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Thankfully, I’m yet to share this gorgeous mountain road with any cars on this summer’s day, and that’s because I’m cycling to one of Slovenia’s lesser-known attractions. Most visitors limit themselves to exploring Bled, a fairytale lake in the country’s northwest, famous for the baroque church rising from a thicket of green on the island at its centre, and the medieval castle that lords over its north shore.
But I’ve chosen to bypass the tourists and ride from Bled to the less developed Lake Bohinj, Slovenia’s largest and, in my opinion, most majestic alpine lake, just 26 kilometres away.
Assuming I don’t die on the way, I’m also hoping to visit Savica Waterfall, the lake’s main tributary, adding another four kilometres to the adventure. In total, 30 kilometres isn’t a great distance for a semi-fit cyclist. Then there’s me: out of shape, poorly equipped and about as experienced on two wheels as your average 10-year-old. Plus, there’s that whole emergency-room thing. I’m clearly out of my depth, and nearly out of breath – even at this early stage. Although I’m fairly confident I’ll make the distance there without puncturing like a tyre and having my stamina evaporate into thin mountain air, completing the return journey is another matter entirely.
Declaring its independence during Yugoslavia’s last gasps in the early 1990s, Slovenia, as a nation-state, is relatively new on the diplomatic stage. This novelty, however, belies the millennia of history etched into this small tract of Central European territory caught between Italy, Austria, Hungary and Croatia. As with much of Europe, the Romans left their mark here. In fact, Ljubljana, the compact capital, grew from the Roman settlement of Emona, which was founded more than 2000 years ago. The Roman Empire used it as a commercial hub from which to trade olive oil and wine for amber and bronze sourced from outlying provinces.
Even before the arrival of the Romans, earlier Celtic tribes and Neanderthals, Slovenia’s geology and rugged landscape had been refined by Mother Nature for millions of years. The culmination of her work here is the Bohinj Basin and its pearl, Lake Bohinj, which was formed by glaciers during the last ice age. The lake and the surrounding region flaunt rich biodiversity, including dozens of species of alpine flowers and wildlife such as ibex, rare chamois (goat-antelopes native to Europe) and golden eagles. More than two-thirds of Bohinj lies within Slovenia’s only national park, Triglav, which has protected the region from mass development and left its nature relatively untouched. This is where Slovenians come to experience the great outdoors in its purest form, and I’m keen to get in on the action.
Ernest Hemingway once wrote “it is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them”. Twenty minutes into the ride it’s apparent that Bohinj is making me work for my education, and I struggle to climb fierce mountains (they’re probably just hills) that never seem to end. But for every incline I’m compensated with postcard views of the Julian Alps and dreamy vistas of gushing rivers, rustic hamlets and thick forest – in other words, the slog is totally worth it. Threading my way like a needle through the landscape, I cycle over immense concrete bridges dwarfed by the surrounding mountains that throw their shadows on the road like an eclipse of the sun. I speed past patient locals fly-fishing in the turquoise river below. And I pedal beyond rusted road signs introducing places I cannot pronounce.
I round a bend, the limestone corridor opens into a wide meadow carpeted with blooming purple and golden wildflowers, and the shadow I’ve been riding in brightens by degrees until consumed by the sun. In the distance I spot cows grazing among wooden farmhouses and lonely toplarji, freestanding wooden hay-racks complete with roofs and storage lofts that are used for drying wheat and hay. Unique to Slovenia and particularly prevalent in the Bohinj region, the best toplarji are found in the nearby town of Studor, where they’re well-preserved and still very much in use. Further down the road, a congregation of roofs indicates an upcoming town and I catch a glimpse of sparkling Lake Bohinj on the horizon, oasis-like in its appeal. An arrow of excitement pierces me, and I drop to a lower gear and ride like a parched man in a desert, mouth agape and legs firing on all cylinders.
Ribcev Laz isn’t the largest of the 24 settlements scattered throughout Bohinj. That accolade belongs to the 1700-person town of Bohinjska Bistrica, which has served as the major gateway to the region since a railway connected it to the rest of the country more than a century ago. But pint-sized Ribcev Laz claims the most idyllic location. Sitting on the eastern shore of Lake Bohinj, the town offers splendid views of the valley, including the 1800-metre-high Mount Vogel, Slovenia’s premier ski resort. Surrounded by limestone mountains wearing patchy beards of vegetation and spindly evergreens, Lake Bohinj holds more than 100 million cubic metres of water – which isn’t more than a bucketful, says an old Bohinj joke, if the bucket is large enough. Stretching for more thab four kilometres long and a kilometre wide, it looks more like a small emerald sea than a lake.
