Our van comes to a screeching halt and, for the first time in about three hours, I unclench my jaw. It’s been that way to save my teeth from rattling together. My lower back aches, my nostrils are full of dust and DEET, and my body is jittering with nerves as we leave our vehicle and push through a shroud of dry palms hanging over a makeshift entrance.
A group of villagers is on the other side to greet us, their smiles wide and so full of crimson betel nut it’s difficult to see where their gums start and stop. At least I can tell they’re excited to see us. Secretly, after what I’ve already been told, I’m hoping the experience will be over quickly.
But before we even arrive at Safanaga Village, a remote and isolated settlement just outside Goroka in Papua New Guinea’s Central Highlands, we’ve been told by folks from Papua New Guinea’s Tourism Promotion Authority (PNGTPA) we’re the first group of western journalists to travel this road between the two main highland cities of Goroka and Mount Hagen. While this is significant given it’s considered one of the most treacherous stretches of highway on the planet, this fact almost instantly pales into insignificance. On the village’s riverbank, I sit aghast as waves of human blood and bile disappear downstream.
The Keeya people of Safanaga Village are one of just a few clans in this region still practising a confronting bloodletting initiation ritual. It happens regularly, but the PNGTPA reps say fewer than 20 tourists a year witness the tradition that involves young men removing the dirty or impure blood – they allegedly inherit it from their mothers at birth – in order to aid their transformation into men.
I watch in complete disbelief as three young brothers, Apune, Ansley and Yapo, use a range of makeshift bush apparatus to inflict unspeakable pain on themselves.
Yapo is the first to start the ritual. He rolls leaves into two tight wands, so they’re of a similar length and appearance to a cigar. Once he’s done, he repeatedly and violently pushes them up into his nostrils like two pistons firing rapidly in a car engine. Yapo, along with our group, is visibly distressed.
Ansley then hands a tiny bow and arrow over to his little brother, sticks out his tongue as if it’s a bullseye and, in rapid succession, a glass-tipped arrow is fired into it. After about 20 times it’s obvious the pain is almost unbearable.
“This [is] the most dangerous [part],” one of them says to our group in broken English, just as the remaining brother, Apune, begins to swallow a two-metre length of cane.
In a few seconds, something as thick as but less flexible than a skipping rope miraculously disappears down Apune’s throat and into his body. He calmly gags before it emerges again. I have to look away. Needless to say the entire experience renders me speechless and emotionally broken. It’s in this moment I realise that, despite being only 150 kilometres from mainland Australia, I’m in another world.
In reality, however, what we are watching is just a show. Sure, it’s a complex celebration of tradition, history, storytelling and ritualistic coming of age, but today these types of experiences are a way for these tribes to keep centuries-old traditions alive as well as attract much-needed tourist dollars.
When you look at Papua New Guinea on a map it’s hard to fully grasp the sheer remoteness in which villagers like the Safanaga live. Picture a tablecloth laid flat then pinch it in the middle and bring it to an elevation of 4,509 metres. That’s the height of PNG’s tallest peak, Mt Wilhelm in the Central Highlands. Their home, along with millions of others, is perched precariously in these fog-draped mountains.
And in a region with more than 800 different ethnic groups and tribes, despite the pressures of the western world being firmly wedged against it, the highlands still remain a buffet of sensory tribal traditions where visitors like us are welcomed with open arms.
We’re visiting the region on the eve of the sixtieth anniversary of the famous Hagen Show, an annual sing-sing (the word means gathering) featuring the coming-together of dozens of tribal groups in the town’s central stadium across a single weekend. It’s an opportunity for tourists
to witness a melting pot of cultures all in one place at the same time.
Yet a mere weekend of watching these traditions unfold behind a fence as just another white-faced spectator is far less enjoyable than taking the long road between Goroka and Mount Hagen and crafting a remote experience to visit hidden tribes and witness their traditions along the way. There’s something much more raw and unscripted about seeing these take place in context, as if you’re being invited to peer inside a cultural time capsule with the implicit permission of a village elder.
Like the famous Australian Leahy family, who led the first expeditions into the highlands during the 1930s in search of gold, each new day
feels like another scene from the acclaimed documentary, First Contact.
THE ASARO MUDMEN
We start with the most popular tribal group in the region. They’re so popular, in fact, I’m sitting in the exact same spot as actor Morgan Freeman, who was here a few weeks ago filming his latest Netflix series.
Its notoriety in no way makes our personalised visit any less spine-tingling.
There’s an eerie silence before a horn sounds in the distance. Smoke wafts over the village’s dedicated performance ground and an Asaro Mudman scout, with a young boy in tow, leads out to “check for enemies”. Within just a few seconds dozens of ghostly mudmen wielding clubs and bows break through the smoke in a frenzy, bombarding us from every angle.
Their performance is tantalising, their movements deliberately intimidating. With each drumbeat, I try harder to peer through the holes in their masks – some of them weigh up to 15 kilograms each – to catch a glimpse of their eyes just to make sure I’m still dealing with humans.
GORUMEKA CLAN
“You can help expose my country, my village, my community to the rest of the world to help us keep our traditions,” leader of the Gorumeka clan, Robert Gotokave, tells me as he cradles his machete. We’re on an hour-long hike to the top of Mount Gorupuka.
Gorupuka was once a World War II staging post for Australian artillery and Gotokave’s grandfather was a Fuzzy Wuzzy Angel who ran supplies up the mountain to fuel wveary soldiers.
“I’m one of the sons of soldier men, too,” he says with a smile, and for a moment we share a special bond as I tell him my grandfather was stationed not far from Port Moresby at the same time.
But the mountain is so much more to Gotokave than simply a relic of a long-ago war. It’s a sacred place where his elders have held pre-battle sacrifices for generations. The summit is accessed only by a secret cave and I must leave the branch of a local fern at the ‘door’ before I’m allowed to enter or risk never being allowed to leave.
As Gotokave finally takes us back to his village, the other men are already dressed in their post-war celebration garb. Yet this dance, known as the mokomoko, is overtly sexual and phallic.
There’s thrusting, grunting and suggestive woven devices worn around waists which are, we’re told, designed to arouse the interest
of any female onlookers.
THE SKELETON DANCERS
A few hours up the road in Mindima Village you hear the shrieking before anything else. While the sound is horrific enough, it’s when you see the skeleton performers the real fear sets in.
Their faces are intricately decorated for our arrival and, in terrifying detail, they re-create the story of a monster who lives in the mountains above their village and who is famed for stealing and eating Mindima children.
KORUL VILLAGE
Before arriving in Mount Hagen you first pass through the breathtaking Chimbu province, which rises steeply out of the Asaro Valley.
In Korul Village I meet Batman, his name an indicator of both his size and stature. He’s huge, like most Highlanders I’ve met so far, and as he leads me over the crest of the hill where his village sits I understand why – you need to either grow wings or build muscle just to live here.
My journey through Korul is like visiting a modern history museum. Village life fans out in front of me and I look out across the valley. Batman says there’s as many as 3,000 to 4,000 people living here, yet I remain focussed on just four people at the end of a small clearing.
I’m introduced to village chief Bomal and his three wives. He sits proudly on a log, munching on a piece of fruit and surrounded by his concubines. Polygamy is still widely practised in the highlands, as too are ‘bride prices’, with pigs used as the most common form of currency.
The chief shouts angrily for water and wife number two hastily scurries off to appease him. Once again, as I felt in Safanaga a few days earlier, I’m uncomfortable and can’t help but look away.
In the space of just a few days I’ve witnessed bloodletting, phallic sex dances, polygamy and skeleton spirit rituals, but on the road to Mount Hagen in Papua New Guinea’s highlands that excruciating feeling of unease at every corner is all just part of the experience.
