts to get things right in camera I wouldn’t lose sleep over doing this, it is just recreating the scene as you saw it and not at all like the ludicrous HDR craze of the moment) or you can accept that you will lose detail in either the highlight or the shadow. In the rainforest I preferred to let shadow detail disappear as it is dark anyway so this looks more natural; in other circumstances I have bracketed the frames with a merge in mind (Milford Sound, Lake Matheson). Like always, the trick is to try and visualise the finished article on the lightbox/screen/print and then decide what you are exposing for. The vibrant green in the highlights, or the dark rocks in the river? Your call.

The other problem in this area is positioning ND Grads on the xpan, which uses the rangefinder mechanism rather than looking through the lens. It’s one of those things that takes practice and experience but I have adopted a technique that seems to work: Take a spot reading from the ground (if you do not have a spot meter you can do this just by pointing the camera downwards at your foreground subject matter) and then compose your shot. Place the grad in the top of the holder, half press the shutter (this gives a meter reading in the viewfinder) and then pull the grad down and watch the meter reading change until similar to your previous foreground reading. Considering that the xpan system takes an average meter reading across the shutter plane, this should be about the right position as the filter will have balanced the exposure of the sky and foreground at this point, assuming you have used the right strength filter. Incidentally when the filter holder in on, it obscures all but the left third of the viewfinder so make sure the composition is right before you start!

Whilst on the topic of the xpan, I really feel like I have used it enough to have an opinion on it now. There is no denying it is an excellent camera and that it takes fantastic photos and do not regret buying it for a second. I love that it will do exposures upto 8 seconds before needing a bulb setting, the build quality is excellent and feels great in the hands: heavy and substantial enough to be a pleasure to use, but small and light enough to take anywhere. The Depth of field scales on the lenses are all I have used to focus it (I find split prism’s a bit clumsy and slow) and they have been accurate. The lens quality is also excellent, as you would expect from a Hasselblad. There are however some things that have been major irritations, most of which have been caused by the viewfinder, which has several flaws in my opinion. Perched on the end of the camera it is very easy to smudge the front side with a finger on your left hand which makes it hard to see through, but this pales into insignificance compared to the annoyance of the bloody thing misting up as soon as you put your eye to it if you have done anything more active than getting out of bed. Being left eyed, blessed with a substantial honker and wearing glasses, I also find the viewfinder pretty difficult to look through. More often than not I have been taking my glasses off which makes it much easier but it’s still a pain. Last but not least, I would say the finder is about 10% smaller than the image you get back, which I find really annoying. I know it is done on purpose for safety, as you can always crop it, but I tend to be quite anal with my composition and don’t like to get photos back which are wider-angled than I wanted.

The xpan has been a fine introduction to panoramic photography. My composition has come on leaps and bounds over the last three weeks, and the other camera has hardly been out of the bag. I was seeing everything in squares in Japan but now the world has gone letterbox shaped. That said, it ain’t the one for me and I will almost certainly sell it when I get back, to make way for a new toy that is more suited to what I like: the photoman 612.

This is a panoramic camera but the ratio is 6×12 instead of the xpan, which is almost 6×17. I think I will find this ratio easier to compose as I have often struggled with the width of the frame. The photoman also uses 120 medium format film, which will be great (the 35mm transparencies just look so dinky compared to the ones from the v-series, and two 120 frames together will be staggering). It is also well built and fully mechanical which is perfect, with a wider range of lenses and a fraction of the price of the Linhof 612 that I originally wanted. It even has an optional ground glass viewing screen for precise composition and filter placement. If it is as good as the reviews say I should be very pleased with it. So will Egg money.

I feel that during my time in New Zealand I have improved as a photographer in just about every dimension: my landscape composition is getting better, my exposures are usually correct on the first go (although I am still bracketing) and my understanding of the way that the film responds to different conditions (which only comes from experience) is getting better. A long way to go, but a step in the right direction.

*Van Reenen, Gilbert & Peat, Neville (2004) Central Otago New Zealand Clean Green Press, Wanaka, New Zealand

It’s a steep learning curve, this landscape photography lark. Aside from the compositional aspects (which don’t come naturally to me), and the technical ones (they don’t either) getting in the right place at the right time ain’t easy. Accepting that more often than not, things aren’t going to go your way is as much a part of it as pushing the shutter button. All you can do is scout an area, check the forecast, and wait. Then wait a bit longer.

Number two on my list of must haves from New Zealand after Milford Sound, Lake Matheson is one of the best panoramas on offer in the South Island. The lake sits in a small forest, with Mount Tasman and Mount Cook rising up in the distance. When the conditions are just so, the surface of the lake turns into a mirror and the reflections of the mountains and woods leave the brain wondering if you are the right way up or not.

It’s a pretty tall order: no cloud covering the peaks of the mountains, good morning or afternoon light, not even the slightest breeze, and no bloody ducks. I’ve been camped at the Fox Glacier for 3 days waiting for the planets to align and have experienced almost every combination from beautiful light in gale force conditions, to a perfect mirror image of nothing but fog. This morning, however, was different.

At 7:30am the sun had just put his hat on, adding a nice warm tint to the sky, and a gentle mist was rising from a surface of polished glass. Ten minutes later the mist had veiled the mountains behind a thick haze, signalling breakfast time, but an hour later, the sun was arcing over a cloudless sky of the deepest blue, still with barely a ripple on the surface. It’s a sight to behold, and assuming I haven’t guffed it, I should have a nice couple of shots in the bag.