At the local tourist office, I’m informed that the lake acquires its green tint from the minerals and sediments found in the glacial waters that feed it. I also learn that 15 marked bike trails skirt the lake, as well as a 12-kilometre path that you can trek for four to five hours. You can also jump on a boat captained by friendly locals and enjoy a 30-minute cruise on the lake’s protected waters. No combustion engines are allowed in the Triglav National Park, I’m told, and so these vessels are all electric and environmentally friendly. For the moment, though, I’m content to just stand and admire the water from the shore. These are the types of vistas that capture the attention and lenses of photographers, locals and travellers alike, and I’m hooked.
Although the lake freezes in winter, in summer the water temperature rises to a pleasant 22°C, making it perfect for swimming, especially after a blistering bike ride. Shrugging off my backpack, I wade into the translucent water and dunk myself under. It’s cold, but refreshing. A kayaking competition is underway nearby, where pre-teens manoeuvre vessels with skill to the cheers of an onlooking crowd. It’s an impressive show, but I’m totally beat, and so I retire to the banks, roll my towel into a pillow and lie down. Eyes closed, I rest my weary limbs as the wind plays with the leaves overhead and pockets of sun emerge from behind clouds to toast me dry.
But there’s still one more mountain to climb. A four-kilometre road winding its way up a peak stands between me and the final to-do on my itinerary: Savica Waterfall. Setting off from the tiny hamlet of Ukanc on the western shore of the lake, I cycle through a tapestry of browns, greens and grey, made up of damp-smelling forest carpeted with decaying leaves and rocks partially hidden under spongy moss. The canopy above has darkened the scene and the twisted tree roots resemble the bony fingers of some unearthed forest monster, ready to rise up and devour me at a moment’s notice. Each hill I crest – there are many – is a triumph of will, and 10 minutes into the belly of the beast I’m running on fumes. There are no other cyclists on the road, and when the occasional car does pass me I’m certain I appear as a picture of desperation in the rear-view mirror. The choice to give up, turn back and drown my sorrows with a cold Laško beer is almost irresistible. But I push on, determined to reach the top of the calf-burner and embark on the last leg of my journey.
After a gruelling 45-minute ascent I finally reach the waterfall’s entrance. I lock my bike, guzzle some water and set off on the short hike to the falls. It takes 20 minutes’ worth of sweat, climbing up 500 slippery steps and over thundering rapids and crystalline streams to reach the viewing platform facing the vertiginous waterfall. From up here the sound of water cascading over the rock face and plunging 78 metres into a frothy turquoise pool is at a roaring intensity. An Italian family asks me to take their photo, and I’m only too happy to oblige. I’ve reached the end of my challenge, collected my reward, and it’s downhill from here.
Back at the restaurant by the entrance, I tuck into a not-so-Slovenian burger, fries and an icy beer. I think about the falls and the power of the water that carved its way through rock over thousands of years, eventually forming a gorge. It reminds me of my own struggle to get here. Like the unending flow, it was sheer will and persistence that fuelled my journey. But even willpower can run dry, and so I return to Bled by bus later in the afternoon. It’s that or risk visiting another Slovenian emergency room.
There will be light though. Well, at least that’s what I’m searching for. It’s here that particles from the sun, attracted to the Earth’s magnetic poles, collide with the atmosphere and create a light show electrifying the long winter nights. The northern lights beckon me, and I can think of nowhere better to experience them than the unadulterated darkness of Svalbard.
American poet Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “To find the journey’s end in every step of the road … is wisdom.” While the great Robert Louis Stevenson mused, “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.” Both wise men echo an ancient Taoist saying: “The journey is the reward.” It’s a philosophy I strive to embrace, although I’ve had doubts ever since I suffered a 48-hour non-stop bus journey through India with my bowels begging for Bombay’s porcelain. Yet, as I sit down to lunch on board the MS Kong Harald – a Hurtigruten passenger ferry currently docked off the Norwegian coastal town of Trondheim – at the start of my journey, I embrace once again the writings of Emerson and Stevenson.
An enormous fish tank sits front and centre of Kysten restaurant, one of three on board. Inside, Norwegian red king crabs the size of steering wheels vie for space. Each crustacean has a tag with a QR code linking to information about where and when the creature was caught and details of its captor. I’ve chosen what looks to be the plumpest crab and, having scanned the code, find myself toasting a Norwegian fisherman named Ole who caught my lunch near Finnmark, the northernmost point of mainland Norway.
Ole has been a fisherman for 53 years and fancies Swedish music. Judging from his photos, I’m certain ABBA doesn’t feature on his playlist.
“Ole, my new faraway friend,” I think to myself while cracking into the crab and trying to shake the lyrics of ‘Mamma Mia’ from my mind, “this setting is not what I was expecting.”