The silence is deafening. With eyes fixed firmly on the dense jungle canopy above us, nobody dares move a muscle. We sit, we watch and we wait, cameras at the ready, for what feels like an eternity.
Then, a crack. The sound of snapping branches pierces the air like a starter gun at an athletics carnival, announcing the imminent arrival of a visitor. There’s a sharp, collective intake of breath and everyone’s frame straightens in anticipation. Eyes are turned skywards, desperately scanning the trees for that telltale flash of orange.
Suddenly, a gibbon crashes clumsily onto the feeding platform in front of us, scrawny arms quickly grabbing at a pile of bananas like there’s never going to be more. It’s a cheeky reminder to expect the unexpected out here in a remote corner of Indonesia, and enough to send a quiet ripple of laughter through the small crowd that has assembled. With an awkward hop, skip and a jump the furry gatecrasher is gone, disappearing back into the trees with its prized fruit bounty.
And just like that, the leaves stop rustling, a silence descends on the tropics once more and people shift back into their holding positions. The long, hopeful wait for an orangutan sighting recommences.
My journey to Tanjung Puting National Park in search of endangered orangutans actually began back in the Northern Territory, on a 16-night Darwin to Bali cruise with Silversea. The voyage kicked off, as all good adventures do, with a hint of drama and impending doom thanks to a magnitude 7.2 earthquake that struck in the Banda Sea. Although no tsunami alerts were issued, buildings in the Darwin CBD were evacuated and departure was delayed until the following morning.
Not that any extra time spent on board the mighty Silver Discoverer, which is on its final tour for Silversea, is a bad thing. This 103-metre-long vessel is home to a gym, pool, beauty and massage centre, multiple lounge areas and a 24-hour personal butler service. Then there are the staff members, including an insanely knowledgeable and dedicated team of expedition leaders, who outnumber the guests.
To say myself and the other passengers are well looked after would be an enormous understatement. After all, this is the type of cruise where the crew behind the bar knows my drink order by day two (soda with lime in the afternoon, Aperol spritz come evening), high tea is served daily at 4pm sharp and dinner is a five-course feast.
Joining us for the entirety of the trip is Dr Birute Mary Galdikas, widely considered the world’s leading authority on orangutans. She founded the non-profit Orangutan Foundation International (OFI), which manages Camp Leakey, a base for researchers, scientists and students to study these majestic animals in Tanjung Puting National Park, the largest protected area of swamp forest in Southeast Asia.
The gateway to Tanjung Puting is the port of Kumai, in the Indonesian province of Central Kalimantan, which is where the Silver Discoverer docks upon our arrival in the region. Rather than head straight into the jungle we first travel to the nearby village of Pasir Panjang, where the Orangutan Care Centre and Quarantine Facility is located. Established in 1998 by the OFI, this wonderful centre looks after injured, orphaned, ex-captive and rescued orangutans, raising and rehabilitating them in the hope they can be released back into the wild.
Normally closed to the public, with Dr Birute as our guide we are granted special access to the centre. After a briefing and thorough scrub-down (everyone is required to wear surgical masks so as not to pass any germs to the infants) we are lead to the enrichment area, which resembles a children’s playground complete with tyre swings, monkey bars and rope bridges. Dr Birute offers a final piece of advice: “Hold on to your hats.”
A troop of young orangutans aged between one and three years old soon emerges. Each ape is holding the hand of its carer. Expecting a docile, gentle experience with these orphaned cuties (yes, my lack of time spent with actual toddlers meant I had no idea what I was in for), I was instead immediately set upon by two handsy youngsters determined to climb me like their favourite tree. I look around for support with a half-nervous, half-thrilled grin plastered to my face, only to realise that everyone else is in exactly the same predicament.
Arms are being yanked, t-shirts tugged and all those not holding on to their hats have them promptly stolen. It is half an hour of total chaos and hilarity, and yet it is completely impossible not to fall in love with these innocent creatures, who are like humans in so many ways but still so vulnerable. Thanks to one particularly brazen orangutan, who swiped my surgical mask in one fell Tarzan-esque swoop leaving behind a pretty decent scar, there’s no chance I’ll be forgetting the special encounter any time soon.
Later that evening, back on the ship, I get the chance to have a chat with Dr Birute about her lifelong dedication to these great apes, which she says stems from her early childhood.
“Ever since I was a child I was very interested in where humans came from,” she explains. “As I grew into adolescence that curiosity developed into a fascination with orangutans, because they were the most mysterious of the great apes, and very little was known about them.
“There’s just something about their eyes – it’s a very human gaze. When they look at you, it’s like looking at another person.”
Her studies in zoology and psychology would lead her to an encounter with renowned paleoanthropologist, archaeologist and future mentor, Louis Leakey (after whom Camp Leakey is named), and later Dian Fossey and Jane Goodall. Their groundbreaking research of primates in a field traditionally dominated by men would see the trio dubbed the Trimates.
On journeying to Indonesia and setting up Camp Leakey in 1971, she admits there was an “unknown element” to Borneo that was both terrifying and exciting. Despite leech bites that never healed, tropical diseases, warnings from loggers and poachers and one sole orangutan bite (which Dr Birute says “was completely my fault”), she would stay for the next 48 years, making remarkable breakthrough discoveries and observations about the orangutans that would eventually earn her worldwide acclaim among the scientific community.
For now though, her focus is on securing the future of the orangutan. Deforestation remains the number one threat to their existence, with land (often illegally) being cleared for palm oil plantations, timber mills and mining. And while donations and money raised through the OFI go towards buying back as much of this land as possible, it’s a hugely expensive process. Which is why, Dr Birut explains, there’s been a recent shift towards encouraging more tourism opportunities, like the cruise I’m on, within the region.
“You don’t want it to be the case that wildlife has to pay for itself, but I think tourism is one way the orangutan population can be helped,” she says.
“And the most important thing people can do to help the great apes – and not just orangutans, but all apes – is to visit the habitat.”
I ponder this as I sit huddled in the depths of hot and humid Tanjung Puting, insects landing lazily on my sticky limbs and sweat dripping down my already drenched back. Since my conversation with Dr Birute the trip with Silversea has taken on a whole new, far more significant meaning. While it would be easy to let the fatigue of a 5am wake-up call, almost five-hour expedition up the Sekonery River in both a Zodiac and an ageing, swaying klotok (Indonesian river boat) set in, I can’t help but think how vital it is to support places like Camp Leakey, especially if we want to guarantee the existence of creatures like the orangutan long after our current generation is gone.
I’m lost deep in thought, but a muffled gasp and the sudden thrashing of trees snaps me back to reality. A towering, shaggy-haired ginger figure emerges into the clearing. It’s a male orangutan with long, powerful arms and large cheek pads that indicate maturity and give off pretty smug king-of-the-jungle vibes.
Amid a hushed chorus of “oh my god” and plenty of wide-eyed pointing and gesturing from everyone watching on (myself included), he slowly but surely makes his way to the feeding platform, one eye on the fruit, the other on us.
All of a sudden, it’s as if his approval of the feast is the green light for other orangutans to approach. A mother and her adorable baby promptly materialise from the treetops and tentatively make their way from vine to vine to the podium, while another female also emerges looking for a snack. A smaller male isn’t far behind. We’re suddenly witness to some kind of primates-only dinner party, and although I’m completely entranced, I divert my eyes for a second to chance a sneaky look at Dr Birute, who is smiling as if she knew this is exactly what was going to happen all along.
I couldn’t tell you how long we sat there in the jungle, simply watching the wild orangutans go about their business, so close to where Dr Birute set up her base all those years ago.
