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Today, the same magma continues to light up the night sky like an endless sunset. But after an adventurous flight from Port Vila, dodging monsoon clouds, and a bumpy two-hour ride through rugged terrain on the back of a ute, it was something else that captured my attention.
The verdant foliage parted to reveal a hidden garden amongst the tropical rainforest. Fred George, custodian of Tanna Tree Top Lodge, chuckled proudly: “There is the penthouse suite, my friend!” There, sitting six metres off the ground amongst the tangled canopy was the manifestation of my childhood dreams: the ultimate tree house. The perfect treehouse is in Vanuatu.
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Excited, I climbed the airy staircase to the rustic but cosy bungalow, and sat on the balcony to admire the most unique vista on Tanna Island. Beyond the twisting branches of the tree rose the ashen crater of Mount Yasur.
That afternoon I found myself nervously following my ever-smiling guide, Phil, up Yasar.
Arriving at the crater’s edge, I looked on warily, as the land shook around us and the sun disappeared into a glowing ashen haze beyond the heaving pit of magma. In between blasts from the deep, Phil briefed us on volcano safety. “OK, please you have to be careful because tourists who have not listened have died here!” As if to confirm his point, Yasur immediately belched a cluster of liquid rock high into the air. A stray piece of ordnance landed with a slap several hundred metres below.
A group of local kids scurried down to the rapidly solidifying rock and carried it back to the top using wooden poles like giant chopsticks.
Over the next few days, the charm of Tanna grew on me. I savoured the local food and went reef snorkelling in nearby Port Resolution. I visited a sacred waterfall and swimming hole, and I watched with amusement as people attempted ashboarding the dunes on Yasur’s western slope. For me though nothing could beat ending the day in the ‘Faraway Tree’, with numb lips and a head swimming pleasantly with kava as I drank in my private view of the ever-glowing, rumbling Mount Yasur.
After Dark Melbourne
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Still, you’ll struggle to conquer the CBD of Australia’s unofficial capital of culture in one outing – with more restaurants, bars and performances than a person can physically absorb in a single evening. Melbourne has become a poster child for the successful management of COVID across the globe, and locals are not taking it for granted. It’s always safety first whether you’re sipping champagne or belting out karaoke, but all it takes is a night out on the town to see that the blood is pumping through Melbourne’s veins once more.
Start early – you have so much Melbourne to explore tonight. Begin by getting your bearings cruising along the Yarra River on a Scandinavian-built picnic GoBoat. You don’t need a license and anyone can play captain, so long as you’re a minimum of 18 years old and sober (which is why we’re starting here). For a one-hour trip, chug upstream to Richmond, passing Southgate on your right and the outdoor Arbory Bar and Flinders Street Station on your left. You’ll be treated to views of Birrarung Marr park beside Federation Square, Deborah Halpern’s abstract Ophelia and Angel sculptures, Melbourne’s iconic sporting grounds and the verdant edge of the Royal Botanic Gardens. On the return journey you’ll head straight towards that stunner of a skyline. BYO food (try D.O.C Pizza & Mozzarella Bar, 150 metres away), booze (check restrictions) and even dogs.
GOBOAT
Sandridge Wharf, Southbank
goboat.com.au
You have 1.2 kilometers to walk off those sea legs en route to Patient Wolf, named after a quote from Hollywood actress Lana Turner, “A gentleman is simply a patient wolf.” Although inspired by post-prohibition glamour, the venue is more New York red-brick warehouse, with a brass-topped bar and colour palette pinched from juniper berries. Sip your way through a tasting flight of three gins and a G&T or spritz over a 45-minute masterclass for $50 per person, inhaling botanicals in their whole form as you go. The custom 220-litre Müller copper still is on display, too. If you like your martini dirty in a frosty glass, this will be one of the best you’ve tasted. Ask the knowledgeable bar staff about the intricate process.
PATIENT WOLF DISTILLING CO.
34-36 Market Street, Southbank
patientwolfgin.com
Mr Brownie is just 750 meters away, so you conceivably have time for a quick drink and snack before your next stop. Make a beeline for the rooftop terrace of the four-storey Indian-British pub. The butter chicken pie is the pick if you’re hungry, while the ultimate refreshers come in the form of frozen margaritas and the ‘healthy disaster’ cocktail (Calle 23 Tequila Blanco, matcha, elderflower, lemon and honey). Alternatively, choose from 16 mostly-Victorian tap beers or one of around 1,000 beers. Poke your head into the basement bar and check
out the bottle shop on the ground floor.
MR BROWNIE
343 Clarendon Street, South Melbourne
themrbrownie.com
Allow 15 minutes to catch an Uber into the guts of the city, where you have a show to catch at Comedy Republic, upstairs on Bourke Street. Built by comedians for comedians in 2020, the 145-seat theatre balances fresh talent with some of Melbourne’s big names. Depending on when you visit, you might encounter a 60-minute line up of four short and sweet funny honeys, someone famous testing out new material or a special one-off act. Stick to the theme and order a Laughing Matter pale ale from the bar, brewed locally by Stomping Ground in Collingwood, or a Best Medicine cocktail made with Aussie whiskey, Campari, orange and native pepperberry.
COMEDY REPUBLIC
231 Bourke Street, Melbourne
comedyrepublic.com.au
By now you would’ve burnt some calories in fits of giggles, but we’re not yet halfway through the evening. Walk around the corner to refuel at Musashi Ramen, a late-night izakaya strung with lanterns and festoon lights where the tonkotsu broth is rich, the noodles are springy and the gyoza have crisp ‘wings’. There are bowls upon bowls to choose from, some with stock tinted midnight by black garlic, others blanketed in M9+ Wagyu that’s torched tableside. I love the tsukemen, where noodles are separated from the broth for dipping and slurping.
MUSHASHI RAMEN & IZAKAYA BAR
181 Russell Street, Melbourne
musashiramen.com.au
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With your stomach now full, walk west along Little Bourke Street through Melbourne’s Chinatown, the longest continuous Chinese settlement in the western world. The bustle dried up when Labor introduced the White Australia policy in 1901, and things didn’t pick up again until the mid 1900s when the immigration laws eased. At the start of 2020, Chinatown receded like the sea before a tsunami, a sign that COVID was coming. Now the foot traffic is increasing and its late-night restaurants are starting to stay open later again. It remains a hub of ornate archways, red lanterns, neon, restaurants, arcades and laneways just begging to be explored.
CHINATOWN
Little Bourke Street, Melbourne
After walking about 700 metres west downhill you’ll cross over Elizabeth Street. Resist the atmosphere and eateries of pedestrian-only Hardware Lane (unless you absolutely must stop for one of Melbourne’s best gelatos at Piccolina on the corner) and turn right into Goldie Place. You will have pre-booked tickets for a 9.30pm session at the Paris Cat Jazz Club, a three-storey, dimly-lit warehouse with a basement stage down the bottom and a Parisian loft up top. You might catch a tribute to the foremost female soul vocalists throughout the ages, cool-cat quartets or every genre of jazz from French cabaret to Ethio. See what’s on via the website.
PARIS CAT JAZZ CLUB
6 Goldie Place, Melbourne
pariscat.com.au
Time to backtrack a little over a kilometre to the top end of the CBD, where Nick & Nora’s is an art deco inspired bar washed in golden light and opulence. Despite seating 240 people, it still manages to feel intimate, spread over multiple rooms, nooks, balconies and a lavish marble bar. The joint is named after the murder-solving couple from The Thin Man, who knew how to throw an extravagant party. The cocktail menu – split into sections with names like the Femme Fatale and Bon Vivant – continues the storytelling, while the extensive champagne list stretches from $17 a glass to $2,400 a bottle. To eat there are fancy canapés, lobster rolls, charcuterie and cheese boards. Oh, and don’t forget the caviar.