In fact, nothing about the MS Kong Harald is as I expected. Shouldn’t riding a passenger ferry be a crowded, uncomfortable and all-round unpleasant affair? Aren’t they designed to ship passengers from A to B in a perfunctory fashion? Instead, the ship boasts a range of bars and restaurants, a bakery, an ice-creamery and two outdoor hot tubs that prove quite popular, even in the chill of winter. It is one of 11 Hurtigruten ships cruising a constant circuit and picking up and dropping off cargo along the way.
Hurtigruten has been servicing the Norwegian coast since 1893, transporting local passengers, freight, mail and visitors to 34 ports that span from Bergen in the south all the way up to Kirkenes in the north. As passenger numbers grew and freight trade slowed, the Hurtigruten team realised travellers were interested in learning more about the Nordic nation. They introduced activities for passengers at each port and now offer more than 60 experiences, ranging from snowmobiling and coastal walks to quad biking and dining like a Viking. Add in a refurbished fleet, and a ‘coastal kitchen’ policy that ensures the fresh local produce purchased at each port dictates the day’s menu, and you’ve got a journey of which Emerson and Stevenson would surely approve.
With the bow pointing north, we spend three days at sea, stopping at 13 ports on our way to Tromsø. Sometimes the ferry pauses for just 15 minutes, although more often we dock for up to four hours. Coastal port towns like Bodø and Ornes appear to have been lifted straight from the movie Frozen. Light from houses flickers off the snow and frosty peaks rise sharply behind them. I join a coastal walk in Bodø and find the path busy with locals. Not even the challenge of winter twilight is enough to keep the outdoorsy Norwegians locked up at home.
We pass through the tight fjords of the Lofoten Islands, where the dark outlines of craggy mountains loom ominously over the ship. It must be breathtaking in the light, but they hold an eerie allure in the cold darkness. One afternoon a passenger spots a sparkle in the inky sky. In an instant the decks teem with tourists and locals alike, all hoping for a glimpse of the aurora. I’m told they’re quite common on this passage. I think I see something of a shimmer, but it may just have been the reflection of a camera flash.
As November creeps to a close and we venture further north darkness devours more sunlight. The few remaining daylight hours become bitingly cold. In the south in Oslo, Norway’s small but busy capital, the sun sets after 4pm, but now, as we cruise closer to Tromsø, it pokes its head above the horizon at 9am and sinks by 1pm each day. Despite the brief window of light, the views are still spectacular.
Lengthy nights make sundowners a dangerous proposition. Inevitably, we find ourselves at the Explorer Lounge and Bar on the top deck of the ship. From here you can toast the ever-changing vistas that unfold before you. I meet Tor, who resembles a cross between Asterix the Gaul and a hipster hairdresser. Tor is returning to his village in the Lofoten Islands and has a penchant for Norwegian aquavit, a rather potent local spirit.
Sara, the Swedish bartender, teaches us a Swedish drinking song, which translates to:
“Something naked, blue and swollen,
Is hanging from the ceiling,
What could it be?
It’s old Aunt Sonya!”
While no one can explain the origins, I am rather worried about old Aunt Sonya’s family.
“It is not as strange as the one where the boy makes a poo in the waffle iron,” Sara explains earnestly. I’m not sure I agree.
As we disembark the MS Kong Harald in Tromsø I watch as a tractor, containers and a small car are loaded into the hold. A Canadian couple sporting maple leaves on their bags crosses my path as they board. “It is such a great trip!” the wife exclaims. “We haven’t been snowmobiling yet,” she tells me, “but there’s been a snowfall further north.” They are travelling all the way up to Kirkenes and back to Bergen again, revisiting all 34 ports.
After an extensive crawl between Tromsø’s craft beer joints – did I mention Arctic sundowners are dangerous? – we fly north into the dark polar nights of Longyearbyen, the world’s northernmost city, and the only city in Svalbard.
Longyearbyen translates to Longyear City in Norwegian, and owes its name to John Longyear, who started the Arctic Coal Company back in 1906. Mining is tough business anywhere in the world, but through an Arctic winter in 24-hour darkness? I can almost hear the miners crying, “Fuck, it’s been a long year!”
With most of the coalmines now closed tourism has become the primary industry alongside scientific research. On arrival, I join a two-hour Maxi Taxi tour with Vigor, who’s an ex-miner himself. He drives us out of the city and up a mountain pass to the Svalbard Satellite Station. In the 10am darkness I can make out two huge satellite dishes. I feel as though I’ve walked onto the set of an M Night Shyamalan film, especially when we stop at the Global Seed Vault, which turns out to be a lone door with a shining emerald glass front on an otherwise bare mountainside. The vault holds back-ups of the world’s crop collections, kept safe from any global disasters that may come to pass.