People don’t often consider it, but when you see a coffee table book or portfolio of serious landscape or wildlife photographs, it’s often ten years work or more that’s been condensed into fifty or so images, and it’s always the case that the local folk have the best odds: Colin Prior’s photos of Scotland, Ken Duncan’s of Australia and Joe Cornish’s stuff from the north of England are virtually unparalleled, not only in terms of showing the scenery at it’s best, but also for their consistency.*

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, trying to reassure myself that my dismal haul actually isn’t that bad. By the time I leave for the Cook Islands on the 22nd, I reckon I’ll have fifteen shots at a push, of which maybe a couple are fit for a wall at home. Having spent four days at Milford cursing the sandflies, and three here doing nothing except look at the sky and make cups of tea, I suppose it’s not bad going. I will still throttle the next idiot who tells me they took over 3 million photos on the Glacier yesterday.

It’s been a little frustrating at times, but I’m not complaining. After flitting from place to place like a demented aphid it’s actually a pleasant change of pace. I am, at last, at one with the camper van: it’s no longer uncomfortable, cold, slow, cramped, smelly or hideous. It just is, and without it I wouldn’t have any photos at all. Call me a loon, but having one in Blighty might come in useful for the odd jaunt to Torridon, France, or Cape Point…

With all this time on my hands I have been in a reflective mood. A trip like this is transient by it’s nature, but I wish I could remember half the stuff I did in Japan, Australia, or even yesterday. My memories have flowed straight to some vapid, distant archive. Blurry is one word, scrambled is another. Was I ever in Japan or was it just a dream?** I can scarcely believe six weeks have passed already, and I’m homeward bound in a mere fourteen days…

*The Kiwi guru is a chap named Andris Apse, whose book of landscapes is as depressing as it is amazing. (I wholly recommend you buy it if you are interested in seeing how this place can look or at least look at his website). Yann Arthus Bertrand bringing the Earth from Above exhibition to Wanaka when I was there is just blatant cruelty incidentally.

**The odd dreams have not stopped by the way. In last night’s episode I was summoned back to jolly old boarding school where I was to meet my the matron of my day (I am not referring to the one who made the front page of the Sun for cavorting with one of the sixth formers, but her replacement). She could hardly contain her excitement as she marched me round the back of Cobban House to the car park where there was a dust sheet covering a familiar silhouette. She stood there beaming at me and whipped the cover off to reveal my old citroen ds, resprayed in a violent shade of metallic turqoise. They could have heard my screaming in queenstown.

Please excuse the chronological irregularity of this note, as there is sufficient news to warrant a swift bulletin. On with the antics…

After hot-footing it back to the cretin-cruiser, getting a parking ticket was the least of my worries: when I attempted to start the bloody thing nothing happened. It turned out, to punish me for my hooligan behaviour, the damn thing has switched its own lights on while I went off into town to run its battery down and teach me a lesson or two.

After calling it every foul name under the sun (accepting no responsibility myself of course) I considered how to remove myself from this great pickle. Being a bank holiday all the local garages were shut, and the thought of calling the AA seemed at best a last resort. I did however have a bright idea…

Unlike the pea-brained clots who oaf about London in a variety of off road or “soft-road” equipment from the excellent Range Rover to the ghastly Audi QE2, over here, the 4×4 is a tool to do a job. Instead of gaudy chrome wheels, blacked out windows and neon washer jets, the accessories tend to be a winch, a set of wheels that wouldn’t look out of place on John Deere’s finest (very much en vogue incidentally, but I would take a Massey Ferguson out of choice, favouring the underdog), a shovel on the back, a variety of carcasses in the boot, and jump leads thinks I.

Needless to say I just stood at the cross roads doing my best to look like a damsel in distress and flagged down the first of these great beasts that I saw, and it was a mere five minutes before I was back on the road, driving like a nun, wracked with guilt after abusing my only companion, making my way to the crown pass.

I did not realise at the time but the crown pass is the highest in New Zealand and I gazed in wonder at the views and vistas as I made my way up to the top (where I had decided to spend the night) in the hope of some fantastic morning light. I pulled into the lay by at the top and saw some other fellows taking in the view. I decided to engage in them in the normal globe-trotter’s discourse, and it turned out that they were three Israeli chaps, fresh out of military service and clearly in need of uncoiling the spring a little.

I mentioned that I myself was a front wheel skid, owing to a four by two-ish mother. They nodded approvingly and then jabbered what sounded like the words to Hava Nageela at each other. Before I knew it they had whipped a trangier out of the boot and had invited me to join them for a spot of mountain-top supper. Gosh, I thought, I hope its not gefilte fish or bloody schmaltz herring (both of which might render my lips the size of that chap’s tyres due to an allergy). In for a bagel, in for a pound, I said I would be delighted to join them.

As it turns out it was some tuna and pasta and tasted fantastic. As I munched they told me how fantastic Israel was and how it was not at all like the news made out, and that I must visit in the near future. I made a concerted effort to make pH neutral, light-hearted conversation and avoided saying anything even slightly amusing or silly in case they should take offence and fling me off the mountaintop. Needless to say, I put the mat in diplomat, thanking them profusely for their kind charity, and they soon departed leaving me to make preparations for beddie-bys, wondering how many Arabs they had slotted between them.