NICK & NORA’S
80 Collins Street, Melbourne (via 11 Benson Walk)
nickandnoras.com.au
It’s that time of the night where you have to give yourself an ultimatum: to sleep, or to karaoke? Night owls will jump in an Uber and head to Kono, a coin-operated karaoke arcade a couple of kilometres away that closes at 3am on Friday and Saturday nights. Set over two storeys, it has 14 booths flush up against each other and a small stage upstairs; the latter a better option if you have more than four people. Once you’re in, it’s easy enough to navigate past the Korean text to English options and flick through the laminated song bible. It’s $2 a song and the machine takes notes. There’s no booze, just a soft drink vending machine, but you’ve probably had enough by now, anyway. My strong recommendation is start with either a Taylor Swift or Beyonce cover and the tone of the evening will set itself from there.
KONO KARAOKE
601 Little Lonsdale Street, Melbourne
instagram.com/kono_karaoke
It doesn’t matter what time you finish singing the house down, because Food Hall never closes. A kilometre from Kono, straight down colourful King Street at a dead end near the Melbourne Aquarium, it’s a gritty glass box of a restaurant beneath an overpass that feels more Bangkok than Melbourne. When the train passes overhead, it’s so loud you’re forced to pause conversation. Food Hall has five tiny kitchens in one space: Thai, Japanese, Indonesian-Malaysian, Korean and Italian. It’s a little dingy, but it adds character. Try the pad see ew noodles, nasi lemak, kimchi dumplings and Korean fried chicken. Look for the red neon and outdoor area decorated with festoon lights, street art and sectioned off from traffic by colourful concrete blocks. And if you happen to swing by earlier, beers are just $5 between 11am and 7pm.
FOOD HALL
11 Gem Place, Melbourne
foodhall.melbourne
Just Look Up
I’m here learning about how the 3,200 square kilometre stretch of land in the Mid Murray region of South Australia came to be discovered as one of the darkest places on Earth. Chris, who was the driving force behind the area earning its 2019 gold tier accreditation as just one of 15 International Dark Sky Reserves in the world and the only one in Australia, shares just how much work it took to, in his words, “heritage list the sky”.
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A team of astronomers and local volunteers dedicated four years to record data and measurements of the light in the region – or, in this case, the lack thereof – using a Sky Quality Metre (SQM) and photographic evidence.
Despite its proximity to the city lights of Adelaide, the data collected within the area – spanning Mannum and Blanchetown, along with a section of the Murray River and the foothills to the west – recorded readings as high as 21.9 SQM.
“The highest darkness reading possible is 22 SQM,” Chris tells me, before sharing that some recordings within their findings may challenge this and that there are polarising differences between our skies and those in other International Dark Sky Reserves further north.
“Andrew [who recorded the light measurements] took a series of readings over one night here. He drew up a graph and the measurements shot up to 21.96 SQM at about midnight, and then it gradually started to get brighter.
“What we realised was it was actually the Milky Way rising that was making it brighter. The fact that it’s so dark that the starlight is having an impact is something that just doesn’t happen in the Northern Hemisphere,” he tells me, proudly.
It’s at this moment we turn our attention to some brightly coloured parrots that perch themselves on the eaves, just next to where we are sitting.
“See,” Chris says, interrupting the moment of silence and nodding his head toward the rainbow coloured feathers. “You don’t always need fancy equipment or a telescope. Sometimes, you can just simply lie back and look up.”
I ponder the simplicity of this concept for a moment.
For many, the world over, a starry sky is as good as a few luminous dots scattered scarcely through a navy canvas. The systems of stars, dust and dark matter are reserved for imagery and movies of galaxies far, far, away. Orion’s Belt, the Southern Cross, and even our galaxy, the Milky Way, are stargazing terms we all know but rarely see as a result of the increasing spread of light pollution.
But here, just 1.5 hours away from the twinkling city lights of Adelaide’s CBD, nestled among sweeping plains and the rolling hills of the Mount Lofty Ranges, we’re granted the opportunity to walk on ancient lands beneath a night sky that remains largely unchanged to that which was visible thousands of years ago.
At a nearby Aboriginal site, Ngaut Ngaut Conservation Park, a unique insight into the Nganguraku people and their connection to the land and the skies are shared through private tours, and I’m curious to discover how the preservation of the night sky can open up opportunities to learn about the Traditional Custodians of this region.
“Learning those stories… you begin to look at it [the night sky] differently,” Chris says.
It’s still light out when Kelly Kuhn, Director of Juggle House Experiences, arrives at Mannum Motel to pick me up for the stargazing tour. We’re heading to the Ngaut Ngaut Aboriginal Site, which sits just outside of Nildottie, before meeting up with local astronomer Tony Hoskings for astronomy lessons at Maynards Lookout in Walker Flat.
We board the Juggle House tour van, dubbed ‘The Entertainer’, a luxurious van that resembles more of a limousine inside. Kelly, aided by the owner of the motel and local photographer David Hartley, guides me through the region, as we stop at several lookouts before crossing on the free ferry towards Nildottie.
I’m in awe of the vastness of the land out here. From sandy cliffs that change from reds and yellows to creams and browns, to the flowing water of the Murray and the desert-like flatlands and grassy floodplains that frame the occasional cluster of river homes and farmhouses, the landscape seems ever-changing and metamorphic in nature.
The warmth of the day is starting to recede with the sun when we arrive at Ngaut Ngaut.
It’s here that Herbert Hale and Norman Tindale conducted the first rock shelter excavation in Australia in 1929, confirming the long history of Nganguraku people living around the Murray River; radiocarbon-dated deposits found they had been there for more than 6,000 years.
We’re met at the top of the conservation park by our Ngaut Ngaut Aboriginal Tour guides, Ivy Campbell and Sam Stewart, both local Nganguraku people who quickly introduce themselves before launching into light-hearted banter.
“This here,” Ivy says, holding up a hammer. “This is an ancient tool I’ve used to knock into the fence so you guys don’t need to jump it,” she jokes.
It turns out she wasn’t entirely kidding. We navigate the barbed wire fence through a hole created by Ivy’s ‘ancient tool’.
At Ngaut Ngaut’s top site, Sam introduces us to the area. As we stand atop the reddish earth, surrounded by Sam and Ivy’s efforts at revegetation, he introduces us to Nganguraku country, which is part of the Ngarrindjeri nation. Nganguraku country, he explains, lies east of the Mount Lofty Ranges, and along the river near Murray Bridge.
“Where we’re standing,” Sam says, “used to be where visiting tribes would set set up camp.” He points to a flat surface of land that’s scattered with white and charcoaled rocks, where tribes from the desert would visit when their waters ran dry. The white stone, he teaches us, was also used for ceremonial sites. We wander just a few metres to our left to an area where the stones look as if they’ve been thrown at random and the earth is scarred with what appears to be plough marks. A reminder of colonisation, he explains.
“All these white stones that are scattered everywhere, this was a ceremonial site. They were placed in a certain pattern, but by the time the land was given back to us it had all been destroyed, and now there isn’t enough knowledge for us to come back to this campsite and put these white stones back to their original pattern.”
The loss of knowledge is evident in this area, and there’s a heaviness in Sam’s voice when he discusses this impact. But the duo have dedicated their time and lives to strengthening the culture and understanding of the history of the region.
“For our tribe, we can’t do nothing about the past, we can’t do nothing about yesterday, but we can do something about today. And today is all about coming together and sharing. If we don’t do that here today in Australia, what will be left for our younger generation? Hopefully, one day, we can walk side-by-side into the future,” Sam says.