But I do know that if witnessing something this magical doesn’t stir some kind of emotion, or some desire to live better, do better and make better choices in relation to the world we live in, then I’m not really sure what else would
One kilometre from the Russian border, in a restricted permit-only strip of eastern Finland, lies No Man’s Land, the buffer that separates the European Union from the former Eastern Bloc. This area contains the highest concentration of brown bears in Finland, and it’s here that I set off on foot into the forest.
The bears don’t worry me. I’m following an experienced guide and my bear viewing will take place overnight, once I am tucked inside my wildlife-watching cabin, known as a hide. Or so I think. As we approach the hides, I glimpse movement. About 50 metres beyond them, three huge furry mountains are having a violent altercation. Suddenly there’s a fourth, just 30 metres away, but he’s as relaxed as I am terrified. Standing exposed in this clearing, I’m a bear snack personified.
“Oh, I see the bears are here before us today,” guide and wildlife photographer Lassi Rautiainen remarks casually. I’d met the 62-year-old at his lakeside Wildlife Safaris base camp, a former logger’s cottage, in remote forest 630 kilometres northeast of Helsinki. Wildlife enthusiasts in the know contact Lassi when they’re keen to photograph Finland’s top carnivores: brown bears, wolves, wolverines and, rarely, the elusive lynx. Before setting out for the hides, Lassi tells us Finnish brown bears are not dangerous, despite being the same species as the North American grizzly, which has caused fatalities. Finland has about 2,000 bears, and every year 150 to 200 are legally hunted, with the meat commanding a premium in high-end restaurants.
“In Canada and Alaska, the bears are protected in national parks and they do not care about vehicles or humans,” says Lassi. “But our animals will be shot if they are too close to houses or people. The more stupid bears that are not shy of humans will lose their life.”
We split into three groups for the overnight viewing – my group includes a couple from the UK and Lassi. Leaving us watching the squabbling bears, Lassi shows the couple to their hide before depositing us in ours. “Please do not come out until I come back at 7.30am,” he cautions. “I’m not worried about you, I’m worried about scaring the bears.” We watch him enter his own hide 20 metres away.
Our hide contains six bunk beds, an attached (and remarkably odour-free) composting toilet and a long viewing window. Under the window are camera-sized cut-outs in the wall, with fabric sleeves and drawstrings that tighten around the camera lens to exclude breezes and mosquitoes.
Beyond the window, a natural clearing is fringed with taiga, a subarctic forest of pines, birch and spruce. Fifty metres away, a carcass has been secured to a tree. The four bears, the largest of which probably weighs in the vicinity of 370 kilograms, bicker with one another while fending off majestic white-tailed eagles, insidious crows and, surprisingly, four types of seagull. From our primo seats, it’s an awe-inspiring show.
Many bears drift in and out of the feeding station through the light-filled summer night, and the action becomes almost personal. As everyone else in my hide naps, an inquisitive bear approaches the particularly rickety structure where Lassi is sleeping. It advances, sniffing the air. My breathing stops as the bear rears to its colossal full height, leaning on the roof and investigating the tarpaulin wall of our guide’s hide. I’m weighing up whether I should attempt to rescue him from the jaws of this predator, when the bear drops to its dinner plate-sized paws and lumbers away.
After midnight, a skittish, shadowy movement in the trees introduces Finland’s second-largest carnivore, a grey wolf. At 2.30am, the sun finally makes a brief shallow arc below the horizon and, for 20 minutes, the landscape dims. The wolf slinks into the clearing, feeding warily while dodging bear charges. Although no wolverine appears, when Lassi knocks on our door hours later, I am exhausted and deliriously happy.
Back at the Wildlife Safaris base, we’re invited to use the wood-fired sauna. More than just a novelty, for the Finns sauna is a cultural mainstay. They are traditionally taken naked, with time in the heat interspersed with dips in freezing water. Emerging in a cloud of steam, I prudishly run down the jetty in my towel, ditching it as I plunge into the bracing lake water. Invigorated and now awake, I’m ready to hit the road.
One hour’s drive to the west is Kuhmo, a timber town making the transition to tourism. Strolling the boardwalk along the tumbling River Pajakkajoki, we watch locals fly-fishing for salmon. We munch on korvapuusti, a cinnamon and cardamom pastry, before learning more about Central Finland’s wildlife at the Petola Visitor Centre. I learn why we didn’t see a wolverine – there are only 50 mature animals left in the entire country.
Aside from impressive carnivores, Central Finland’s other natural claim to fame is the Lakeland region, several hours south of Kuhmo. Here, glaciers carved out the landscape leaving thousands of islands, peninsulas and a spectacular forest-edged coastline. Lakeland is 25 per cent water, and we traverse the area using free car ferries, an extension of the road network.
The largest of Finland’s lakes is Lake Saimaa, and in a channel between two islands sits the hamlet of Oravi. Here we experience another Finnish tradition, staying in a lakeside cabin. Ours sits up a hill, with a path that leads from the sauna to the lake through birch forest and wild blueberries alive with iridescent butterflies. On the jetty we find a wooden rowing boat and explore uninhabited islets.
Ramping up the pace, we meet Tanja Heiskanen, who’s dressed in medieval garb and who whips us across the glassy lake in a speed boat to Hotel & Spa Resort Järvisydän. The Heiskanen family has owned these quirky lodgings for 11 generations, since 1658, when the original hotel was built on the ice path that facilitated year-round trading between Russia and Sweden. In a nod to history, the recently remodelled reception area sports a 200-year-old wooden boat hull protruding from the wall. These days, guests enjoy hiking and lake activities and, in winter, snowmobile and ice-skating tours explore the frozen lake.
The hotel’s Lake Spa building pays homage to its natural surroundings, its architecture featuring pine and birch logs up to 2,500 years old salvaged from the lake floor. The complex takes the concept of the sauna to a whole new level and I work up a sweat five different ways, from the gentle to the blisteringly hot. The weird and wonderful storm shower pummels me with water jets representing different seasonal rains, while a soundtrack of thunder and rain is mixed with storm-related scents. Skipping the plunge in the lake, I opt instead for a bucket of icy water dumped over my pre-heated head, leading to involuntary shrieking.
While I’ve come to the region to experience the lakes, an added drawcard is the Saimaa ringed seal, found only in this freshwater lake. With only around 400 individuals remaining, this is one of the most endangered seals in the world. Heading back to Oravi, I try to maximise my seal-spotting chances by joining a guided two-day kayak through the forested islands of Linnansaari National Park.
Oravi’s narrow channel opens to the lake’s wide mirrored surface, dotted with tiny granitic islets topped with tufts of pine trees. On the open water, our guide mentions that our five double kayaks should stay together through the navigational channels, lest we collide with a boat. I can’t help but laugh, as there are no boats nor any other trace of humans here for as far as the eye can see.
Our relaxed paddle passes nesting eagles and rocky passages. Occasionally we land and take short hikes to viewpoints. On Linnansaari Island, we’re accommodated in a basic red cabin and an elevated tent that’s suspended between three birch trees.
As dinner approaches we watch our guide prepare small lake fish known as vendace in a simple wood-fired smoker. They’re served with rustic potatoes and crusty bread and demolished at a communal picnic table.
Our allotted timeslot in the wood-fired sauna arrives and by now we’re dab hands at the technique. Adding a scoop of water to the hot rocks releases a cloud of steam and the temperature surges towards my melting point. With practised aplomb we hurl ourselves from the sauna’s small jetty into Lake Saimaa, duck diving to the freezing deeper water.