If I had known it was the highest pass in the country I doubt I would have stayed there in the first place, and hindsight is always 20:20 of course. When the sun went down the temperature dropped like a stone and a horrific wind started to whip all around me. I believe that if hell ever actually does freeze over it will take on a striking resemblance to the inside of that camper van at 5 in the morning stuck up a mountain with me wondering if the wind was actually going to blow me clean into the valley and how many seconds of freefall I would experience. All was forgiven though, as by early morning, the entire valley was bathed in the golden sunlight and I was flapping about, filters, lenses and films flying everywhere. It was hard work: the wind was so severe I had to karabiner my bag to the tripod to stop it blowing away and my eyes and nose were streaming after about 10 seconds perched on the face, bracketing the exposures like a wild man just so I could get back into shelter.

The experience that was the night before was still fresh in my brain; after all, it is not every day that you find yourself at the top of a mountain guzzling a tuna bake with a detachment of Israeli soldiers. My mind drifted back to the generosity I had experienced earlier in the day, and how I couldn’t help but find that noble gent’s truck perversely appealing. The thought of yomping about the countryside in such a vehicle seemed to me the very essence of rugged manliness, and with my appetite for extreme activity whetted by my death defying “sky-gondola” ride, I thought it might be a fine thing to try my hand at some off-roading.

Clearly using the “pink tattoo” as it’s documentation identifies it, was out of the question, so obviously I needed to hire something suitable, preferably with a guide, but clearly not any old vehicle would do.

It has been a mantra of mine for some time that if you are going to do something you should at least try to do it properly (the only notable exception being academic endeavour) and thus I set about preparing a brief, which would have made an excellent PowerPoint had I enough bandwidth to take ownership of the situation and push the envelope up a flagpole in a top-down fashion, until the paradigm had shifted beyond recognition.

In summary, the vehicle had to be as large as possible, with plenty of seats in case I should need to rescue any lost hitchhikers. It also needed to be beyond capable: big tyres, enormous ground clearance and a powerful torquey engine were essential. I also thought something of eye-catching aesthetic would be preferable: should I get into trouble at least someone might notice the thing upside down in a ravine. After combing the internet for at least 5 minutes I nearly gave up. Nobody it seemed had a vehicle that was quite vulgar and extreme enough for my tastes, until I came across a likely looking outfit on the route to my next destination.

When I eventually clapped eyes on the gargantuan beast that I was to pilot I was flapping my visa card in the chap’s face before he could say “Waiver”, and proceeded to have the most outrageous fun, spanking about safe in the knowledge that I could have comfortably reversed over Mount Cook without noticing.

The enormous animal was a handful, no denying it: it wasn’t particularly rapid, it swung about like a pendulum at every corner, and there were also serious visibility issues: all I could see forward was the horizon, and all I could see backward was a look of horror on my guides face.

In terms of being capable off-road though, I think it must have been unparalleled. There was no ditch too deep, no slope too steep and no obstacle that it couldn’t traverse. It even looked perfectly ridiculous, and I am sure that the entire McKinsey workforce could not have fulfilled my brief more perfectly.

In case you think I may be exaggerating in my description of the vehicle, I cajoled an onlooker into taking a photo of my toy for me, which I have uploaded here.  Quite fetching is it not? I am definitely adding this particular activity (along with galavanting, and writing) to my CV when I get home, although whether they should be in skills or hobbies I am yet to decide.

Full of adrenalin, and grinning from ear to ear, I made my way down to Wanaka (in the campervan, not the monster truck), a small down by the edge of a lake in search of a holiday park and pancakes with maple syrup. After a short time in the town two things caught my eye: One was a photo lab that had “E6 processing” written on the front, and the other was a signpost to a “Luxury Campervan Park”. Both of which seemed equally improbable. Surely there couldn’t be a slide film lab out here in the middle of nowhere? Could I get my current haul from NZ developed and put my anxious mind to rest (it is worth pointing out that by now I had worked myself into a great bate, fretting about everything from my lightmeter making up readings, to the shutters falling out of the xpan, with I none the wiser). It turned out to be quite true, and with a 24-hour turnaround to boot, so in just 4 hours from now I will know how things are going, for better or worse. Fingers crossed please.

Surely the day couldn’t get any better. After all, I’d been monster truck driving, got a load of film developed, and stuffed my face with pancakes, tea and jus d’orange. I had already made up my mind that “Luxury Campervan Park” put the moron in oxymoron but thought I should check it out, and was pleasantly surprised. I scanned the list of facilities: car wash and vacuum cleaner, kitchen, sky tv, covered bbq parlour, laundry service, spa and sauna… Hold on a sec, spa and sauna?!?

I can say without a moment’s hesitation that wallowing in that hot tub looking out over the mountains was the perfect polar opposite to my frozen hell the night before and I was as pleased as punch.

Things got better still when I saw the weather forecast: nothing but solid rain for the next two days, so no reason to get out of bed. I slept like a log last night and didn’t rise until the gentle pitter-patter of rain on the roof roused me mid- morning. Just what I needed, and I have the rest of the day to fill with nothing but mundane administration, eating and drinking, and lounging in that giant bubblebath of course. Happy days.

After what seems like an endless stretch, barely on the bottom rung of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, and am returned to buoyant spirits having at last found civilisation, complete with all the trimmings: Internet access, Starbucks, and possibly even a body shop to re-spray the camper in Jewish Racing Gold.

I have no idea how long I’ve been wandering this wilderness, as my mind is a complete blur. I am aware however, that I have peddled over a thousand miles in the subtle-shuttle since leaving Christchurch, and have scarcely a photo to show for it, but more on that later.