Vigor turns out to be a kind of Svalbard Siri. He knows everything there is to know about the place, including where to find the only graveyard. Apparently it’s illegal to die up here, as your body can’t decompose in the ground’s permafrost. He gives us a full rundown of the city centre’s best restaurants and bars. “Have fish of the day at Gruvelageret,” Vigor advises. “It’s whale.”
It’s an odd feeling to pass days in constant night and I can see how some people struggle to live here. So far the skies over Longyearbyen have been covered with cloud, but despite the cold there’s no sign of snow. On my hotel door is a picture of Ivan Starostin, a Russian trapper who holds the record for enduring the most winters in Svalbard. He spent 39 winters here in the 1700s, catching polar bears and Arctic foxes. In the name of Ivan I decide to toughen up.
One evening I head out of town to dine at Camp Barentsz, named after Dutch explorer Willem Barentsz, who first discovered Svalbard in 1596. Winter ice crushed his ship during one expedition, and the camp hosts northern light spotting evenings in a replica of the hut his crew built from the boat’s debris. We dine on reindeer stew and sip hot wine as we hear how the pioneers huddled around a fire while frostbite nipped at their backs. One of the first things they constructed was an hourglass to give them a sense of structure in the four months of darkness. The aurora borealis must have been like fireworks to those hardened sailors as they tried desperately to survive. Tonight, however, it’s overcast and we leave camp without even seeing a star.
Anika, a Svalbard local, tells me she collapsed upon first seeing the lights when she arrived in Longyearbyen nearly 10 years ago. “Was it spiritual?” I ask her. “Is it that spectacular?”
“Not quite,” Anika says, laughing. “I just had my head back so far, staring up for so long, that I fainted from lack of blood flow.”
I ask Anika if she thinks she might break Ivan’s record of 39 winters. She chuckles but doesn’t dismiss the challenge. “There’s so much to do here,” she says. “When the snow comes we can snowmobile for days on fresh powder and sleep out in old trappers’ huts at night. There’s dog sledding into ice caves, cross-country skiing, polar bear spotting… And that’s just in winter.”
On my final evening I head to Svalbard Bryggeri, the northernmost brewery in the world. Robert, a former miner, now brew master, fought hard to change a law that barred alcohol from being manufactured in Svalbard back in 2015. This year he’s hoping to produce up to 250,000 litres of beer, brewed with 16 per cent local glacial water. Folks are thirsty up here.
Robert suggests I try a Spitsbergen stout. “Drink enough of this and you will see the northern lights with your eyes closed,” he offers.
“The lights aren’t everything, Robert,” I unconvincingly reply between sips. “The journey has been the reward.”
Ochre sandstone pillars pierce the cerulean sky. Green mangroves crowd the tinnie. Saltwater crocodiles skulk in the translucent jade water. It’s enveloping, powerful, primordial. Bruce watches our reactions, a grin lighting up his sun-weathered face as we soak up the grandeur of this prehistoric landscape. He admits this unnamed creek is one of his favourites, and he calls it Jungle Creek.
Like a mate showing off his hometown, Bruce is in his element. This is his backyard, literally, as when he’s not guiding for luxury Berkeley River Lodge, Bruce retreats to his open-air camp up a similar creek, in the northeast Kimberley wilderness. He’s been camping out here since long before the lodge was built, between seasons working for a diamond exploration company. It’s a hermitic bushman image that’s hard to reconcile with his friendly, personable demeanour.
Berkeley River Lodge makes the most of its remote location in Western Australia’s Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, offering guests a range of excursions from comfortable river cruises and helicopter jaunts to fishing trips and guided hikes. We’ve struck it lucky – wind and tide have enabled a full-day coastal excursion west of the lodge, an occurrence that only comes around about once a month.
From Jungle Creek we head to Osprey Bay. Multiple tracks between beach and lagoon warn of saltwater crocodiles as we clamber over boulders to a rock overhang adorned with Indigenous art. Discovered by Bruce in 2001, the well-preserved images include hand stencils, Gwion Gwion-like stick figures, a Wanjina-style spirit being, a detailed dilly bag and an enormous dugong. It’s both thrilling and humbling to be one of so few people to see these still-vibrant paintings (no cruise ships stop here), but sad to hear people from the various Aboriginal clans of the Kimberley now rarely visit this isolated region.
Bruce recounts watching a crocodile emerge from the sea with a dugong in its mouth before devouring it in a bloody mess on the beach. We look furtively around and dash back to the boat.
Wallabies, camouflaged on the rock ledges, watch as we tie up to mangroves for a spot of fishing while crocs float like logs behind us. In quick succession we catch and release a couple of cod and mangrove jack, lose some bait to a reef shark and mourn the loss of a legal-sized barramundi.