Sitting on the dock, I feel both invigorated and calm as I wait for the sun to set at 10pm. I’m savouring the silence when a dark blob ripples the surface. “It’s a seal!” I call out to alert everyone, before I realise we have this place to ourselves.
Soon enough, the Saimaa ringed seal makes a second and third appearance, catching its breath and scrutinising us with enormous black eyes before submerging to the tannin-stained depths. It’s no amazing photographic encounter, but it’s authentic and natural, like Central Finland itself.
I believe in love at first sight. You know that feeling you get when you catch a glimpse of a stranger and everything slows right down? Your heart skips a beat and you ask yourself, “Why have I bothered with anything else up until now?”
At the water’s edge we pull up our Nissan N-Trek Navara and hop out, the turquoise waves of Shark Bay lapping at our feet. Hermit crabs scurry off into the distance and hungry gulls squawk overhead in search of their next meal. My wife and I look at each other and marvel at what we’ve accomplished in the past 14 hours of driving. The journey, however, was merely the obligatory courtship period required for the start of any good relationship.
As the sun rises behind us and we both look back at Steep Point, mainland Australia’s most westerly outcrop, it’s time to get down to business. Despite the early hour, the Dirk Hartog Explorer, a makeshift barge specifically designed to transport a single 4WD and camper trailer from the beach, approaches the shoreline and we drive carefully onto the deck.
Its skipper is a burly, unshaven West Australian named Keiran Wardle, who wears a Bisley shirt and a strong, wide smile. Keiran fires up the Explorer’s motors and, as we leave mainland Australia, I look across to Dirk Hartog Island already convinced this is a love affair that will last.
Dirk Hartog lies about 900 kilometres northwest of Perth, past the point where canary yellow canola fields make way for that unmistakable West Australian red dirt. From the turn-off to Shark Bay conservation area it’s another three- to four-hour adventure, even for the most experienced off-road enthusiast. The corrugation along this route is bone-rattling and, as you turn off Useless Loop Road onto the Steep Point 4WD track, you cross ashen saltpans and manoeuvre your vehicle over thick sand dunes with virtually no air in your tyres. The experience is equally exhilarating and exhausting.
After the short water crossing, we arrive at what I pictured the edge of the world to look like. The 80-kilometre-long finger of land is mostly flat and craggy through the middle. Enormous rocky cliffs force back the wild Indian Ocean on one side; on the other 190-metre-high Sahara-like sand dunes shift in the wind.
It’s spring and magenta wildflowers and sun-tinged scrub explode with life on the roadside, helping to guide our 45-minute journey from the southern arrival point to the ecolodge set on protected Homestead Bay on the eastern side of the island.
It’s here we begin to realise Dirk Hartog Island has a knack for creating unlikely love stories. Either you fall in love with the place yourself – as I already have – or lose your heart to another and remain forever.
Keiran Wardle’s grandfather, Sir Thomas Wardle, was one of the first to fall under the place’s mystic charm. An Australian supermarket baron in the 1950s, he acquired the pastoral lease for the island in 1968 and took over its sheep station. He loved it so much, Keiran explains, he would “just come up here fishing all the time with his mates”.
Soon after the lease became his, however, his business interests crashed. He fled to the island, but it became mostly off limits to the rest of his family. Kieran first returned as a six-year-old, but it was at 18 that he was asked to help run the station for a few weeks. His true love of island life then began to solidify.
Like all good love stories, fate would intervene and a young apprentice chef from Melbourne named Tory would soon also get a call to help, this time with meals for weary workers. Her visit was supposed to last just a few weeks, but it stretched into marriage, three children and now a thriving eco-tourism business. If you haven’t found romance yourself, forget about Fiji – turns out the real Love Island is in the west.
In 1991, when the West Australian Government decided it wouldn’t renew expiring pastoral leases, it had already earmarked Dirk Hartog as a national park. This move, along with diminishing wool prices, gave the Wardles an idea. They saw an opportunity to negotiate the acquisition of more freehold land for tourism and, in return, they’d assist with the rejuvenation of the island’s ecological heritage.
Kieran’s grandfather had already significantly reduced sheep numbers – he’d even attempted his own species reintroduction process – but now the flock would be completely removed from the island. So too were the goats and a significant population of feral cats.
The change over the past 10 years, says Kieran, has been dramatic. Vegetation has returned, dunes have retained their shape and bird species are now coming home. “I reckon they’re dinosaur footprints,” he says with boyish enthusiasm, as he traces his finger across some coloured dots he’s made on blurry iPhone photos. “We’ve just got to get an archaeologist over here to verify it.”
As he’s talking, I imagine it’s this enthusiasm for new discoveries that has kept him so enamoured by the island for decades.
While there’s no guarantee the island’s history is prehistoric, it is certain this is the location of the first European landing on soil that is now known as Australia. Dutch explorer Dirk Hartog carved his name into a pewter plate in 1616 and nailed it to a wooden post at what would become known as Cape Inscription at the north end of the island. But today’s history is being written by the Wardles at their ecolodge, ocean villa and new camping facilities on Homestead Bay.
For those looking for a little more comfort, the converted limestone shearer’s lodge features six well-appointed rooms with 180-degree views of the bay. These are fully catered by Tory, who somehow manages to assemble a breakfast, lunch and dinner worthy of some of the best hotels in the country despite being in the middle of nowhere.
The ocean villa sleeps up to 12 people in three separate rooms. There are also camping sites aplenty, which fill rapidly during school holidays. Kieran’s self-imposed cap of just 20 cars on the island at any one time ensures a sense of remoteness is retained and the impact on the environment is low.
On our first day, from the balcony, we see a dugong feeding out in the bay. The next morning, as the sun rises, a manta ray hunts in the shallows. But this choose-your-own-adventure holiday destination also allows you to leave the lodge each morning with a packed lunch to discover the island’s pristine hidden corners.
Following Kieran’s directions on a map, I push the Nissan over a ridge before parking it and clambering over some rocks feeling like a young Charles Darwin. Walking down to the water’s edge, I watch as dozens of small nervous sharks gather in the shallows of Surf Point, their fins cutting the surface as they whip one another into a feeding frenzy. If they were a few metres longer it would be truly terrifying.
Kieran and his family have their secret spots, too. We are given directions to Stowk Cove (the name is made up of the initial of each family member – Sanchi, Tory, Oli, Will and Kieran), but there is another favourite family spot where the boys and their father regularly camp under the stars. Here they dive in the mornings with whale sharks that are migrating north to the more popular tourist spot of Exmouth.
Thanks to Kieran and Tory, Dirk Hartog Island has a bright future. But their biggest accomplishment to date, despite having no supermarket, no mechanic, no doctor, no plumber, no cleaner or full-time chef, is creating a world-class destination unshackled by the need to run livestock in order to survive.
At the time of writing, an unfinished cafe and bar dubbed Inscription sits overlooking the bay adjacent to the ecolodge. Negotiations with the state government for a liquor license are complicated and ongoing, but Kieran is unperturbed by the delay. It’s like he knows something we don’t. Could it be the result of needing to be an eternal optimist in a place where life is always on a knife’s edge?
On our last night on Dirk Hartog, we follow the Wardles and a few other guests into the dusk across the towering sand dunes towards a spot known as Herald Heights.
They make this trip regularly with visitors as an opportunity to catch Australia’s last sunset. “If you don’t count Christmas Island,” says Kieran, smiling once again. Tory cracks a bottle of champagne and, against the setting sun, I grab my wife’s hand, feeling terribly romanced by Dirk Hartog’s evening charm. I look over at Kieran who has his arm around Tory’s shoulders and I realise this place offers much more than just love at first sight. Falling for a place like Dirk Hartog Island is everlasting.