“If you call yourself Australian, this is part of yours as well, but the protection of it falls to us,” Ivy goes on to add.
I’m absorbing the words they’re speaking, as Sam talks us through various plants that are used as bush food and medicine. My eyes are darting down and back, and left and right. We suddenly come to a stop.
“If you just look up,” Sam says.
I raise my eyeline from the dusty floor to see the unfurling curves and bends of the flowing ribbon-like river, reflecting the final moments of light from the sun.
“And look into the distance over there,” he continues. “That’s the township of Nildottie, which is the word for ‘Smoke Signal Hill’. When a tribe would come to this land, they’d have to send a smoke signal to let us know they were passing through… Nowadays, we have a mobile phone.”
The afternoon is full of as many laughs as it is important educational lessons.
I’m again struck by the immensity of the horizon, which seems like it never ends. It hits me harder when Sam explains that his community shares the responsibility of protecting the land with the Peramangk tribe from the Adelaide Hills.
“We’re only a small tribe, but if you look out in front of you, you’ll see it’s a big country to look after.”
We wander down the boardwalk, which meanders alongside the cliffs and the banks of the Murray. The majestic sandstone and limestone cliffs, which are reminiscent of a wave, are adorned with oyster shells, sea urchins and shark teeth fossilised into the sea beds that formed them eons ago. Rock art in the form of engravings are carved into the sides of cliffs that are dated arguably somewhere between six-and 20-million-years old.
As we reach the bottom of the boardwalk, Ivy rejoins our small group. Directly ahead of us, at the banks of the Murray, a shelter tree stands tall. Once solid, its insides were carved and burnt out generations ago to create a hollow centre, while the top of the tree continues to flourish. “That tree is very special to us because that’s where all the women gave birth to their babies. It’s a birthing tree,” Sam tells us before Ivy interrupts, dubbing it the ‘love shack’.
Ivy talks us through the women’s and men’s sites, where the Nganguraku people once camped, and teaches the history, stories and engravings. She comes to an etching of the sun, the symbol for women, and a moon, the symbol for men. Dots appear alongside the major symbols, which may be connected to the moon’s phases.
The carvings are evidence of a deep connection to astronomy and the night sky.
“The sky was used for travelling, they follow a certain star, and they use the sky as a GPS or map,” Ivy shares.
“The night sky tells us which way we need to go. You want to get there, you’ve got to look up for the right stars and also feel your way to where you need to be.” The stories of creation are also passed down through the generations, but fragments of the cultural education have been lost to the history of invasion.
“I’m a land person,” she says. “I was taught more about the land than I was the sky, but I can share the stories of the Seven Sisters, and the Emu in the Sky.”
Ivy instructs me to look for a dark circular shape to the left of the Southern Cross – the head of an emu, whose body lies across the centre of the Milky Way. As we leave Ngaut Ngaut the stars have already started to twinkle like fairy lights.
I comment on the prettiness of it when David interrupts, “The sky isn’t dark enough yet.”
I wonder how much darker it could get.
As we pull up to Maynards Lookout, Tony is already there waiting for us, set up with his Orion XX12g American-made telescope, of which I’m told there are only three in Australia. We’re at the mercy of Mother Nature to properly experience one of the darkest skies on Earth, and we’re thankfully blessed with a clear, cloudless night on this occasion.
Tony, who has been an astronomer for decades, points out various stargazing sights, but it’s the Emu I’m most interested to find.
He coordinates the telescope into the dark patch that is the Emu’s head, which he points to with a super-strength laser beam. I look through the telescope to discover the spot is not a dark patch at all, but the Coalsack Nebula, an interstellar cloud of dust and gas.
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“Oh wow. Cool. Awesome,” are all the words I can muster over the two-hours at the lookout.
The Milky Way is the clearest I’ve ever seen it and before the night’s end, I’m able to identify Orion’s Belt, the Southern Cross and Taurus, amongst other constellations that have names more akin to a Star Wars spacecraft.
Tony tells me that some of the stars we can see may have burned out but are more than 10,000 light-years away, meaning their light will appear in our skies for thousands of years after the star itself has faded.
I ask if what we’re seeing today in the sky would be any different to the skies seen by Traditional Owners thousands of years ago. “No,” he responds. “There may be very minor differences and movement, but the sky you’re looking up at today is the same as people who walked here all that time ago.”
I’m humbled by the knowledge of just how small our existence is in the universe, and that the spirits in the sky hold memories of Earth we’re yet to uncover.
Before we leave, a shooting star darts across the sky. It’s a good thing on this trip I’ve learnt to look up.
Sri Lanka Steps Up
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We’ve arrived in Polonnaruwa on two wheels, pedalling around the central plains of Sri Lanka at the only pace this weather permits: slow. Less than 80 kilometres away is Anuradhapura, the country’s ancient capital and the site where Buddhism was introduced to the locals. Between 377 BCE and 1017 CE it was the most important place on the island, and kings built temples and statues and worshipped sacred trees here.
Anuradhapura’s crowning glory is an enormous fig known as Jaya Sri Maha Bodhi, thought to be the oldest living tree planted by humans. It began its life in 288 BCE as a clipping from the Indian Bodhi tree under which Buddha sat to gain enlightenment. It’s kind of a big deal. Understandably, locals are fiercely protective of this gracious green-topped gem, whose branches reach skywards like gnarly fingers. There’s a total development ban around it, lest ruthless digging damage its roots.
Polonnaruwa was also ruled by royalty some 800 years ago, when it was a thriving cultural and religious centre. Nobles commanded the erection of massive stupas and vast temple complexes across the city, not to mention a 14-metre prone statue of Buddha carved into granite cliffs. Most of the archaeological treasures here are remarkably well preserved, offering even the most casual observer a vivid perspective of how this World Heritage Site would have looked in its heyday. Sri Lanka’s other eight UNESCO attractions are in equally good condition – you’d be hard pressed to find another destination on the planet that has so many protected wonders packed into such a small area.
My journey around Sri Lanka begins, as most journeys here do, in Colombo, a heavenly accumulation of wide-open spaces, tree-lined avenues, chaotic traffic and whitewashed villas. The charming capital was one of the reasons why, in late 2018, Lonely Planet named the teardrop-shaped island it calls home the number-one place to visit for the following year. Six months later, on Easter Sunday, 259 people were killed across the city in a series of coordinated terrorist suicide bombings.
The devastating attacks came almost a decade after the end of Sri Lanka’s protracted 26-year civil war with Tamil separatists. Visitor numbers had jumped to record highs during that decade, only to be slashed back down by a seemingly impossible 186 per cent year-on-year decline, with more cancellations than new bookings, according to Reuters. “The people hurt; I didn’t work for three months,” says my guide George, visibly upset by the impact of the tragedy.
It isn’t the only disaster to have hit this fragile slip in the Indian Ocean: in 2004, the Boxing Day tsunami resulted in more than 30,000 fatalities along the country’s southern shore. It has been heartbreak after heartbreak. Add in a pandemic where tourism again ground to a halt and it’s incredible how resilient these places – these people – are.
The past devastation lends a certain sharpness to the great beauty of the island, adding a dusting of charisma to the time-warp capital, where so many images seem to be drawn straight from a Graham Greene novel. Like the sarong-clad man riding an antique bike through a downpour, his back ramrod-straight as he holds aloft a battered black umbrella. Or the waiters in crisp white jackets at the Galle Face Hotel, who decorously call me madame as they serve cocktails on the sea-facing veranda. It’s this quiet beauty and unassuming hospitality that draws me back again and again. Then there’s the unquiet beauty.