Queenstown
The civilisation I speak of is known as Queenstown, and is a most bizarre place. Scarcely bigger than a village in the green and pleasant shires of the mother country, the entire town is ram jammed with people of every sort from the wealthy folk up the hill to the most bedraggled of backpackers.

Even more strange perhaps is that the entire conurbation seems devoted to various ways in which to put your life in jeopardy. Bungy jumping, jet boating and paraponting are but the tip of the iceberg. Anyways, I thought I must enter into the spirit of things, so I wandered about the place seeking some adrenalin inducing high-jinks. After witnessing some hapless clown land in the middle of a rugby match (How the crowd jeered as he crumpled in a most undignified manner on the try line without a ball in sight!) I eventually settled on a truly terrifying cable car ride. Why they don’t make a bigger song and dance about the mortal peril of this endeavour is beyond me, and I was quivering like a leaf being whisked up that lofty peak in what appeared to be a hollowed out ostrich egg. They tell me it is a family attraction and not extreme in the least. Darwinism will have its way with the indigenous maniacs says me.

Mount Cook
Following on from my last rambling, I decided to leave lake Takeapoo and head up to Mount Cook in search of stunning panoramic vistas, clear (not too clear mind) skies and some light that was interesting rather than functional.

The journey should take an hour but I defy anyone to complete it with such brevity, as it is a necessity to stop every 5 minutes and gawp at the incomparable beauty of the ever-changing scenery.

The first notable sight en-route is Lake Pukaki. When rounding the corner and seeing it for the first time, the immediate reaction is to question God’s use of photoshop during the landscape’s creation. A vast shimmering, ribbon of the most intense turquoise stretches off in the direction of the Mount Cook national park, and the road hugs it close all the way around. From there you pass through a lunar landscape of rocky crags, great swathes of yellow grassland and swamp, then onto the mountain itself.

The entire area is so picturesque taking photos here should be like fishing with dynamite, the only struggle being deciding what to keep in and what to leave out of the frame. I am in a state of nervous anticipation about my shots from here as they should be better than my usual feeble attempts at landscapes. What I wouldn’t trade for my chum Carter’s eyeballs at this time! (actually Noton, Cornish or Prior’s would be a fine thing too). I spent a couple of days here, and then after catching the tail end of a weather forecast on the wireless I settled in for the 7 hour drive down to a place I have revered since I first saw a photo of it…

Milford Sound
The “highway” to Milford Sound, which stretches through the rainforest down to the fiord, must be the greatest stretch of blacktop in Christendom. Wide and smooth, with all manner of twists and turns, with the odd mile long straight thrown in the mix just for good measure. Frankly it makes the Nurgburgring Nordschleife look like the M4, and as I emerged at the top to see it threading down the mountain side like some enormous black serpent, safe in the knowledge that the nearest peelers were probably arresting a sheep in the nearest town (a light year away by all accounts), I was unable to restrain my inner hooligan.

“Tally ho!” was the only thought in my head as I attempted to put my right foot through the floor of the cockpit. There was an enormous clunking sound as the box dropped a cog and the engine let out a disconcerting gargling noise and we lurched forward with all the urgency of BT customer services.

Newtonian physics more than made up for the lack of ponies and soon enough we were doing a fair old lick, flopping through the corners like a great half-set jelly while the tyres squealed in protestation and the brakes turned to sponge.

Irresponsible though it may have been, it was a wizard wheeze and I emerged at the bottom grinning like a chimpanzee safe, having flogged the poor chariot to within an inch of its life. What with the engine being directly under the seat, how I didn’t end up with a full set of pistons and a camshaft lodged in my bottom I have no idea. It didn’t even cross my mind that after such blatant disregard for mechanical sympathy the poor thing may not be capable of completing the mission, but after doing a healthy four hours behind the wheel today I reckon a wash and wax and no one will be the wiser.

Despite being a truly invigorating bimble, it paled into insignificance when I saw the Sound for the first time. It is truly a jaw dropping spectacle and amongst the finest in the world, no mistake. Huge, sheer mountain faces pierce through the water on all sides, and one is incapable of doing anything but stare in a stupefied silence at the sheer majesty of the place. It is, in a word, epic.

The mountains of Fiordland are of a scale that looks simply impossible and defies all sense of perspective. You may be gazing at what looks no bigger than a molehill, and then a ferry/car/helicopter goes past and you realise that it’s probably bigger than Spain. Seeing lines of tourists all with their heads at jaunty angles trying to cram the monstrous peaks into the screens on their cameras was highly amusing, although I of course must have looked equally ridiculous.

The rain forest, which coats the base of each peak like nether hair on some enormous phallic object is equally mind-boggling. Undisturbed by human kind it is wild and eerie with all manner of mosses, creepers, trees and cascading waterfalls, frothing into perfect blue plunge pools.

I devoted two dawns, three sunsets and most of the hours in between trying to even get a rough approximation of its beauty on film, but Mother Nature is a cruel mistress and the weather was non-cooperative at best. I am not looking forward to seeing the photos one bit, and in any case even the finest picture does no justice to the place. That aside, it was a great place to spend my birthday (the 8th) and gazing up at the milky way with a glass of chardonnay in one mitt and a hunk of birthday cake in the other (where those Canadian fellows at the hostel magicked it from I have no idea) is a memory to cherish.