Resembling an arty driftwood sculpture, an osprey nest balances precariously atop a rock at Atlantis Bay. Snake-necked darters air outstretched wings like feathered statues and a white-bellied sea eagle drifts overhead. We pull up to a rock ledge for lunch before a hot and sweaty hike up the creek bed to a series of spectacular waterholes.
Pandanus sprouts between rocks the colour of molten gold. Water lilies garnish the gin-clear water. Rainbow bee-eaters dart between us snatching water beetles as we swim cocooned by the ancient escarpment in a croc-free pool. Even losing my waterproof camera can’t dampen my spirits. Miraculously, fellow guests who helicopter to the rock pool 48 hours later find it underwater – undamaged and still working.
Bouncing back to the lodge over the late afternoon chop gives a seaward perspective of its remoteness. Perched on the red dirt behind expansive sand dunes, it commands views of both the Berkeley River and Timor Sea, yet its footprint is insignificant in the vastness of East Kimberley.
It’s a similar feeling arriving by air. The one-hour flight from Kununurra travels over a rumpled quilt of jutting ridges and shadowed valleys, snaking rivers and fanning flood plains that abut the sea. The colours – auburn, khaki, cobalt and turquoise – are as intense as an over-saturated digital image. The orange dirt airstrip, like a child’s sugary fruit-strap, is the only hint of the resort.
Built in 2012 on Indigenous-owned land, the lodge is unpretentious, barefoot beach-house chic. It lets the landscape take centre stage. Service is efficient and personable thanks to the philosophy of down-to-earth owners, the Peirson-Jones family, founders of Matso’s Broome Brewery, who camped here during construction. Villas are designed with practicality and the environment in mind. Bamboo floors accommodate dusty feet, louvered windows capture gossamer breezes, open-air bathrooms enable showering with birdsong or bathing beneath the stars. The neutral decor focuses attention on nature’s colours, best viewed from daybeds atop decks that point toward the ocean or river.
It’s a theme echoed in the main lodge, where glass doors are thrown open to the deck. An infinity pool offers a refreshing dip before pre-dinner drinks, when excursion options for the following day are discussed. Degustation dinners feature the likes of barramundi paperbark parcels, Sichuan peppered kangaroo fillet, and slow-roasted, herb-crusted lamb.
While it’s enticing to just chill, revel in the isolation and listen to the birds, this is my first trip to the Kimberley so I grab every opportunity to explore. Within an hour of arriving Bruce has us on a beach drive in a safari-style 4WD, stopping to point out a jabiru, fresh flatback turtle tracks, dingo prints and a selection of Aboriginal tools.
An army of blue soldier crabs scurries across the sand like scattered cat’s-eye marbles and pied oystercatchers prance at the water’s edge as we wade through Second Creek with fishing rods, keeping a wary eye out for crocs. Warned on arrival to stay five metres from the water at all times, we hope our trust in Bruce is not misplaced.
Two deft throws of a net and Bruce catches enough flapping mullet for bait. I reel in an estuary cod and mangrove jack, while others pluck bream and trevally from the water – a barramundi for the chef proves elusive. Back on the beach we picnic under the shade of pandanus trees, eating from beautifully presented bento boxes. On the return drive we spot shovelnose sharks in the shallows and meet Boots, the 2.5 metre-long saltwater croc that resides at the river mouth.
A relaxing cruise on the Berkeley River passes through a rugged gorge of sienna sandstone, its mosaic of fractured crags reflected in the still waters. A boab tree stretches its branches above the scrub in a bay where moon jellyfish congregate to breed. Inky stains dribbling down towering rock faces mark wet season waterfalls. As it’s the end of the dry, the only fall flowing is spring-fed and so insignificant compared to its counterparts that it doesn’t have a name, although it looks impressive to us.
Behind is a rock garden of trickling water, grasses and shady eucalypts that would make Jamie Durie jealous. We cool off in a pond of lily pads sprouting tiny white-frilled flowers.
A natural amphitheatre of 80-metre-high cliffs proves a dramatic backdrop for lunch, the scraps of which are eagerly devoured by waiting fish. The waterfall may not be flowing but a recently collapsed rock face is testament to the unpredictability of this harsh terrain, as noted by Charles Price Conigrave, who named the Berkeley on an expedition in 1911, saying of all the gorge-like ravines in the area, “The Berkeley is infinitely the wildest and most stupendous.”
His expedition from Wyndham also circumnavigated and climbed Mount Casuarina, a flat-topped monolith seen in the distance from the lodge. He left notes on the journey under a rock cairn at the summit, and, thanks to a Truenorth Helicopters tour, I’m standing next to that cairn at sunset, sipping champagne as the Berkeley River gorge below glows shades of orange in the lowering sun.