The drive northeast toward the island’s heart is a bit like playing Tetris with animate (and inanimate) objects. We dodge dozy dogs sprawled in the middle of the skinny single-lane highway, scoot around overladen motorbikes and tuk-tuks, then slot back into traffic behind horn-blasting public buses painted in a rainbow of colours and packed with more people than it’s possible to count.
In a stroke of genius, someone high up in the country’s transport ministry decided to give these colourful chariots “personalities”: we pass one called Dam Rajina (Purple Queen), amused by the decidedly un-bus-like eponymous plum-hued exterior. Another is known as Monara Patikki (Little Peacock), for the regal plumage painted across her iron bodice. Some of these buses have become so popular they have their own Facebook pages; others come with disco lights and top-end sound systems.
We’re a fringe away from roadside stalls hocking prickly durian, pineapples and bananas. And there are school children everywhere, dressed in inexplicably white starched uniforms – girls flick long glossy braids over their shoulders, boys gather around whoever has a mobile phone. The factories of outer Colombo give way to palm plantations and fields of fragrant mango trees, so heavy with ripe fruit their branches almost touch the ground.
Amid it all is Aliya Resort & Spa, its paradisiacal pool plonked into the middle of the jungle. Villas and open-air public spaces envelop the water, each taking design inspiration from the elephants that thrive in nearby Minneriya National Park. The retreat’s backdrop is the twin rock formations of Sigiriya and Pidurangala. We tackle the latter at sunset, clambering over boulders worn smooth by thousands of flip-flop–wearing adventurers.
The former we explore at sunrise, when mist lies low over lily-lined moats and water gardens that sit at the foot of vertiginous staircases. Before reaching the summit, formed by magma from an extinct volcano, we encounter remarkable frescoes and a pair of colossal lion’s paws carved into the bedrock. The ruins at the pinnacle are like Sri Lanka’s answer to Machu Picchu: a somewhat inconceivable assemblage of structures that was the fortress of Mauryan king Kashyapa I between 477 and 495 BCE.
Sri Lanka’s other sacred Buddhist shrine – one with an even more personal connection to Siddhartha Gautama than his fig – lies 80 kilometres south in Kandy. The city’s willow-lined lake and grand mansions nod to the region’s colonial heritage. The British came here in the nineteenth century, planting the rolling countryside with tea. The first tea factory opened in 1872 and, within a century, the nation had become the world’s biggest exporter of the leaf.
Remnants of the English colonial years, when the country was known as Ceylon, remain in its language, architecture and industry. Original processing factories survive, with machines running on belt drives and light dappling the wooden floors. In plantation-style bars, wooden fans whir overhead and dapper bow-tied waiters deliver icy gin and tonics.
It has been a day full of history lessons – only hours earlier we visited the Temple of the Sacred Tooth Relic, which, admittedly, doesn’t leave much to the imagination in its name. Within Kandy’s royal palace lies a vaulted, heavily protected pavilion, said to enclose a relic of Buddha’s tooth. Said to because you don’t actually get to see the tooth when you visit. But that doesn’t stop piles of pilgrims from lining the marbled temple confines, worshipping, humming, meditating.
The rail journey from Kandy south to Nuwara Eliya is as bone jangling as it is fun, our train click-clacking its way uphill into countryside where tea plantations cling to mist-draped mountains. From afar, deft-footed female pickers in pastel saris look like jewels embedded in an undulating emerald crown. Up close, you can see the struggle they endure walking the steep paths, filling baskets strapped to their heads with leaves and buds.
This part of Sri Lanka is dubbed Little England for obvious reasons. The landscape is cooler here and is embellished with colonial-era bungalows, Tudor-style hotels, fragrant rose gardens, golf courses, dense cloud forest with tumbling waterfalls and butterfly sanctuaries. The train continues on to the tiny backpacker-loved town of Ella, crossing over the spectacular Nine Arch Bridge along the way. Architectural ingenuity aside, this construction spanning the jungle is postcard pretty – small wonder it’s popular with selfie-stick wielding visitors in the minutes leading up to the train’s crossing.
Ella’s primary allure is its wilderness hikes up Little Adam’s Peak (1,141 metres) and (big) Adam’s Peak (2,243 metres). Both walks offer respite from the humid climes of Sri Lanka’s lower levels, with views that instantly ease you off the travel accelerator. And when we clamber back down, bamboo-built restaurants and bars await, where we toast our efforts. Our group orders sour fish curry with eggplant pickle, and espresso martinis dusted with toasted young coconut. It’s a flavour clash somewhat analogous to just about every encounter I’ve had on this island: unexpected bites of fire are tempered by head-swirling cool highs; piercing heat pairs with soul-reviving sweet; Asia meets Europe; ancient meets modern; disaster begets recovery.
And, everywhere, resilience prevails.
Burying The Rail
The timber handrail which was there moments earlier has done a disappearing act and I’m now clutching at the air with an obvious look of panic in my eyes.
Without missing a beat, I’m quickly hoisted back into the safety of the cabin by the experienced crew of the Helsal IV – our 62-foot cruising yacht – just as the wind and Southern Ocean whips up again so ferociously it stings my face before I can sit down.
“You didn’t go in and that’s definitely something to be happy about,” our captain, Mark Stranger says to me as he navigates the wheel with just a couple fingers while peering up at his sails.
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I can’t tell if it’s the lack of blood in my head or the towering dolerite pillars of Cape Raoul behind me, but right now I feel small and vulnerable.
“Let’s trim that main, guys,” Mark barks his orders over the noise of the wind and waves.
We’re finally clear of the angry, claw-shaped cape and Mark’s crew scatter across the deck like worker ants pulling lines and grinding winches and doing it all with an effortless grace that makes my near overboard tumble all the more embarrassing.
As we set out across the notorious Storm Bay in southeast Tasmania at about 10 knots, it’s not lost on me that we’re in a spot well known for chewing up and spitting out timber boats.
We tear across the bay and our yacht heels at 45 degrees in the water and unexpectedly (here we go again) we go from sailboat to semi-submersible. Water pours over the deck of the yacht and Jimmy Emms, our first mate/chef/photographer, exclaims to the rest of the crew, “Now we’re really burying the rail!”
But with no engine noise, the sun on my face and our sails full of wind, my vulnerability shifts to excitement. Underneath the hood of my Mountain Designs jacket, I can’t wipe the smile from my face.
The funny thing is I’m not even supposed to be on this boat. Instead, I’d planned to be gently sailing down the east coast of Tasmania in a predictable and slow vintage tall ship. That was until I received a call the day I arrived in Tasmania to say an engineering fault had rendered that particular boat unsafe.
A few hours (and frantic phone calls) later I stumbled upon Mark Stranger from Hobart Yachts, who said he was willing to take me on a similar itinerary – albeit on a smaller boat – but with the promise of a much more exhilarating adventure.
The one-time forest ranger, surfer and former government PR man bought the Helsal IV with wife Marsha a decade ago when a university grant (and subsequent job) fell through. The couple rented out their home, moved on board and decided they would use their love of sailing to start a charter business.
They now take groups on gentle River Derwent breakfast cruises as well as multi-day charters along the wildest sections of Australia’s coastline.
I meet the Strangers at Kings Pier Marina in Hobart before my trip and there’s an uneasy calmness about their demeanor. Just looking at their boat I already know this isn’t going to be anything like I had planned, but I would learn over the next few days that steadfast calmness from a sailor is the only antidote to a roaring and unpredictable Southern Ocean.
As we push out of Hobart and into the D’Entrecasteaux Channel, alongside our motley crew of sailors and expert fisherman there are four other guests on board yet our yacht and its common areas still feel spacious and luxurious with its restored timber finishes. The dozen bottles of Tasmanian pinot noir being shovelled into the galley by Jimmy certainly adds an aura of regalness and sophistication.