Whilst I have been doing my damnedest to have a rollicking good time, I must confess I have frequently found myself deep in the mire. Living in a people carrier is no picnic. For starters the combination of damp trekking shoes, sweaty socks, deet (the sand flies here are intolerable) and clutch is a truly nauseating odour. Could it be compressed and bottled I am sure every terrorist group would be forming a disorderly queue to get their lunch hooks on it.

Whilst the van is comfortable enough for slumber, the heating is only operational while the engine is running, and the shaking of my bones from the cold has roused me before the alarm on several occasions. That said the daytime temperature is just about right for soft southern fairies like myself.

I have been plagued by bizarre dreams since stepping foot on New Zealand, in the most vivid of which I was escaping a war zone in a Volkswagen beetle that I had found hidden under a tent. I am unsure of both the meaning and the cause, but it was quite unsettling.

Days have passed without conversation (or showering I must add) while I have been either holed up in some god forsaken layby waiting for dawn or sunset, or galavanting about the place looking for a good shot or better still some light. Both have eluded me thus far I am sorry to say, and the haul has been weak indeed. I have been up for dawn every day in prime position yet the weather is yet to cooperate, and I have often slumped into a depressed state of misery, loneliness and frustration, the very picture of gloom.

On one occasion I checked into a campsite in the hope of a delicious, hot shower after a useless day of hacking about on a path resembling a giant uphill puddle (impossible I know, but true). I was desperate to free myself from my sodden boots and get my weary feet dry, so imagine my rage when I emerged from the shower (which was clearly just a pipe from the glacial melt water lake up the hill, judging by the temperature of the water) to see that some callous vagabond had liberated my flippety flops! I did not think it possible, but the situation was worsened further by some ludicrous statute or other prohibiting the sale of alcohol during the Easter period, meaning I, the victim of the harshest of crimes, was unable to drown my considerable sorrow in a vat of gin. I spent the rest of the night lost in a pit of despair crying for my mummy wishing I were a gurgling baby again, safely cocooned in a warm blanket.

All of these travesties are nothing compared to the sheer panic I experienced when I was down on the edge of a lake and unable to find the keys to the camper. I am sure my heart would have leapt straight out of my cake hole had my entire body not gone rigid with shock. The thought of all my film, laptop, wallet, and cheque de voyage gone forever because I had, at worst, left that vile, cerise, idiot wagon unlocked with the keys inside nearly reduced me to tears as I ran back to the car park at a speed approaching mach nine. Needless to say I found the vehicle locked and the bloody keys hiding in the most unlikely spot in my bag and a tragedy was averted, but it took me a few hours and god knows how many schooners of beer to recover. I would rather blame my continual state of exhaustion for this temporary slip of the mind, rather than admit to being a careless oaf if that’s ok with you.

Gosh is that the time?!? If I’ve got a parking ticket…

Getting to Christchurch from Sydney is totally painless, and just shows how easy air travel can be. The friendly security staff had no issue with hand searching my film bag, although I can’t imagine checking 80 rolls of film for explosives, drugs, food or whatever else you can’t take anywhere is much fun.

The next day I drove down to a thriving megalopolis called Cave (population 80 including dogs) to see a friend’s parents who put me up for the night and gave me some expert advice on where to go. I also met a local chap who had a huge pile (maybe twenty) of what looked like skinned badger carcasses in the garden. “Possum’s mate. Catch ‘em with a trap then bash the f****r on the head with a hammer. Wanna go?” No thanks chap, you go for it.

Back to the driving: I have hired a camper van. It’s actually a Toyota people carrier with a bed in the back instead of seats. Perfect, I thought, until I saw it.

The bloody thing has been painted bright pink and has “elevators smell different to midgets” sprayed in huge letters across the back. It is the most embarrassing vehicle I have ever driven (the hummer excepted) and has generated considerable unwanted attention. I am at least slightly comforted by the stickers on either side that say “Thou Shalt Not Steal. God is watching you, you thieving bastard.”

Aside from the fact that it is a hideous monstrosity, I am getting on quite well with it: the fuel economy is reasonable, the handling is more dinghy than super-tanker and its actually suprisingly comfortable for sleeping and driving. Even the auto box isn’t annoying me. Whilst it may be suitable for gentle bumbling, the roads here have potential for far more enjoyable motoring: smooth tarmac, long straights, joyous 2nd and 3rd gear twisties and some excellent gravel sections. I would willingly trade the pink panther for a Japanese rally weapon and sleep on the roof but for the sneaking suspicion that I would also be trading my license for a prison cell (the national limit is a feeble 60mph, with strict enforcement) or worse still meet my maker.

A few years ago I went surfing down in Cornwall. On my way out to catch my first wave, I reached that point of no return where incompetence meets a wall of water, and you find yourself attempting to paddle over a wave which is simultaneously trying to break on your head and crush you to death. It was a far from pleasant experience. I emerged back where I started what felt like a fortnight later, spluttering and snorting like a sopwith camel with a cold engine and generally feeling like I had just done a full wash cycle with some strange salty detergent. It wasn’t even a big wave. Probably thirty feet at most I’d say.

Every now and then you get a reminder just how powerful the forces of mother nature are, and in a bizarre way, looking out across the mountainous areas of the South Island invoked a similar feeling to the helplessness I experienced flailing about under that godforsaken wave, convinced I was drowning, if not dead already.