From the broken bridge to the pink clinic is 2.89 kilometres, reads the directions. Keep driving past a Mopane tree forest and dried up rainwater pans. Watch out for elephants crossing the sand road. Getting to the Okavango Delta Music Festival feels more like a scavenger hunt than a straightforward foray, which is wholly appropriate given this is no mediocre event.
Botswana is famed as a wildlife destination, but we’re here to explore sounds and song rather than set out on safari. Packed tightly into a 4WD, crowded by a cluster of camping equipment, I’m taking two friends – sound engineer Carmen and music-loving Lauren – on an alternative Okavango adventure.
Our destination is as unusual as the directions. A small village roughly 45 minutes from the town of Maun, Tsutsubega has a San name meaning Place of the Emerald Spotted Dove. This gentle little bird frequents many a tree branch in these parts and is known in twitching circles as King of the Blues thanks to its mournful call. My grandmother, an avid birder, taught me how to remember its unmistakable song using this solemn rhyme: “My father’s dead, my mother’s dead, oh oh oh…” Although Tsutsubega village is named for the sombre ballad, it certainly contradicts its namesake on this particular weekend. Or maybe the doves sing a different rhyme – “Dancing ahead, dancing ahead, oh oh oh” – when, once a year, revellers are welcomed to this precious corner of the Okavango Delta.
Just beyond Tsutsubega village lies the forested oasis of Festival Island. It’s the end of August, when the Okavango Delta is flooded, so the island usually sits encircled by lily-laden waters. Drought, however, is visiting Botswana. Water levels at the UNESCO World Heritage Site are dependent on the annual rainfall received at the source, thousands of kilometres away in the central highlands of Angola.
Just like the would-be water, we’ve travelled a fair distance to be here – roughly 1,300 kilometres from our home city of Johannesburg in neighbouring South Africa. After checking in at the ticket office, which has been decked out with colourful skulls and handmade fabric bunting and is home to several sleeping pups, we cross one last stretch of sand to set up camp at the edge of Festival Island. It overlooks a dusty, rather than damp floodplain, but the dry conditions haven’t put anybody off.
Established in 2018, the Okavango Delta Music Festival is a three-day affair of live music and vibey DJ sets operating as sustainably as possible in this delicate wilderness area. In its first year, the festival entertained 500 guests, but in 2019 the ticket sales nearly doubled, hitting 900. With tents erected, we set our sights on the festival grounds to meet Jay Roode, one of the devoted organisers. “Last year was all about mokoro,” he says. “We had members of the community pole people across the floodplain to the island in a traditional dugout canoe, but this time we offer a different kind of local transport.” In this part of the country donkey carts provide daily mobility for many locals. Now freshly painted and embellished with flowers, the stylish carriages make for a memorable entrance. It’s just one of the ways this event was arranged to benefit its hosts.
After cooing over the doleful donkeys, I follow Jay to the dance floor. It’s a modest square covered with natural fibre rugs laid down in a bid to quell any dust being kicked up during dancing. The open-air stage is impressive and sits beneath towering leadwood, jackalberry and sausage trees. Bringing the speakers and sound equipment through all that sand from Maun was a logistical nightmare, Jay tells me, but it’s quickly forgotten as golden-hour light ushers in the first act.
The music selection for the festival is purposefully diverse. “We prefer our stars in the sky,” Jay says, smiling. This is not to say the artist line-up isn’t excellent. Quite the contrary; the performers are just not the regular headline acts. “We wanted to provide a platform to different artists, and stand by a strong African focus.” I recognise only one name from the line-up, South African Afro-folk favourite Bongeziwe Mabandla, but he’s not due to have his time in the spotlight until tomorrow. For now, I throw my arms up and find my feet a-flutter joining the audience in jamming to the playful beats and sanguine sounds of Zimbabwean musician So Kindly. (I also make a mental note to add their spice to my Spotify playlist once back home.)
Botswana is one of the least crowded countries in the world, with just 3.5 people per square kilometre, and it’s echoed here. There’s plenty of room on Festival Island. I look across the crowd. No matter race or age, everyone has breathing space. So much so that when the artists leave the stage, they join the party. Tomeletso Sereetsi, who hails from Botswana and performs as Sereetsi & the Natives, is one such merry-maker. “It’s awesome how the festival unites people from all over Southern Africa and beyond, both black and white,” he says. “That’s the often understated power of music and festivals.”
He’s right. There’s an intimacy to this event, and it’s further proved when I cross paths with another popular Botswana act on the dancefloor. Mpho Sebina describes her genre as ethereal soul, citing Sade, Bob Marley and Brenda Fassie as primary influences. She asks me to come watch her sing the next morning – “It’s an early slot, so I’m gathering a company” – although she really needn’t have worried. “I’ve already told my friends about this festival,” she continues.
“There are so many music acts from different parts of the continent, yoga, delicious drinks, and there is a spirit of oneness at the festival. Plus, the most scenic surroundings.”
Bands of children skip between us as we dance, invariably marching to their own drumbeat. Their beaming faces are coated with big-cat markings, painted by members of Cheetah Conservation Botswana. I laugh out loud when Mpho tells me her weirdest festival moment so far: “This guy was carrying his daughter – she must have been just five months – and she was stark naked, and it was beautiful how free she was. Then she pooped on her dad.” According to Freedom House, an NGO that researches and advocates political freedoms, there are just eight African countries that can be described as free. Botswana is one of them, and it feels especially present at the festival.
Sophie Dandridge and her husband Adrian are the festival directors, but their involvement is deeply rooted. They live nearby, within the Tsutsubega area. “Adrian and I have been involved with this community since he first moved here about 10 years ago,” Sophie tells me. The village is home to roughly 500 people, and almost half of the local community is trained then employed by the annual festival.
Even though it’s only for a weekend, through their ‘party-cipation’ all festival attendees help provide employment and encouragement to this remote outpost. After the first event in 2018, proceeds funded a reliable borehole and solar pump for Tsutsubega, providing drinking water for people and their livestock. With a large section of the delta enduring drought and floodwaters sitting scarily short of the normal range, it’s a crucial contribution.
It’s just the first day, but many of the new friends I make agree the Okavango Delta Music Festival is the antithesis of most commercial festivals. Sure, this event is about music (my feet sure feel the beat), but it’s also so much more. The festival and its intrepid organisers provide a much-needed alternative to Botswana’s mainstream safari sightseeing and bring tourism to marginal areas. I can’t help but think about the driving directions again, only this time they ring a lot more like life advice. When faced with a fork in the road, keep left.
The Goto Islands, around 100 kilometres off the west coast of Nagasaki on the southern island of Kyushu, consists of five main land masses in the East China Sea. Famed for their natural beauty, they also acted as a secret safe haven for Hidden Christians from the early seventeenth century to the mid-nineteenth century.
The northern Goto Islands, also known as Shin-Kamigoto, have traditionally been the most sparsely populated of the archipelago, and the most closely linked to the history of this type of religious persecution. For more than 260 years, Christians hid on these islands to escape oppression on mainland Japan and to practise their faith in secret.
Travelling northeast from Fukue Island, the largest of the quintet, to Naru, Wakamatsu and Nakadori, I had my sights set on the uninhabited island of Nozaki, home to the former Nokubi church. My goal was to find one of the most inaccessible Christian churches, and experience the other qualities that set the Goto Islands apart from everywhere else in Japan. There are many different ways to chart this course – by local ferry, guided tour or chartered boat – and how you decide to travel around the Gotos will ultimately depend on your time and budget.