The Helsal IV is a famous cruising yacht that has competed in three Sydney to Hobart races in its lifetime and is well accustomed to navigating these waters. But our transition out of the channel’s brief calmness is sudden and violent. Here we go again.
Within an instant the backs of dolphins playing off our bow are replaced with sea spray and rapid-fire wind gusts that Mark calls ‘bullets’.
I’m learning an entirely new language on this trip: bullets, windage, jibs, port, starboard, cunninghams, headsails and travellers.
That’s the beauty of being on a working sail boat like the Helsal IV. You don’t just sit and sail with a glass of pinot noir because when the weather changes you literally become entangled in the drama.
The gusts force us to change course and we seek refuge for the night in Mark’s favourite safe moorage on Bruny Island. As we motor the final stretch to his secret spot, he ominously points out a nearby reef and calmly tells the tale of a convict ship that became wrecked here on its way to Port Arthur in 1835. The 133 people confined to the ship’s hold were left by their commanding officers to die.
Moments later, I’m coincidently sitting below deck when I hear a crackle over the radio: “Pan pan, Pan pan – this is Tas Marine,” the voice says. “We have two POB [persons over board] from a capsized boat off north Bruny Island, are there any vessels in the vicinity?”
According to Mark we’re too far away to help and a Pan pan is not a mayday. He assures us they’ll be okay but that doesn’t stop my eyes scanning for my nearest escape hatch and it’s yet another reminder of the unpredictability of these waters.
After a dinner of freshly caught fish and a bottle of pinot, we settle into our cabins for the evening. A day earlier, orcas had been spotted in the channel not far from here and as I drift off to sleep I press my ear against the timber hull, picturing them frolicking just on the other side.
The next morning we make our way to a spot called the Friars, a well-known seal colony and playground in the Actaeon Island Group. The Friars are four steep dolerite rocks that punch angrily out of the sea and act as the perfect basking spot for big bull seals; the more playful females wave at us from the water as they circle our dinghy.
This is the same dinghy which is slowly taking on water. It suffered a cosmetic tear in the poor weather and I’m now holding onto the fuel tank in shin-deep water.
The skipper can sense I’m nervous.
“Risk taking is a catalyst for living in the moment and that’s what sailors and surfers are so good at,” Mark says to me with a smile once we’re back safely on board.
His innate ability to throw caution to the wind had actually been his PhD topic at the University of Tasmania, where he wrote a thesis on risk taking in surfing culture.
We settle in for another night in one of the fairytale coves of Recherche Bay and drop a craypot over the edge and hope for the best. These waters are teeming with fresh lobster.
Morning arrives and we bathe in the icy tannin-tinged waters by swinging from a tether off the mast. I pull myself up the swing ladder and Jimmy hands me a steaming cup of coffee, but before I dry off properly I take one of the kayaks ashore.
Finally on dry land, I look back at the boat. There’s nothing but thick scrub behind me and it’s as if I’ve been completely swallowed by the Tasmanian wilderness and my only tether back to civilisation is the Helsal IV, now a white dot in the distance.
On our final evening we motor into Port Arthur at dusk. There’s a stillness in the air I haven’t felt for several days, which exacerbates the chill down my spine as we move past Point Puer – the notorious child prison where nine and ten-year-old boys were separated from the older male criminals.
As we round the corner and the sun drops further, the Penitentiary ruins come into focus. The colour of the sandstone building changes by the second, but that’s not even the most magical part.
I should’ve guessed it, but the magic comes from the complete unexpected yet again – as it has done this entire journey.
I’m here walking the ruins of Port Arthur all alone.
On any normal visit I might actually enjoy a middle-aged tour guide showing me around while telling generic stories, but this visit with Hobart Yachts means tonight I have the place all to myself.
As I wander around the site, I come to terms with how I’ve just arrived here by boat. The very same way thousands of convicts had arrived here hundreds of years earlier.
The prison grounds and asylum are equal parts harrowing and beautiful in complete silence. And like those thousands of convicts marooned here before me, I feel a yearning to get back onto the boat.
Except unlike those convicts, I can see Jimmy’s silhouette in a porthole of the Helsal IV and I know I’ve got fresh lobster and a pinot noir waiting for me.
Highs and Lows
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You rarely see the little varmints, such is their quality of camouflage, but their mating calls indicate warmer days have finally arrived in the southern hemisphere.
Scientists think they gather together and sing to avoid predators – the collective decibels produced are both painful and confusing for birds, spiders and bats who would otherwise feast on their crunchy carcasses.
As we pedal through a gully not far from Beechworth, the noise from the cicadas is almost deafening. They are, after all, the loudest insect on Earth.
There’s no need for the cicadas’ call, however, to know summer has well and truly arrived. It is still relatively early in the morning but the temperature has already spiked into the mid-30s.
Normally, the Tour de Vines crew travelling through Victoria’s High Country for a weekend of rail trail exploration would partake in a leisurely lie-in and breakfast. Not this morning. When we’d gathered the previous evening at Bridge Road Brewers for a meet-and-greet fuelled by pizza and beer, a group decision had been made: we’d leave early in an attempt to get a decent chunk of the day’s 43 kilometres done before the mercury reached 40ºC.
Our other concession to the heat is four of our group of six, including Tour de Vines owner and the weekend’s guide Damian Cerini, have decided less pedalling and more cruising might be the order of the day.
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Click to view gallery
We’d gathered at the Old Beechworth Gaol, adjusted the seats and taken our e-bikes for a test ride around the car park. After all, this weekend isn’t about how fast you ride or who makes it to the next destination first; it’s about enjoying the landscape, meeting new people, eating well, tasting the local wines and breathing in the fresh air. Even more so on this weekend, just weeks after Melbourne finally came out of another lockdown.
As we depart, cruising slowly through the still-waking town, cockatoos feasting on ripe cherry plums form a screeching guard of honour overhead. This first stretch, once we pass the old Beechworth railway station, is all downhill, with the King Valley spread out all around us. Golden fields are dotted with huge cylindrical straw bales. Cows lift their heads as we pass. The group soon spreads out, each person travelling at a speed to suit their fitness.
At a drink stop at Everton Station, a group of MAMILs – middle-aged men in lycra -– breezes past in a peloton. A few minutes later, a young guy on a bike laden with what seems like all his earthly possessions rolls slowly towards us. He stops to ask how much further till Beechworth.
“It’s not that far but it’s all uphill,” one of the guys answers with a shrug.
Our lone traveller has come from Wangaratta, some 27 kilometres down the track. He looks wrecked, and there’s still another 15 kilometres – all of them in full sunshine – to go before he reaches his destination. He takes a swig from a water bottle and lifts his hand in a limp wave. We’ve only got water and essentials in our panniers (our luggage has gone on to Myrtleford in a minibus), but I’m already grateful for the e-bike decision.
There’s a map on the wall, showing all the directions you could explore. This particular trail, Damian explains, opened in the early 2000s, following the routes of a number of past train lines that moved everything from humans and gold to other precious resources.
The section between Myrtleford and Bright – the part we’ll be riding tomorrow – once transported timber, while it was a tourist train that rolled between Bright and Mount Buffalo; both closed in the 1980s.
This is already Australia’s longest sealed rail trail, but an extension from Beechworth to Yackandandah is due to open at the end of 2021.
“Before we head off, I need to tell you about the wildlife,” says Damian, as we’re sticking bottles back into bags. “There are lots of echidnas in the next section.” This piece of information elicits a few oohs and ahhs.
“Once we cross over into the Alpine Valleys there’s an explosion in the numbers of kangaroos.” He pauses for a moment: “But one thing to watch out for is snakes.”
After a long winter, the reptiles love the heat that comes off the sealed trail and often lie across it, soaking up the sun.