Conigrave later wrote of the Berkeley, “In the fading light of early evening, we fellows sat at the cliff-top, fascinated by the sight of the silent river away down below. We thought that in far distant days, when we vagabond wanderers will have been completely forgotten, tourists will see the Berkeley Gorge, but the most enthusiastic and impressionable among them will not have, I am sure, quite the delight we had in viewing it for the first time.”
With respect, Mr Conigrave, I beg to disagree.
It was terrifying, nauseating, painful (even to watch) and went on for far too long, but exhilarating with the knowledge that eventually once we made it through there would be this perfect gift of innocence and beauty. It reminded very much of crossing the Drake Passage heading to the Antarctic Peninsula. Three days and two nights of labour, only to emerge wide-eyed in a new world so clean, so pure and of seemingly endless innocence.
A flotilla of seafaring vessels are docked in the salt-stained port of Ushuaia, Argentina’s (and the world’s) most southern town and main departure point for Antarctica. An old schooner, a luxury liner and rusting cargo ships await their crew. Tucked among them is the Polar Pioneer, Aurora Expeditions’ Russian ship, complete with ‘St Petersburg’ emblazoned across her stern and a crew light on English. We are briefed on the bridge and introduced to Captain Sergey. With a hard seafarer’s face and strong Russian accent, he looks like he’s straight out of a Tom Clancy spy novel. Later in the trip he is spotted early one morning sitting at the stern, pipe in one hand, fishing line in the other, pulling in cod. Captain Sergey is the real deal.
We head down the calm waters of the Beagle Channel; the snow-capped mountains framing Ushuaia disappear into the distance. On board, a merry mix of passengers get acquainted with each other and the Polar Pioneer. Some are here to climb untouched peaks. Others are kayakers excited to glide through clear waters. There’s a group of ‘birders’, lists in hand, ready to check off species they’re yet to spot. The rest of us are just as wide-eyed with excitement to experience a continent few have. Some head for the bar for a cold Quilmes (Argentina’s local beer), others gather on the bridge with Captain Sergey and some even wander outside on the bow to breathe in the early evening air. It’s been a long trip from Australia, so I’m quick to my bunk and drift off to sleep wondering what lies ahead.
The following two days are hell. There’s no point glossing over it. Seasickness is a horrific affliction, and with the Polar Pioneer dancing the tango with the Drake Passage, I am thankful for Doctor Giles and his endless supply of assistance. Late on day three, I finally arise. Peering through my porthole at the calming sea my stomach turns with delight for the first time in 48 hours. “It’s an iceberg!” I yell out to no one. It passes quickly and I see another in the distance. I head to the dining room, embarrassed by my two-day absence, only to discover I haven’t been the only one. No one is sour though. The sight of an iceberg has us all buzzing. The waters have stilled and we all know we’re close. Even the birders are strutting, with a couple of new sightings ticked off their list. I can’t remember which because I’m watching another iceberg drift past as they explain.
The next week is a constant flurry of activity and excitement. We’re incredibly lucky that the weather provides perfect blue skies, contrasting the pure white landscape and deep black sea. This is not a cruise. There is no leisurely gazing out windows sipping champagne. We’re up early with a hearty breakfast and quickly into Zodiacs to explore the surrounds. The older passengers amaze me as they climb aboard – one slip and you’re into the freezing black below, but they persevere with bravery beyond their years. If seeing an iceberg through a porthole was a buzz, motoring within a meter of one is exhilarating. The top of an iceberg is only 30 per cent of its size, and being so close with such clear water you can watch its base disappear below in a maze of blue hues. We circle a bright blue iceberg that bobs in the ocean sea. It stands out from the rest. Its old ice seems electric. Memory cards are filled.
We first step foot on the seventh continent at Mikkelson Harbour. Gentoo penguins abound. They are everywhere. Like ants, they all seem busy, stealing pebbles from rival nests in a never-ending battle for supremacy. The climbers head to a nearby snowy peak, and, as they glide by, I envy the kayakers’ intrepid natures. For me, on this first day, it is enough just to sit on a rock surrounded by deep snow and penguins, taking in this amazing place. Sue, one of the expedition leaders, says visiting Antarctica is like visiting another planet. She is not wrong. I feel so far removed from the rest of the world I might as well be on Mars.
And so we explore along the coast of Antarctica, through the Gerlache Strait and down towards Port Lockroy, where we visit a tourist shop and museum managed by four girls all in their twenties – each of them living in Antarctica for a year. With queries of cabin fever and thoughts of them turning on each other in solitude-driven insanity, I’m surprised to hear they have a boat through every two days. I’m even more surprised to find a Lonely Planet guide to Antarctica for sale in their store.