Setting off from Fukue, my first destination was Egami Catholic Church on Naru Island, located in the centre of the Goto atoll. Concealed among thick trees, it’s almost impossible to discern from a distance, and has no obvious symbols revealing its true identity. To leave the church unadorned of any symbols or imagery would have been a conscious decision made during its construction.
When you walk to the back of the church, however, you can see a cross is projected onto the wooden gable. Egami Catholic Church was built by Yosuke Tetsukawa, who went on to construct a total of 38 churches in the region. Once inside it becomes obvious the budget was tight. Stained pine has been used, and the windows have been hand-painted to give the appearance of stained glass. The austerity somehow adds to its charm.
The next stop is the Christians’ Cave on Wakamatsu Island, a site accessible only by boat. This 50-metre crack in the rocks was used by eight people to evade persecution during a time of heightened risk to Christians. One early winter morning, after hiding for four months, smoke from their fire was spotted by a passing boat. Authorities were notified and the exiles were arrested and tortured. In 1967 a simple white cross and three-metre-tall statue of Jesus were erected at the entrance of the cave to honour them.
Even if you know what you’re looking for, locating the exact position of the cave from the water can be tough. Just around the corner is a fracture in the rock face said to look like Mary Magdalene, and those who hid there took it as a sign she was protecting them.
As the westernmost point of Kyushu, the Goto Islands were the first port of call for Japanese envoys on their way back from Tang Dynasty China in the seventh, eighth and ninth centuries. More than 36 missions were undertaken, with the hope of learning more about the culture, lifestyle and civilisation of the country. Goto udon is one of the dishes brought back, and how it is made has remained unchanged for the past thousand years.
On Nakadori Island, the northernmost of the islands, I meet Mitsuaki Ota, the fourth generation owner of the Ota Udon Shop, who uses the same ingredients, techniques and even tools as his forefathers during the noodle-making process. The key ingredients that define Goto udon are spring water, oil from the camellias that grow wild across Goto, and locally produced salt. The unique aspect of the production method – different to other types of udon – requires the noodles to be stretched rather than cut. The process is lots of fun to try, and it is surprising how long the noodles can become.
The year-round mild-to-warm temperatures of the Goto Islands create especially good conditions for growing camellias, and once you come to recognise the plant you will see it everywhere you go. Up to half of the camellia oil produced in Japan comes from the Nagasaki Prefecture, and 70 per cent of that is from the Goto Islands.
In the Sone area of Nakadori Island, you have the opportunity to make camellia oil to take home. The production process is quite simple. First, the camellia nut is broken up and crushed in a large mortar and pestle – an easy feat as the nut contains roughly 30 per cent oil. The grounds are then placed in a hydraulic press, manually pumped to increase the pressure. Before you know it there’s oil that can be used as a moisturiser for hair, skin and nails pouring out of the press.
My final destination is the Former Nokubi Church, on the now deserted island of Nozaki. The windswept landscape, infertile soil and dry stone walls are reminiscent of Ireland’s west coast, just with better weather.
Nozaki was originally home to a Shinto community, but was settled by Christian families in the early 1800s. They would visit the island’s shrine and pretend to be followers of the Shinto faith, while actually continuing their Christian traditions in private. After the ban on Christianity was lifted in 1868, the families decided to pool their money so they could build a church. They contacted Yosuke Tetsukawa, the architect of the Egami Church, who set to work on the design and construction. It was finally completed in 1908 and cost ¥2,885, equivalent to ¥57 million today.
Although closed to the public, it is possible to organise a visit to the Former Nokubi Church in advance through the Ojika Island Tourist Office. The Shinto shrine is also still standing, as are the remains of Shinto houses, and keep your eyes peeled for deer and other wild animals that roam free across the island.
This feature was sponsored by JNTO (Japan National Tourism Organization).
A unique archipelago of five isles off the coast of Nagasaki, the Goto Islands have a complex history and boast incredible natural wonders
Usually off the radar for visitors to Japan, the Gotos have been slowly building in popularity thanks to the 2017 release of Martin Scorsese’s film Silence, and the addition of Japan’s hidden Christian sites to the UNESCO World Heritage List. The islands also feature stunning coastlines and landscapes not usually associated with Japan, making it a location well worth visiting on your next trip to the Land of the Rising Sun.
Upon my arrival at Fukue Port, I make my way to Dozaki Church in the island’s northeast. Fukue Island is the largest and southernmost of Nagasaki’s Goto Islands, and it’s where most travellers head first. It can be a bit difficult to get around if you’re not a local, so renting a car is your best option.
Constructed in 1907, Dozaki Church is not only the very first church built on the Gotos, but it’s also the oldest Western-style building. It was erected as a symbol of the suffering of Christians, who for 260 years had to hide their faith after the religion was outlawed by the Japanese government. Inside the church are information displays and historical documents – very useful for gaining an insight into the plight of the hidden Christians of the Goto Islands.
If you feel like a coffee after your visit to Dozaki Church, stop in at Baby Qoo just down the road. The lovely mother–daughter owners of the shop have become Instagram legends and serve a delicious selection of drinks and snacks.
My next stop is the top of Mount Onidake, for the best views of Fukue and the surrounding islands. A 315-metre-tall dormant volcano, Onidake is a popular spot for hiking, picnics and the island’s annual kite-flying event. If you’ve got kids in tow, bring a sheet of cardboard or large plastic bag so they can slide down the steeper sections of the hill.
Pop in for lunch at Tsubaki Chaya, where each table has a built-in irori (Japanese barbecue). The menu is loaded with fresh seafood and locally sourced ingredients, and the friendly staff grill the food over charcoal for you to enjoy simply with either salt or soy sauce, as you enjoy the views across the water.
A short walk from Tsubaki Chaya is the Pearl Goto Produce Centre. Alongside seasonal soft-serve ice-cream and handmade goodies like camellia oil, it also sells sea salt that is made next door. The salt, which is highly prized by exclusive restaurants, is expertly processed using traditional methods that allow the water from the Goto-Nada Sea to retain most of its minerals. The result is a sweeter-tasting salt that is shipped to exclusive restaurants as far away as Fukuoka.
Just a 30-minute drive across the island is the Gyoran Kannon statue, overlooking Takahama Beach. The statue was built to bring good luck for a plentiful fishing bounty, and to ensure the safety of the local fishermen in the East China Sea. Takahama Beach has been officially rated as one of the 100 best beaches in Japan – even during the quiet season, it is still warm enough to jump in and have a splash around.
If you thought the view from Takahama Beach was good, just wait until you check out Osezaki Lighthouse. Perched on the tip of windswept Osezaki Cliff, which stretches for 20 kilometres and has sheer drops of up to 150 metres, the white lighthouse is currently unmanned, having been decommissioned in 1989 after more than 50 years in service.
The hike to the lighthouse, roughly a one-hour round-trip, begins by winding through thick forest. The trail descends ever so slightly, making the route down much easier than on the way back up. You don’t actually realise how steep the incline is until the trees clear and you’re facing the last leg of the trail along the sea cliffs. The views out across the East China Sea are spectacular, and it’s no surprise to learn the Osezaki Lighthouse was heavily used during the Meiji Era to alert Japanese authorities of any passing international ships.
My final stop on Fukue Island is the Goto Clan Garden. There is something incredibly calming about simply wandering around the tranquil parklands that pay homage to the gardens and lake surrounding Kinkaku-ji Temple (also known as the Golden Temple) in Kyoto. Highlights include an enormous camphor tree that is believed to be more than 800 years old, and the Lord Goto Residence, an opulent and wonderfully restored mansion that is now open to the public.
This feature was sponsored by JNTO (Japan National Tourism Organization).