“You won’t see them till you’re on top of them so don’t brake and don’t swerve,” he warns. “Just go straight over the top of them.”
As we ride on, down through Tiger Alley, it takes me a moment to realise that the person who knocked up the sign on a tree probably wasn’t warning about roving Richmond football fans.
The leg from Everton contains the one and only proper hill of the journey. It’s a long climb up a gradual hill then a steep final push to Taylors Gap. We’ve been told to go at our own pace, to stop for water if needed and to stay at the top under the shelter until everyone regroups.
I’ve tucked myself in behind Rick, one of the men who’s chosen to do the hard work on a proper bike. He’s going at quite a pace, so I push a button and add a little more grunt to the e-bike’s muscle. Then we hit the big hill, so I turn the bike up to full power. Rick’s up off his seat and putting in the big ones; I rotate the pedals about seven times to reach the top. Easy does it.
Taylors Gap has quite a history. There was once a hotel here where stage coaches would stop to change horses on the way to Beechworth. In 1878, Ned Kelly and his gang escaped through the gap after they’d ambushed the police camp at Stringybark Creek. All we’re escaping today is the heat and, as the group reassembles, we take to the shade.
Of course, one of the greatest aspects of the Murray to Mountains trail is the feeling of freedom, as the wind rus… Just kidding. It’s actually that this is a wine region and dotted along your path, whichever town you’re heading towards, are a number of cellar doors.
We finally meet a tiny echidna – she ignores us and heads to a burrow – just before pulling into Gapsted Wines, home of a cheeky little prosecco and an array of other Italian varietals I can’t wait to try.
The staff have saved us a table on the edge of the terrace, overlooking the vines and in front of an enormous misting fan. We’re far from the only ones here. There are groups lying on the lawn, people with kids and dogs, and others seeking out respite from the heat.
A little wine tasting is rolled out, including a glass of the limited-release saperavi, as well as a grazing plate of local cheese, dips, olive, pickles, chicken and bread. It’s enough to get us back on the bike, but thankfully not enough to impair riding skills.
The roll into Myrtleford is short and sweet. We drop the bikes at the motel and wander into town to taste what’s on offer at Billy Button. Winemaker Jo Marsh uses grapes from across the Alpine Valleys, but to keep things simple this cellar door has opened on the edge of town. We’re welcomed into the air-conditioned space and are soon sipping on arneis, tempranillo and an interesting chardonnay mistelle that was created using the only grapes that could be salvaged after the previous summer’s bushfires.
The next day dawns bright – appropriate since that is the name of where we’re heading – and not nearly as hot. The mercury is going to max out at just 25ºC, which is far more civilised.
Today there are also plenty of places to visit along the way. Just out of Myrtleford we stop at Pepo Farms, where Sharan and Jay Rivett grow styrian pumpkins, an heirloom variety from Austria and Slovenia, whose seeds can be eaten without being processed. We taste roasted pumpkin seeds, along with ones that have been smoked, dipped in Cajun spices or coated in chocolate.
Which is a shame because we’ve only pedalled on for a few minutes before arriving at Buffalo Berry Farm, where the berry cup has tayberries, boysenberries and blueberries, with soft serve and berry syrup. Like complete troopers we reluctantly force them down.
If you’ve never visited this part of northeast Victoria, it is beautiful. The landscape is lush, there are old tobacco drying sheds near olive groves, and the trail follows the fast-flowing Ovens River as it weaves through the countryside. And, at decent intervals along the whole route, there are excellent wineries.
At the Ringer Reef cellar door, high on a hill outside Porepunkah, I ask Damian if that’s why he chose this particular trail to launch Tour de Vines about 15 years ago. The company has since added winery routes in South Australia, NSW’s Mudgee region and Hawke’s Bay in New Zealand, among others. “It’s really about the trails,” he says. “It’s just fortuitous that they also tend to be places with wineries.”
After lunch, we stop on the river’s edge in Porepunkah among the picnickers and watch what seems to be half the townsfolk splashing in a huge waterhole. We’ve only just got on the bikes again when we arrive at the big ‘Welcome to Bright’ sign. We weave through the traffic and down to Howitt Park, where the minibus awaits to ferry us back to Beechworth.
Beneath the trees, ice cream in hand and surrounded by kids roller skating and family groups congregating, it’s hard to believe that just a few weeks earlier I had only been able to travel five kilometres from my home.
The sun is dipping in the sky and its rays filter through high branches. There’s no sound of cicadas; instead their song is being drowned out by a band playing outside Bright Brewery. It’s the perfect ending for our long ride, and a great start for the summer to come.
Eat Surf Repeat in Raglan
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Only two-hours from big city Auckland, Raglan is a great option for those looking for a little bit of bohemian luxury in rugged, natural surroundings while also being a haven for surf enthusiasts.
With a population of less than 4,000, Raglan retains a strong community feel, while openly welcoming the surfers, backpackers and tourists who come seeking a more unique New Zealand experience.
Before arriving in Raglan, the magic begins by taking a little detour on the way to Waireinga, otherwise known as Bridal Veil falls. The 55-metre waterfall is only a ten-minute walk through lush native bush and the view from the bottom is worth every step.
But once you’re in town, there is no shortage of delicious cafes and coffee spots to keep you fuelled for the day. The Shack is a sunny café on the main street corner offering a wide variety of classic Kiwi brunch options with a modern twist. Or you can head to the hole in the wall café, Raglan Roast which has now become famous in Aotearoa for its deliciously smooth coffee.
No Raglan visit is complete without popping into Jet, an institution in the town which has been operating as an artist collective for roughly 20 years. The small, funky store has an array of artworks, souvenirs and clothing, made by local designers and artists who take turns running the shop selling their wares.
Meandering on down to Te Kopua beach you will find Raglan’s much loved foot bridge, which at high tide during summertime will be filled with Raglanites, hurling themselves over the railings to see who can make the biggest splash into the water below.
If you’re not feeling brave enough to do as the locals do and take the plunge, head to Raglan Backpackers and pick up a kayak for the day to explore the town’s highly underrated Pancake Rocks on the opposite side of the harbour. From there you can paddle your way to lunch down the stream to Rock-It Kitchen, a popular café in a renovated barn with designated spots for kayakers to come ashore.
The food here is fresh with a variety of options to suit either the health conscious or those wanting to indulge in a gourmet burger and chips. With an enclosed backyard it is the perfect place to let kids run wild while the grown-ups relax.
When it’s time for a rest, Three Streams Retreat located a short drive outside of the town centre, is the perfect spot to check-in and chill-out. Ideal for either families or those looking for a romantic getaway, the self-contained, stylishly designed accommodation provides all the comforts of home with the luxuries of a glamourous BnB. With a wide-open living plan, two bedrooms, a fully equipped kitchen and a romantic outdoor bath, Three Streams Retreat is the kind of place you could easily stay for a week and not get homesick or restless.
When the sun is shining, it’s worth heading to Raglan’s famous beaches. Manu Bay is a popular spot for surfers, while Ngarunui is more swimmer-friendly and provides a stunning west coast sunset in the evening.
For even more epic views, take a slow drive on a gravel road to the Te Toto Gorge lookout.
A must do for foodies is new kid on the block Ulo’s Kitchen. This funky, family-run Japanese restaurant is undoubtedly the trendiest place to eat in the region, with a DJ deck, eclectic décor, fresh food, local craft beer and a diverse team of friendly wait staff. Although it has only been open a year, it’s fast becoming a favourite spot for locals looking for fresh, international food.
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Click to view gallery
La La Land is a must visit for sweet tooths and dessert lovers. Digging into one of their heavenly homemade mellow puffs should be your first priority, but the boutique chocolate café has an array of European style sweet treats and pastries that will keep you coming back for more.