It’s a great example of Lonely Planet, like me, growing up. I can only hope that it isn’t a sign of things to come. As we head out of Port Lockroy, a humpback whale breaches in the distance. The sun is trying to set – it never really does down here – and Captain Sergey steers the Polar Pioneer towards our new friend. The ship almost lurches to the side as we all lean over to watch the performance.
Every day down here is a highlight, but it is hard to top cruising through the Lumiere Channel. The bow is full and silent as we take in the view of snow-capped peaks rising steeply on either side. The sun is warm on our smiling faces, chilling us only as it falls behind the peaks. The biting wind has dropped. A leopard seal dozing on a drifting iceberg looks up sleepily as we motor past. A quick glance and he’s back to sleep in the afternoon sun among thousands of ice islands.
The Lumiere Channel is a funnel for drifting icebergs. Emerging from the channel, they a laze around Pleneau Island, stranded as the sun melts them away. It is extraordinary. We pass an iceberg with a circle, square and triangle of ice sculpted by the sun. It seems as though it cannot be natural, yet it is. If you tire of the sculptures, a lion seal lazing on ice splattered with penguin blood from its recent feed is just as captivating. We’re in Zodiacs and our guides are as excited as us. We are visiting nature’s gallery featuring abstract sculptures that would make even Dalí envious.
That night, we have the opportunity to camp out on the ice and I’m surprised by the turnout. Digging a small ice bed and finding an exposed rock, a group of us plunge a couple of bottles of vodka into the surrounding ice and promptly pronounce our new discovery the southernmost bar in the world. With only a few customers, we try to drink the sun down. Unfortunately, down here it never sets and too many vodkas later I crawl into my sleeping bag. A trail of penguins wander past, only metres from my dug-out snow bed. Is it the vodka or are they real? The following morning my memory card confirms they were real. I must have looked like a giant blue elephant seal.
They say there is nothing better for a hangover than a cool dip. It has been two days exploring 50-storey-high glaciers and outposts manned by maniac explorers. We visit the deserted Argentinian base of Amirante Brown where, apparently, the resident doctor set the place on fire after being told he had to stay another year. The boat returned to the inferno to pick him up and lock him away back home. We anchor off Cuverville Island on a perfectly clear day. There’s a solar rainbow and it is warm enough to wear just a t-shirt as we trek up a nearby point. Penguin colonies abound and the view from the top takes my breath away. The Polar Pioneer is dwarfed in the distance among the surrounding icebergs.
Back on the ship late that afternoon we’re asked who wants to join the Polar Plunge Club. I leap off the middle deck trying to prove my machismo and plunge deeper than expected, almost instantly regretting my arrogance. The chill hits your bones about three seconds after you hit the water. As I flail manically trying to swim back to the boat my muscles start to seize. One of the Russian crew members dives in off the top deck as I shudder up the stairway. My skin is tingling and my two-day hangover is long gone. Back in the sauna as we thaw out, the Russian crew member is laughing and chatting away. I can’t understand a word, but we both smile at each other and what we’ve just done. That evening we raise a toast in the bar to the new members of this exclusive club. Halfway through the toast, orcas are spotted on the port side of the ship so the celebrations end early. We spend the next hour following a family of killer whales as the sun tries to set. You could not have asked for a more perfect end to the day.
I feel we are trespassing in heaven down here. There is an innocence about the Antarctic. No wars have been fought here, no blood spilled, no indigenous inhabitants wiped out. It is untouched and beautiful. Whales breach safely, frolicking in the plankton-rich water. All manner of penguins busily go about their days, wary only of their natural predators. I feel guilty for being here. Am I part of the beginning of the end? How long until we ruin this place?
It isn’t easy to get here and the cost is certainly a deterrent. Let’s hope this keeps the masses at bay. It’s truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And having been through a hard labour to get here, I feel I’ve been reborn.
Sometimes it takes just one lucky break to change everything, like when a university classmate of 80s hit maker Tracy Chapman handed her demo tape to his record-producer dad. The rest is herstory. Or when Jamie Foxx found Ed Sheeran busking in Los Angeles…
It’s this kind of serendipitous moment that changed life’s course for Chef Benz. A chef in a family restaurant on a small Thai tourist island, her cooking was so spectacular it drew travellers like flies to a barbecue. On one fateful day, unbeknown to her, she was cooking for a tourist with friends in the hospitality game, and their word-of-mouth praise would change her life.
It took one meal and less than a day before Sonu Shivdasani and his wife Eva, owners of one of the more spectacular resorts in the Maldives, Soneva Fushi, called Chef Benz and asked her to come and work for them at the resort’s restaurant. “I didn’t even know where the Maldives were,” Chef Benz tells me with a mile. “Of course I wouldn’t go.”