The sheer scale of the scenery, which seems strangely disproportionate to the size of the island, would be impressive enough. But there is a brutality and wildness about the landscape that leaves one in no doubt of the brutal power involved in creating it. From the chiselled peaks to the gently undulating plains the scenery changes around every corner, with every hue of nature’s palatte on show. Well it was yesterday, and I’m cursing myself for not taking any pictures, thinking the light would be better towards sunset or during sunrise. I could not have been more wrong. A thick blanket grey cloud settled over my current location, truncating the peaks, turning down the colour saturation, and making sure the film stays in the coolbox. Do I leave for Mount Cook, or sit it out for another day? Decisions, decisions…

The 26 hour journey to get here was a distinctly unpleasant experience, particularly Singapore airport, where I had my ears assaulted by the worst jazz band between the tropics. One person playing the piano and the drums at the same time is an impossibility, and I never wish to hear an attempt at it again.

Whilst the glacial rate of my transport undoubtedly frayed my composure, unpacking and realising I was missing a pristine piece of Hasselblad glass nearly made my eyes leak. Was it stolen? In Kyoto or Tokyo? Who knows, but thank God for insurance. Whether they will provide a replacement lens is anyone’s guess as the x-pan was discontinued last year because the solder in the circuits no longer meets EU regulations. Awesome work Brussels.

As far as photography goes, the light has left me in a funk on more than one occasion. The sun leaps into the sky like it was fired from a catapult, and drops in the West at a similar rate.  At 5:30am it is virtually dark, yet by 6:30 looking at the opera house is like staring into a Maglite, and if anything the evenings are worse. During daylight hours, the light is harsh and unforgiving, bleaching highlights into pure white and reducing any shadow detail to a lifeless pitch black.  The sky is invariably a pure mid tone blue, which is pleasant enough, but there is a marked absence of fluffy white clouds to add any interest. Anyone who gets any decent shots here at this time of the year is a better man than I.

My accommodation for the majority of the time was a backpacker’s hostel in the central city area. Rudimentary is the word that springs to mind: A bunk bed, a door with a lock, and nothing else, not even a power socket (unless we are including that sack of coat hangers they think is a mattress).

This was clearly unsustainable, and fortunately I was rescued by a friend who had moved to Sydney three years ago and had a spare room at his apartment. Although the hostel declined a refund for the remainder of my booking, leaving that foul nest of empty-headed buffoons for two nights of suburban paradise was all the recompense I required.

Only those who have spent a significant period of time in such a godforsaken pit as befits such a title as “backpackers” or “hostel” can appreciate the arborial slumber afforded by a real bed, the invigorating effect of a power shower, and the use of laundry equipment that isn’t hell bent on destroying your clothing. Call me a snob if you must, but I for one would chose domestic bliss over sharing a prison with a cohort of hedonistic imbeciles without any hesitation.

Prior to my fortunate extraction, I had a good time in a sulky, solitary sort of way. I walked around the beautiful botanical gardens while thousands of flying foxes flapped about the place. I watched my shadow grow longer, waiting for the sun to just dip over the skyline for that obvious panoramic shot of the city, and I had my first steak and full English breakfast in a month.

Things took a definite upswing when I left the city centre. I visited the famous Bondi and Coogee beaches to get a taste of the more sedate areas of the city. We tried to have a Barbie at the flat that evening, but when the gas pipe broke and shot 6 foot flames across the balcony we came closer to burning the place down than cooking any food.

During my time in Japan a lot of Japanese people, would always ask where I was from. When I said England their responses were one of the following: “The Beatles / David Beckham / The Queen!”

The thing is though, that The Beatles are either dead, divorcing a peg-leg, or called Ringo; David Beckham has exited stage left for the US of Eagleburger; and as for the Queen, I doubt the pound coin will look so good with King Charlie’s noggin slapped on it. So that’s England: an interesting past, but a questionable present. That aside, at least England generates some interesting, if inaccurate responses.

Before I got here, whenever I asked people what Sydney was like, the overwhelming majority just said it was nice.  I didn’t expect that to be the word that best describes it, but it’s true. Sydney is neither exciting or boring, clean or dirty, expensive or cheap, classy or tacky, beautiful or ugly. It’s just nice, except that is for the native brew Victoria Bitter, which tastes more like the effluent from a dialysis machine than a lager.

Sydney is a hot melting pot of every race and culture on the planet, and all of them from China Town to Little Italy are easily identifiable. All of them, that is, except for one. The only Australian I’ve met drove here from up the coast.

It is little wonder there are so many British people over here. On the surface it’s so similar to London, but it’s got beaches galore, and better yet, you can see an empty blue sky 300 days a year.

Rural Japan is heading past the window backwards, which means I must be on the Shinkansen back to Tokyo for my last night in Japan…

The Last Night in Kyoto
I feel tired. That kind of tiredness where your eyeballs sting, your body is a dull ache and the messages from your brain are more noise than signal (as they say in consulting).

Unfortunately, its not been caused by a last minute dash around Kyoto induced by a sudden window of perfect light and the other tourists evaporating. Quite the opposite. It’s pissed down with rain for the last two days and the most active thing I have done is listen to Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony.

Did I go out and celebrate my last night with one too many Asahi’s? Nope. Sober as a judge. In fact, I took every effort to try and recharge my batteries before heading off to Sydney. So what happened? I got moved back into a dorm room.

At first it was just me and Who Flung Dung from Taiwan in there. He was actually a jolly nice chap: quiet, sleepy, impeccably mannered, and like all serious backpackers, had brought a Nintendo Wii with him. This was clearly too good to be true.