If you’re looking for all the best things that Aotearoa has to offer in one tiny town, make sure you add Raglan to your list of must-see destinations.
The Mangrove Crab
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He won’t break a sweat hunting crocodiles, freediving among hammerheads or wielding a machete. He’s also totally nonplussed recalling the time he escaped the tsunami that struck the Solomon Islands in 2007.
But the memory of his first week in the modest, one-room kitchen of Oravae Cottage, (a family resort in the Western Province), still gets his tummy turning.
“I wanted the opportunity,” the self-taught chef explains. “But cooking for four or five people with so little experience on my part was probably one of the scariest things I’ve ever done.”
It was 2015, when Junior’s Australian-born aunty and resort owner, Naomi Baea, had to return home at the same time as Oravae’s head chef, which left Junior in charge of the kitchen.
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Click to view gallery
He can’t have been too bad in their absence, because the guests kept coming and just three-years later he beat 14 other contestants to win the Solomon Islands’ first-ever cooking competition, the Lagoon Cookoff, in Munda.
The win boosted his confidence and put prize money in his pocket.
Better yet, Junior scored a month’s work experience cooking under the head chef of Honiara’s Heritage Hotel, learning the basics of Western and Asian cuisines.
“It was a really busy kitchen. I worked all the stations, including the buffet. I talked to guests from all over the world; people from all kinds of backgrounds. I learned about food preparation, recipe planning, plating up and the importance of presentation,” he says.
A cooking scholarship to New Zealand soon followed and it was here where Junior learned about harnessing the best from local ingredients.
“There’s very little red meat in the Solomons’ diet,” he says. “Basic items such as spices can be really hard to find. We rely on fresh fish straight from the ocean. It’s our staple — I’m talking fish like trevally, Spanish mackerel, sweet lips, tuna and parrot fish.
“But I’m learning that’s a strength in our cuisine. People travel from around the world to enjoy fish straight out of the ocean in a unique island environment like ours,” he adds.
“Food plays a particular role in Solomon life. You have to work hard for it, but once you have it, it’s to be shared.
“It also forms the basis of so many of our stories. I love mangrove crab. But to eat crab you need to know how to get it safely. It’s also the food of the crocodile. To be a crabber is to move between a crocodile and his food source. Here, crabs and crocodiles live side-by-side in the mangroves. So, we’ve all got crocodile stories.
“Talk to my uncle Patson, who’s from Malaita, and he’ll give you practical tips on how to actually wrestle a crocodile with your bare hands and stay alive.”
Usually, tourists come to Oravae Cottage from all over the world to enjoy Junior’s food, but visitors have been rare due to the COVID-19 pandemic.
Junior has his finger’s crossed that global travel will return again soon — and with a stronger-than-ever focus on supporting small-scale, family-run operators.
“We look after guests differently here. We’re not your everyday resort. We want people to feel connected to this place by getting to know us, hearing our stories and enjoying Solomon Island hospitality. I like to think my food is an important part of that.”
Ingredients
● Mangrove crab
● Onion
● Garlic
● Curry powder
● Salt
● Sugar
● Chillies (finely chopped)
● Red peppers (roughly chopped)
● Fresh coconut milk
● Lime juice.
Directions
1. Fill a large pot with water and boil the crab for 20 minutes.
2. Lower heat to medium and add onions and garlic.
3. Add to the pot curry powder, salt, sugar, finely chopped chillies, roughly chopped peppers and the milk of a fresh coconut. Stir it all together and bring to a boil.
4. Reduce heat to low, cover and simmer for 15-20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
5. Add fresh lime juice 10 minutes before serving.
Gone for a song
According to oft-repeated hikers’ wisdom, cotton kills. It’s a dictum that rings true across most of Australia, as anyone who’s ever been caught out in a cold, wet t-shirt can attest. But on the Jatbula Trail, an outdoor-ed teacher named Elly has turned that belief on its head.
With the accumulated wisdom of a season spent in the Top End, she’s hiking across the southern edge of the Arnhem Land escarpment with an infectious grin and a cotton shirt that she drenches at every opportunity. “Cotton cools,” she says, extending her o’s with a laugh as she puts the sopping wet tee back on.
In nearby Katherine the temperature is close to 40 degrees. Here on the bare escarpment the rocky ground radiates the heat back up at us and it’s hotter still. For the first time I can recall, I curse my synthetic moisture-wicking shirt.
“You’re going to get pretty warm,” the grizzled ranger warned me at the compulsory pre-hike briefing. It echoed advice I’d already heard, but I’d also been told repeatedly that it was worth braving the heat for one of the most beautiful hikes in Australia. Our party of five includes Dan, a film producer from Sydney, and his German friend Anne, who lives up to the stereotype by being the most organised of us; Tom, a perpetually smiling hydrologist who has spent much of his career in the South Australian desert; and Chris, a Melbourne-based journalist who insists he’s not a hipster hiker, but who bought a new portable coffeemaker specially for this trip.
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Pre-warned of the soaring temperatures, we’re keen to get an early start and rise before dawn on day one. Skittish wallabies form a guard of honour by the roadside on the half-hour drive from Katherine to Nitmiluk National Park. A golden glow is creeping above the horizon and our windscreen frames the fast-rising sun directly ahead.
After a short boat ride across the Katherine River, we step off between broad trees and pandanus palms into knee-high grass that shimmers in the early morning glow. Closer to ground level, the view is slightly less magical. A disturbingly large pyramid of dung has been deposited in the middle of the path and, despite earlier voicing his hope for plenty of wildlife sightings, Dan takes one look at the giant mound and declares, “I don’t want to see a buffalo any more.”
The first section of the walk follows the base of the escarpment and we enjoy the shadow it casts even in the early morning cool. It won’t last long; as we walk, the sun creeps over burnt orange rocks, dry yellow grass and spindly white gums with crowns of green. Climbing out of the shade and onto the escarpment, the air seems to hum gently with heat and I’m grateful that the first day is a short one. With only 8.3 kilometres to cover we reach camp by 10am.
By then it’s already baking hot and the sound of running water is like music to my ears. Without hesitation I drop my pack, cast off my clothes and follow the sound to a series of small falls at Biddlecombe Cascades. Despite it being the dry season, they look anything but to me, and I gleefully jump in the top pool then scramble down over the rocks to get a strong massage at the bottom of the falls. Because we’re on top of the escarpment, there’s no need to worry about crocs – we checked, multiple times – but I still start when I hear Chris screaming my name. Rushing back to camp, I find a jagged hole torn in the top of my pack, muesli everywhere and even a few zips tugged open. I shake my fist at six red-tailed black cockatoos sitting watchfully in a nearby tree before a harsh, mournful caw behind me informs me that I’ve accused the wrong birds.
Having secured my bags more carefully, I head back to the cascades. With bubbling spas, placid pools ringed by sparkling sundew plants, rocks perfect for jumping off and even a small cave hidden behind a fall it’s like a private waterpark. And, for a few hours, it’s all ours. One of the great joys of the Jatbula is that it’s never crowded. A maximum of 30 permits are issued each day (15 for self-supported hikers, 15 for tour operators), but we’re walking late in the season and only have four other hikers with us at camp each night.
The trail guidelines ask hikers not to wear sunscreen because it damages the waterholes. Knowing this, we plan to take regular breaks in the shade, but camping next to the falls proves too tempting. After a day spent lounging by the pool, Hollywood Dan looks like a red-breasted robin and serves as a warning to the rest of us throughout the hike.