It’s one thing to hear great things about a destination, and quite another to witness them yourself. Having spent 15 years in Japan, I’d never managed to visit Sado, a huge island – 1.5 times the size of Tokyo – off the coast of Niigata in the Sea of Japan. There are three industries here that have been kept it alive for centuries: gold mining, boat building and seafaring, and fishing.
Two groups of friends sang the praises of Sado. Photographer friends said because of its variety of landscapes it was their favourite place to take photos in Japan, while other mates, who are fans of history and abandoned buildings, had visited multiple times to discover locations frozen in time.
My goal on day one was to check out the island’s mining history. Known as Japan’s Island of Gold, Sado yielded 400 kilograms of the precious metal every year during the first half of the 1600s. It was dug by hand, and the riches allowed for the continued success of Japan’s isolationist foreign policy during the rule of the shogunate. Later on, Sado’s gold was instrumental in supporting Japan’s shift to the international gold standard, and allowed Japan to trade gold for foreign currency.
Aikawa, on Sado’s west coast, was home to the mining community and the mine is a short walk from the centre of town. As you approach it you can see a mountain that appears to have been cleaved down the middle. This huge crevice, 30 metres wide and 74 metres deep, was one of the original open-cut mines and contained a huge 10-metre-wide gold vein cutting through it. It is massive, and a monument to the fervent activity that took place over 400 years while the mine remained active.
Approaching the part of the mine that is open to visitors, it is hard to believe this is one of the access points to about 400 kilometres of tunnels that snake their way beneath the surface following seams of gold across the island. The gold mine has two separate tunnels that can be traversed by the public, showing the details of the mine during two different periods. I enter the original hand-cut mine showcasing traditional mining methods and the hardships that went along with them.
As soon as I enter the mine I can feel the temperature drop around 10ºC and smell the moisture in the air. The tunnel opens up every 20 metres or so, with displays explaining different aspects of the mining process in both Japanese and English. The life-size figures add scale to the cramped spaces, and the tools that were crafted to automate certain tasks are ingenious. Rather than crumbling, the rock walls are incredibly hard – the miners must have worked incredibly hard to produce gold under these conditions.
After emerging from the mine, check out the museum area, which has more detailed information about how the ore was processed, as well as lots of interesting dioramas and scale models of the processing facilities and living conditions. Back out in the sunshine, walk along the path where ore would have been shuttled to the processing plant, and finish with cake and coffee sprinkled with gold flakes in the souvenir shop.
On the walk back to Aikawa from the mine, I pass the Old Aikawa Detention House, empty yet open to the public. Established in 1954, and in use for just 18 years, it is remarkably well preserved, with cells of different sizes and an area where prisoners would cook their own meals. It’s a rare insight into the prison system of the time.
On returning to Aikawa, and with time on my hands before sunset, I rent a bike and ride north. Senkaku Bay consists of five bays with breathtaking views along three kilometres of coastline. A leisurely half-hour pedal allows you to take in the vistas, enjoy the rolling terrain, and go off the main road to get closer to the water. The coastline, eroded over time by the violent seas, is littered with volcanic formations protruding from the water. Somehow small windswept pine trees manage to find crevices to which they can cling.
The sleepy, narrow main thoroughfare of Aikawa, Kyomachi Street, snakes its way through buildings that once housed miners, merchants and their families down towards the ocean. The street, with alleyways breaking off left and right, is deserted and serene. At the bottom of the street is a bell tower that rings to this day, letting the people of the town know the time. There are shops here and there, but my goal is a restaurant called Kyomachitei.
Located in an old, renovated house with large windows overlooking the ocean, Kyomachitei is the perfect place to stop for a bite to eat and a coffee or beer. The decor features recycled objects and wood to create a natural aesthetic inviting visitors to linger as the sun drops behind the horizon.
My final stop is the Kitazawa Flotation Plant. A world-class state of the art production facility in its time, it allowed for the processing of 50,000 tons of gold ore each month. Although impressive lit up at night, I return in the morning to check it out in the daylight – I wasn’t disappointed. It looks as though a huge Tokyo apartment building has had its facade removed and is slowly being reclaimed by nature. It stands as a good introduction to the other abandoned structures you will see while traversing this photogenic island. My friends were right; Sado is a great place to take photos and history buffs will revel in the deserted, yet well-maintained architecture.
This feature was sponsored by JNTO (Japan National Tourism Organization).
As Japan’s main domestic source of the most precious of metals, Sado Island, located 330 kilometres north of Tokyo in the Niigata Prefecture, has long been known as the Island of Gold. Located 45 kilometres west off the coast of Niigata, its isolated location and fascinating history make it an incredibly interesting place to visit – if you know where to go.
Culture on Sado was formed in three waves. The first was the aristocratic culture, which began due to an influx of political and noble exiles who were banished to the island. The second wave – samurai culture – arrived on Sado via commissioners and officials during the growth and development of the gold mines. Third, the merchant culture was introduced by sailors travelling to and from Sado along their trade routes.
In the Middle Ages, Sado was just far enough from the cultural capital of Kyoto to be a home for exiles. During this period three prominent, highly educated people considered too important to execute were banished to Sado. They were Juntoku, a former emperor exiled in 1221, Nichiren, a Buddhist priest exiled in 1271, and Zeami, a Noh artist exiled in 1434. Upon their arrival they began to spread their beliefs on religion, share an appreciation of the arts, and educate the islanders on their aristocratic way of life.
Noh theatre is an integral part of Sado culture, not just for the rich and sophisticated members of society, which was the case in the rest of Japan. In fact, here in Sado, farmers too used to sing Noh songs as they worked in the fields. There are currently 30 temples and shrines containing Noh stages in Sado – they make up around one-third of all Noh stages in Japan – although it’s believed at one point there were more than 200 on the island.
Ozen Shrine is one of those remaining 30 and, as you walk along the overgrown path leading up to it, passing through the torii gate with its peeling, dulled paintwork, you get the sense you are entering a place forgotten by time. Being able to see a shrine complex ageing gracefully is a rare and beautiful sight, and the centrepiece is the stunning Noh stage. Crafted from unvarnished wood and protected from the rain by a thick thatched roof coated in a layer of moss, it possesses an almost ascetic nature. Noh performances are still held here in June, with a wood fire lighting the stage. It must be an incredible sight to behold.
Seisuiji Temple is another must-visit location in Sado that evokes similar feelings, only on a much grander scale. In the year 805, Emperor Kanmu lamented those living in distant Sado couldn’t easily make the pilgrimage to the temples of Kyoto, so under his ordinance an equivalent temple – Seisuiji – was finally built in 808.
An uneven rock staircase rises up the hill, flanked on both sides by Japanese pine trees boasting thick canopies protecting those who walk the path from the elements. At the top you find a large temple complex of 15 buildings, with the elevated main structure obscured by trees. Time has stripped away at the surfaces, removing the varnish and decorations that adorn the more well-maintained temples and amplifying the craftsmanship and care that went into the construction of these now weathered buildings. Being able to wander around this serene space, and focus on the individual components that make Japanese temples the flawless edifices they are, is an experience I never thought possible.
The old town of Shukunegi, on the far southwest of the island, was the base for merchant culture on Sado. As the gold mining industry was flourishing, this village thrived as a port of call for ships travelling from Osaka to Hokkaido. Those living in Shukunegi at the time reaped the benefits, at one stage taking in one-third of all money made on the island. Once the port moved to Ogi, five kilometres away, the shipbuilders moved permanently into Shukunegi and the area has since been preserved in its exact form.