At about four in the afternoon three British girls checked in and headed up to our room, which had a similar effect to Hurricane Katrina checking into New Orleans. Noise, mess, shrieking, giggling. You name it, if it’s annoying they did it, and then they went and got drunk.

One of them was fat. Fat in that British Fat Girl way: a face as red as a tomato and an arse the size of Alaska, but still crammed into skinny fit jeans and a halter top, with a high pitched giggle that sounds like one of those tapes of dolphin noises. Nothing wrong with all that of course, and I don’t mean it in an offensive or derogatory way, it’s just to help paint a clearer picture. No, what was wrong was when she hit finally hit the sack she snored. Actually the word “snore” does not do justice to the noise that was emanating from that bunk bed. It actually sounded more like a Berkshire hog snorting into a megaphone, and was probably the single most ungodly sound to come from the top end of the human body I have ever heard, and it doesn’t end there. The other one was ill from too much booze and like most girls who can’t hold their drink, slipped into a pattern of wailing, crying then puking.

So there I was lying in bed, eye mask on, ear plugs in, the Mega-hog on the right, and the dulcet tones of chunks of vomit dropping into a cardboard box on my left. Added to which, judging by the creaking and shaking of the entire bed I was sleeping on, the poor French chap on the bunk above was either tossing and turning unable to sleep, or wrestling with Sasquatch.

Thank the lord for what happened next. Chuck Eagleburger had also checked in that day, and unable to sleep decided to strike up a conversation with the third British girl:

“So where you from?” he said.
“Wales, in Britain.” came the reply.
“Man, if it wasn’t for Sean Connery, no-one in the US would have a f**kin’ clue where Wales was…”

Isn’t it funny how even in the most tragic situations you can still end up crying with laughter?

On a More Positive Note
The remainder of my stay in Kyoto was actually quite pleasant. The weather improved, I persevered with the photos, and managed to get a couple of nice shots in the bag. I even managed to stroll around some beautiful gardens and temples relatively undisturbed.

Even though at times I thought about leaving I’m glad I stuck it out in Kyoto. There is just so much to see here that sooner or later you are bound to find what you are looking for, whatever that may be. There is beauty here but also sophistication. The emphasis is on refinement and elegance, rather than opulence, lavishness and scale. It’s restrained and tasteful rather than gaudy and decadent. It’s a catwalk model, not a page three girl.

Kyoto is also very different to Tokyo so it has helped give a slightly more rounded perspective on this unique country. It’s far more conservative, far less Gaijin (foreigner) friendly and closer to that cinematic ideal of traditional Japan than Tokyo is. Kyoto has solidified my view that what makes this place so interesting is that even though they may be walking on stilts along the bleeding edge of technology, they have not sacrificed their culture and heritage in the name of progress, and I hope it stays that way.

Photo Summary
I’ve learn’t a lot so far on this trip. Exposure accuracy is improving, the mistakes are getting less and less and I think the shots have been getting better. I’ve also learnt a lot about what kit is important. I used to worry about camera bodies and lenses but what ruins your day is always the small stuff: Your cable release gets stuck open, a filter holder breaks and you can’t take the reflections out of the glass you are shooting through, the light on your watch stops working on a 15 second exposure, or a back starts leaking light. The only thing I’ve added to my camera bag on this trip has been an umbrella, and it has saved the day a few times for sure. The reason I don’t have anything to show is that when I went to get a quote for some low res scans they asked for £680. I’ll see if its cheaper in Sydney but if its still big money I just have to wait until I get home. I’m sorry : (
120 medium format rolls used: 31
35mm rolls used: 7
Total frames: 571

Cost of film: £107
Cost of development: £90

Shots to keep: 79
Hit rate: 1 in 7 frames.

Cost per shot: £2.50

Next stop, Sydney.

Matt x

I have held off writing anything about Kyoto for a while because I wanted to allow a bit more time to see if I would change my mind about a few things. Were my expectations were too high? Could this place be over-rated? Has my enjoyment been overshadowed by a few seemingly peripheral things? I think it’s a combination of all three, but Kyoto has proven to be a disappointment.

Timing Is Everything
This just isn’t a good time to be here. I have arrived in the middle of the school spring vacation, during a very popular Japanese festival (the festival of a thousand lanterns, the clue is in the name), the light is crap, its freezing cold, and as the icing on the cake, the cherry blossom ain’t even out yet.

On my first full day, I wanted to make a good start and get some shots in the bag so I looked on the map for the nearest thing that I wanted to see, set the alarm for 7, grabbed a bike and off I went. When I got to the Fushimiinari Taisya Shrine at 7:20 I was shocked to see 3 tour buses already there and a swarm of day-glow puffa jackets and trekking poles slowly making its way into the grounds. Anyone would think the Japanese tourists were heading off down the Khyber pass.

“Well”, I thought, “It’s a Saturday… bound to be a bit busier.” Wrong again. Every temple and popular sight has been rammed full of people, and that’s at the opening time in the morning. I think my frustration has been compounded by the amount of effort that’s been involved just to do anything. Kyoto is in a mountainous area, with the interesting sights primarily on the outskirts, so it’s often been an hour long bike ride up a mountain, just to hear those three fateful words. “No Clamra Stand”.

I came here expecting a relaxing experience. I saw myself wandering through moss gardens lost in contemplation, with the only sound the trickle of water from a distant waterfall. In reality it’s more like wandering through Ikea on a Saturday morning, searching in vain for the slats that go with the bedframe you picked up. Make no mistake, the gardens and temples are very, very beautiful. But you can hardly see, let alone feel anything, and as for photography? Forget it.