The waterholes provide much needed respite from the heat, but they’re far from the only highlights of the trail. During the days we walk through stone country, where rocks criss-crossed with fracture lines are surrounded by dry grass the colour of straw. Bloodwood trees ooze bright red sap that crystallises where it falls and sparkles in the sun like piles of garnets. We walk between termite mounds scattered like gravestones in a poorly organised cemetery – over six days they change with the colour of the soil from white to yellow and deep red before turning a tired, dusty grey. The clifftop views from the edge of the escarpment – rocky red bluffs that seem to glow in the early morning sun protecting a broad valley of dry yellow grass streaked with white gum trunks – are worth the days of walking.
Even more arresting is the rock art hidden under overhangs near the track, evidence of the area’s continuing importance to the Jawoyn Traditional Owners. This is unforgiving country and water is essential to survival. It’s why the Jatbula Trail follows a Jawoyn Songline, an ancient route that connects the permanent water sources along the escarpment. These magical spots have hosted countless generations and we get a sense of that longstanding connection at the trail’s most spectacular stop.
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Click to view gallery
The air in the Amphitheatre is still and muggy, but the wide natural bowl offers welcome protection from the sun. Water seeps through large hanging gardens of ferns before trickling down to a thin creek on the valley floor. On the surrounding rock face, more than a hundred open-air art galleries depict Jawoyn People, spirits and animals in ghostly white, mustard yellow and deep red ochre.
Some are recent additions, but others have been here for thousands of years. And they cover every available flat surface. It’s a place of wonder, but also great peace, and we linger for hours before resuming our walk, marvelling at the longstanding connection with Country in a place where past, present and future seem to fuse.
We take our time rearranging our packs before continuing, and our ever-smiling hydrologist uses the brief pause to whip out a book. His propensity to read at every drink break has earned him the nickname Two Page Tom, but there are times when the stultifying heat means I’d happily let him finish an entire novel before emerging from the shade.
On my map the Jatbula Trail looks like an easy hike. It’s mostly flat and the distances are manageable, but it’s absolutely crucial to take regular breaks because of the sapping heat. The 62-kilometre walk takes five or six days and, as we traverse the sandstone plateau, the environment becomes increasingly tropical. Dry buffalo wallows appear with increasing frequency, along with piles of fresh dung and wafts of pungent urine. It’s a wild landscape, a place where humans seem like the most temporary of visitors, and I keep expecting to round a corner and find a giant beast with wide horns ready to chase us out. But the stillness is broken only by the chirp of cicadas (whose “nit, nit, nit” call gives the park its name) and the attention-demanding screech of a sulphur-crested cockatoo. Occasionally a grasshopper buzzes in front of me, roaring like a biplane as it takes off.
We walk past sharp clumps of sword grass that threaten to slice any exposed skin, beneath lush palms and across bone-dry riverbeds. This is the paradox of the Top End in the dry season – it’s an incredibly fertile landscape with no visible water.
It makes us appreciate the waterholes by each campsite even more. At Sandy Camp, a giant circular pool is ringed by tall paperbarks full of birdlife and grevillea whose flowers resemble long, curling eyelashes. Scraggly blue-winged kookaburras, unrecognisable as relatives of their southern cousins, give a stifled laugh and the iridescent wings of rainbow bee-eaters catch the sun. There are even enough fish to attract cormorants, although they disperse as we gleefully dive in.
“How’s the water?” Elly calls out as she strolls into camp with a grin. It’s perfect, I tell her. A cotton t-shirt might be a surprisingly good outfit on this Australian hike, but fortunately it’s not the only way to stay cool on the Jatbula.
Hot Five Abandoned Places
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JAPAN
At the peak of its mining boom, and with more than 5,000 people calling it home, Japan’s Hashima Island – a tiny stretch of land only 480 metres long and 150 metres wide – held the record for the highest population density in the world. Now it’s a crumbling example of the country’s rapid industrialisation; a ghost island that looms eerily off the coast of Nagasaki. Also known as Gunkanjima, which means Battleship Island (for its resemblance to a Japanese battleship), it was bought by the Mitsubishi Goshi Kaisha group in 1890 and developed into a major undersea coal mine. Workers and their families were shipped to the island (some as forced labourers, a controversial part of Hashima’s history), where high-rise apartment blocks were built alongside a school and hospital. Then, in 1974, the mine was closed and the island was deserted, left to the mercy of the elements. Only in the past 10 years has Hashima reopened to visitors, and although access is limited there’s no denying the lure of its post-apocalyptic vibes.
ESTONIA
It may look like an idyllic swimming hole, but what remains of Estonia’s Rummu Prison offers an insight into its dark past. Located around 40 kilometres from the capital Tallinn, the prison was established in 1938 by the Soviet Union and soon housed almost 400 inmates, all of whom were required to work long, backbreaking hours in the neighbouring limestone quarry. When Estonia regained its independence in 1991 and the Soviet regime collapsed, so too did the prison. It didn’t take long for the quarry to fill up with water, submerging buildings, watchtowers and leftover mining equipment. Now it’s an eerie backdrop for those looking for adventure. On dry land you can wander past old cellblocks and barbwire-topped walls, while below the surface awaits a smorgasbord of prison paraphernalia. The clear, natural groundwater ensures great visibility, so it’s no surprise divers have flocked to the area, keen to take the plunge and explore this watery wasteland.
USA
Step back in time to a long-lost era of shoot-outs and saloons when you visit Bodie, an old gold-mining town hidden deep in California’s Sierra Nevada mountain range. It was 1859 when four prospectors struck it rich in the region, establishing a small settlement that would later form the foundations for a thriving hub. By the 1880s the town’s population had blown out to almost 10,000 residents. Banks, brothels, bars and a post office, jail and church popped up, with the mines producing a whopping US$34 million dollars in profit. But the boom didn’t last forever, and Bodie soon fell into a rapid decline. With no more gold to be found people left in droves, leaving behind everything they couldn’t carry. Today, it’s nothing more than a ghost town preserved in a state of arrested decay. It sits at the end of a remote dirt road and is made up of about 110 structures, some with bars still stocked, others with dinner tables still set, in a haunting homage to the Wild West.
SAMOA
Need a little reminder of just how terrifying Mother Nature’s unrivalled power can be? A visit to Samoa’s Saleaula Lava Field should do the trick. In 1905 Mount Matavanu in central Savai’i erupted, spewing a vast river of lava that would eventually swallow five villages before running into the sea. And here’s a truly frightening fact: in some parts, the depth of the lava flow was 120 metres. It defies belief to think that anything could have survived such devastation, but miraculously, not all was lost. Half-buried churches remain standing, with streams of swirly lava now set like cement on the floor, the imprints of trees or corrugated iron still visible. Then there’s the Virgin’s Grave, which belongs to a high chief’s daughter who died of tuberculosis. Legend has it she was so pure that the lava passed around her grave, leaving it completely untouched. As for the rest of the blackened land, it’s slowly being reclaimed, as greenery and plants assist in covering up the natural atrocity that occurred.
ENGLAND
Looking like something straight off the pages of a sci-fi novel, the forgotten Maunsell Forts are rusted reminders of the very real threat World War II posed to the United Kingdom. Originally erected in 1942 in England’s Thames Estuary, the seven stilted structures – each consisting of a central command tower and connected buildings – were part of a military plan to detect and destroy German aircraft, as well as prevent attempts to lay mines in the vital shipping channel. Each fort housed hundreds of soldiers and some impressive weaponry, which resulted in 22 planes and 30 bombs being shot down. After being decommissioned in the 1950s, the forts were once again commandeered in the 60s for use as pirate radio stations, before falling into various states of disrepair. You can still get up close to these decaying wartime relics (the ones that remain standing) by boat, otherwise your best bet is spotting them on a clear day from East Beach, in Southend-on-Sea.