The village is dense and quite claustrophobic, with more than a hundred houses packed together. As soon as you arrive you get a real sense of what it must have been like to live in Shukunegi at its most congested. But the village isn’t just a living museum; the vast majority of the houses are still occupied, with a few even open to the public. Inside they are exquisite and it’s obvious no expense has been spared preserving them – you can see how they were expanded from one to two floors, with lacquered walls and large hand-painted fusuma sliding doors. The merchant carpenters’ skills were not wasted.
If you head to the rear of the village, there’s a flight of stairs you can climb that offers sweeping views across the entire settlement. Cedar has not only been used for the walls of buildings here but for the roofs as well, with the shingles held in place with stones. As the men of Shukunegi were busy working on the boats, it was the job of the women to climb up and replace the shingles every two to three years.
The Ogi Folk Museum was originally established in 1920 as an elementary school, and is well worth a visit. In the main building sits an almost 30-metre-long wooden boat, a true-to-size replica of a Sengokubane cargo ship called Hakusanmaru. Originally built in 1858, it would regularly sail the trade route from Osaka to Hokkaido. Traders would buy and sell goods as they made their way along the coastline, and also disperse wares that were unique to certain areas. For example, traders would take seaweed and dried anchovies from the north of Japan to Osaka, where it was used in fertiliser for the cotton fields to increase the yield and quality of the cotton.
Opened as a museum in 1972 with an aim to share the culture of Shukunegi, the museum now displays more than 30,000 objects and artefacts. These include everything from clothes and fishing equipment, clocks and cameras, as well as antique items from Kyoto that arrived during the busy trading period.
One of the unique aspects of life on Sado Island has to to be to the tarai bune (tub-shaped boats). It is said an earthquake during the Edo era changed the shape of Sado’s coastline, making it difficult at low tide for fishermen to get their boats close to the shellfish. They came up with the idea to use washing tubs as boats since they are easy to navigate through narrow, winding coves and along rocky coastlines. Tarai bune with glass windows are available to rent on Sado, giving you the opportunity to see through to the bottom of the ocean as you traverse the small inlet between Yajima and Kyojima, two small islands off the coast of Ogi.
This feature was sponsored by JNTO (Japan National Tourism Organization).
With rolling green hills dotted with grazing cows and views of sapphire-blue oceans on the horizon, you could be forgiven for thinking you’re on the English coastline. This scene, however, also describes Japan’s Oki Islands, in the Shimane Prefecture. It’s still a mystery why they aren’t swarmed with tourists.
The peacefulness of the islands – from largest to smallest, Dogo, Nishinoshima, Nakanoshima, and Chiburijima – has much to do with their isolation. It’s not the easiest place to reach, and travelling between islands requires catching ferries, but that’s the charm of it. Like an ice-cold Asahi is better after a steamy summer day exploring the city or a bowl of ramen more delicious after hours spent conquering pristine slopes, the effort to reach Oki makes you appreciate its charms even more.
At Shichirui Port on the mainland, I hop on the Oki Kisen ferry bound for Saigo Port on Dogo. In the year 724, Oki’s islands were designated as a prison for both criminals and exiled noblemen, including 14th-century emperor Godaigo. As I begin to explore these scenic islands, with their stunning views, sacred sites and abundant seafood, it’s difficult to believe being sent here was a punishment.
My first stop is Tamawakasumikoto Shrine, the main shrine on the islands and one with a recorded history that can be traced back to the Heian period (784–1185). These days it has been designated an important cultural asset of Japan. Despite the impressive architecture of the temple, it’s the Yaosugi tree I can’t stop staring at.
At 30 meters tall, this Japanese cedar, thought to be almost 2,000 years old, is the largest in Shimane Prefecture. It’s almost as if you can read the history of the island in this rugged and powerful tree’s branches and the cracks that penetrate the thick bark. It has been adorned with shide, zig-zag paper cut-outs most often seen hanging on the front of shrines, and a signifier of the Japanese spiritual appreciation for nature and beauty.
The next stop on Dogo is the roadside Kawai-no-Jizō, a freshwater spring where water levels remain constant. Even during drought or after a typhoon, everyone on Dogo knows this is a safe, accessible source of fresh, clean water.
Oki is a cluster of islands formed from volcanic activity. During the lifespan of the archipelago, layers of porous volcanic rock have built up. Rainwater passes through the volcanic layers where it’s naturally filtered. It pools deep inside this rock until pressure from the surrounding ocean pushes it back to the surface. The water is clean enough to drink, and locals often fill up bottles to use for drinking, making shochu (Japanese spirit) and cooking rice. I take a sip while statues of Jizō Bodhisattva, one of Japan’s most loved enlightened figures, watch over the spring.
Intrigued by the volcanic heritage of the island, I head by ferry to Mt. Akahage, the highest point on Chiburijima Island. From here, my guide points out that the four smaller Oki Islands are, in fact, sub-sections of the same volcanic crater. The ocean between them is the volcano’s crater, which erupted about 10 million years ago.
Trekking down Mt. Akahage, I make my way to the Sekiheki Red Cliff, a dramatic one-kilometre-long feature that follows the west coast of Chiburijima. Its gorgeous colour is another example of the island’s fascinating volcanic history. During an eruption, splashes of molten lava, rich with iron, shot from the volcano. Once it hit the air, the iron oxidised to create this firey red wall that cuts a striking figure over the blue sea.
From Chiburijima I make my way to the island’s northwestern neighbour, Nishinoshima, to witness a stunning display of untouched natural beauty. For 2.5 kilometres, the Kuniga Coast Hiking Track – the locals call it the skywalk – follows verdant hills, where cows and horses graze, with the deep blue ocean playing backdrop. While walking the serene trail you may feel as though you’re traversing the edge of the world.
Back at sea level is Nishinoshima’s immaculately decorated Yurahime Shrine. In a far cry to the serenity of the Kuniga Coast trail, the shrine holds some rather raucous festivals. During July, it is home to the Yurahime Shrine Matsuri, a traditional festival where tipsy local men carry a mikoshi (portable shrine) through the streets, chanting and swaying like the ocean tide.
Nishinoshima isn’t all about the past, though. I visit Sailing Coffee, a trendy third-wave cafe tucked between aging houses and sake shops. This coffee shop, gallery and retail space only opened in the second half of 2019, but is already gaining traction with the locals and guests who enjoy a masterfully crafted espressos while sitting in the afternoon sun. It’s places like this that are breathing fresh energy into Oki’s tradition-rich landscape.
One of the last places I want to visit on the itinerary is Chichi Sugi Tree, a mystical and mysterious cedar growing near the top of Mt. Daimanji on Dogo. Chichi means breast in Japanese and this is a reference to its unique root formations that dangle from the tree, as well as the 800-year-old cedar’s motherly energy.
Similar to Tamawakasumikoto Shrine’s cedar, where I started my journey, Chichi Sugi is a reminder of how spiritually connected the people of Oki are to their natural surroundings. Practising spirituality isn’t a duty or something separated from everyday life, but as natural and honourable as these trees that sprouted long before this generation exited and will continue to live long after all who look over it have gone. There’s something inherently humbling about that thought.
Before hopping back on the boat, I stop by Dogo’s Tsuki Akari Cafe to get my last fix of Oki’s incredible seafood and am treated to a live shamisen and folk songs performed by Oki locals. The traditional songs come from tradespeople, sailors and people from far away, but are today performed with a narrative shaped by the Oki Islands.
I ask one of the staff members about a kite hanging from the ceiling, and she tells me that, during a festival in April, two giant kites similar to this are made and inscribed with the names of the children born in the previous year. It’s an ode to the future generations who will continue to shape these magnificent islands.
This story is sponsored by JNTO (Japan National Tourism Organization).
(