The Hostel
I was unable to secure my own room for the duration of my stay in Kyoto, so for the first 5 nights I have been in a seven bed dorm, which I seem to have been sharing with the characters from Team America World Police. Earplugs, eye masks, drunkeness…nothing has helped me get a good night’s sleep. Trying to be positive, I am now able to rest the hasselblad on the bags under my eyes while I take a shot, so maybe the tripod can stay at home. Tonight will be my first night in my own room and thank God. The thought of spending another night with Chuck Eagleburger and Randy Stetson is enough to make me cry.

The Bamboo Mission
Before I came out here I found out about a bamboo forest which has a narrow path of steps winding though it, just like something from Crouching Tiger or House of Flying Daggers: just perfect scenery. Better still it was off the beaten track so likely to be empty…

My alarm went off at 6:30am after just 3 hours sleep (it was the day after St. Patrick’s day which could be a whole post in itself), and I must have still been drunk, because even though it was -2 and snowing outside I still decided to take my chances. Camera and tripod on my back I boldly stumbled to the station and caught the train out of the city, heading north-west to an area called Arashiyama. I got off the train and after a few minutes studying my map, headed off in the wrong direction for half an hour, only realising I had taken the wrong station exit when I reached the river at the opposite end of the map to my planned destination. I’d come too far now to give up, so I turned around, and with a strong hangover coming on, finally set off in the right direction. Up a mountain. In the snow. After two hours of thinking “I reckon its about five minutes from here.” I finally found it. The snow stopped, and the sun even came out for a second with just me there to see it. Two rolls later I was the happiest man alive. When I got back to the hostel the lady on reception asked where I had been. When I told her she said. “We in Kyoto believe that when you die, you walk up that mountain to heaven.”
“Yep. I can believe that.”

Kiyomizudera Temple at Night
During this festival, a handful of the most impressive temples are lit up and opened at night for visitors, so I thought that would be a good opportunity to get some nice shots. After queuing for half an hour and being crushed by other tourists all the way round the place I was getting bad temple rage, so I stomped off to a quiet corner to take 5 minutes to calm down, and it was here that I saw a view that will be etched onto my memory forever. The sun had just set over the mountains and the sky was still glowing, but the lights of the city in the distance had come on, and about 100 metres in front of me was the lit red roof of one of the smaller sub temples. Kyoto in a frame: A city in the mountains, with beautiful shrines a plenty. F22 at 3 minutes but worth the wait. Good job everyone else was looking the other way or the power of their combined flashguns would have turned night into day.

Here’s How the Pro’s Do It
The outer part of Nijojo Castle is lit up at night and I arrived there just in time for some perfect crossover lighting. Set up the camera, loaded some provia 100, took a meter reading and then got cracking. I bracketed my exposures at between 15 and 40 seconds and a roll disappeared before I noticed that the shutter on the lens was still set to 1/500th rather than the bulb setting needed for the long exposure. A few expletives later another roll was in, the shutter was right and off I went again. Packing up the camera afterwards I was thinking “Thank god I noticed. Shame to waste a film though…” As i put my light meter back in its case I noticed that it was still set to ISO400 from earlier in the day so roll number two would all be black through underexposure. It was totally dark by that point, so roll 3 was out of the question. Needless to say, I won’t do it again in a hurry…

The Onsen Experience
I’m still nursing the blisters from Tokyo, and foolishly thought that by riding everywhere on a bike, the blisters would heal and I would stop walking around like I was on invisible hot coals. Unfortunately I still have the blisters and think I have added some on my deriere from the torture device the Japanese call a saddle. In my infinite wisdom I decided that I could go to a traditional Japanese bath called an Onsen, to soak away the pain in my back, legs, arse, and feet. So I looked one up on the map and made my way there with my hot-coal-meets-John-Wayne shuffle. I walked through the door to be confronted by a platoon of men in long-johns and a gnarled, old woman at a counter, all of whom turned and stared at me as you do at a butcher when you aren’t sure what animal the piece of meat you are looking at is from. Undeterred, I made my way over to the woman, gave her some money and stood there thinking “Now what?”. She came out with two baskets. One it seems was for my clothes, and one had a small towel (actually, think flannel) with two bottles of what looked scarily like lotion. Her English was really no better than my Japanese and things took a downward turn.

“Where do I get changed?” I ventured.
“Shamapoo.”

“Err, where do I err, get, um changed?”
“SHAMAPOO”
“No, I can see the shampoo, but I want to know where I get changed.”
“SHHHAAAAMMMAPOOOOOOO!!!”

At this point she joined into a huddle with the long-john wearing locals, and they had a 5 minute conference in Japanese while I stood there like a moron. It turned out that they had decided to show me the protocol for visiting a traditional bath with the most bizarre display of charades I have ever seen. First of all they pretended to take their clothes off, in fact, one guy did (all the time shouting in Japanese). Then they acted out having a shower: one waved a bar of soap in my face while the others danced around like gorillas scratching their armpits and the woman continued shouting “SHAMAPOO”. Then they all pointed at a steamed up window at the other end of the hall. By the time they had finished congratulating each other on their excellent display I was back on the street not knowing whether to run and hide, laugh my head off or go back in and go “Film, 3 words, ten syllables…”

Ta ta for now.

Matt