So Chef Benz remained in her small restaurant on Phuket until, finally, after several years, she gave in to the Shivdasanis and made her way to the middle of the Indian Ocean to work at one of the world’s most exclusive resorts.
“I spoke no English when I arrived,” she says with a laugh. “No one understands me and I have to do everything with sign language. On the first night I cannot find my way back to my bungalow. But I don’t speak English so cannot explain to anyone. Finally someone works out why I am not in bed.”
For the next 10 years, Chef Benz remained at Soneva Fushi, where her English and her food excelled. Sonu and Eva then created another breathtaking resort, Soneva Kiri, on the undiscovered Thai island of Koh Kood. Not surprisingly, they asked Chef Benz to move home and run Benz, its signature dining experience.
The resort is the personification of barefoot luxury. So much so that its mantra is “no shoes, no news” and, upon arrival, you’re given a bag to hold your footwear, which isn’t returned until your departure. Soneva Kiri is a low-impact, eco-friendly Robinson Crusoe-like treehouse extravaganza. You’ll be treated to uber private villas surrounded by swimming pools, some with waterslides. There’s an ice-cream parlour with home-made delights, as well as a chocolate room sitting opposite the cheese room. A dining pod hangs in a tree necessitating delivery of your breakfast by zipline. This is an off-the-charts experience.
But Benz Restaurant – an overwater, stilted shack tucked into a small cove about 15 minutes away from the main resort – is the real showstopper. There are two ways to reach it; either on a sunset boat cruise from the main resort jetty or by taking quick car ride and walking through the Koh Kood jungle. Here, Chef Benz works her magic for the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow – she proclaimed it “the most exquisite, spicy Thai food I’ve ever had” – and us.
There’s no menu at Benz. Produce is bought fresh daily at the local market in Ao Salat and the food is simple and served without fanfare. As we munch on miang kham, betel leaves filled with with peanuts, coconut, dried shrimp and fresh herbs, Chef Benz describes her cuisine as Thai “family” food. There’s deep-fried prawn cake and a chicken and prawn soup. Her prawn curry with pineapple causes my taste buds to sing and the flavours of the steamed sea bass still make my mouth water every time I think of it.
The appearance of Benz is rustic, but the white cushions and soft lighting give off an almost Hamptons chic feel. Chef Benz works the kitchen, smiling broadly at the satisfied diners as she plates up her creations. Her little slice of taste heaven is so good we return twice on this trip. Oh, and did I mention the Thai dumpling in coconut milk for dessert?
MIANG KHAM (BETEL LEAF WRAPS)
Makes 20
INGREDIENTS
20 betel leaves (or Chinese broccoli leaves, beet greens or another earthy-tasting leafy green)
¾ cup toasted coconut
½ cup roasted peanuts
1/3 cup dried shrimp (soak in hot water for at least 15 minutes)
2 thin-skinned limes, diced with skin on
Chillies, to taste, thinly sliced
¼ cup shallot, diced
¼ cup ginger, diced
Miang Kham sauce
1 tbs dried shrimp
4cm galangal, chopped
2.5cm ginger, chopped
125g palm sugar, chopped
1 tsp shrimp paste
1–1½ tbs fish sauce
2 tbs toasted coconut, ground until mealy
2 tbs toasted peanuts, ground until mealy
METHOD
To make the sauce, add dried shrimp to blender and blend until fine, then add galangal, ginger and ¼ cup water and blend. Pour into a small saucepan. Swish blender with another ¼ cup water to capture all the bits then pour into saucepan.
Add palm sugar, shrimp paste and fish sauce to the blended herbs, place over medium heat and simmer until the sugar is completely dissolved. Adjust heat to low and simmer for 5 minutes or until reduced by about half. Add the ground coconut and ground peanuts. Let the sauce cool until it’s lukewarm, then check the consistency – if it’s too thick, you can add a bit more water. If it’s too runny, reduce it a bit more. Taste and adjust seasoning with more fish sauce as needed.
To serve, place all the wrap ingredients in separate bowls. Take a betel leaf, make a little cone with it then fill with with the wrap ingredients to your liking. Top with a little bit of sauce, close the cup and enjoy.
I’m surrounded by about 2000 people, some dancing blissfully with their eyes closed, others transfixed on the evening’s entertainment. Jamaican reggae and dancehall superstar Anthony B is up on the stage, belting out his hit song ‘Real Warriors’ as he struts back and forth. He moves to centre stage and pauses, beaming out at the crowd.
“Exercise time,” he announces, with a playful grin. “We call this dancehall aerobics,” he continues, rallying the crowd to follow his lead as he pumps both hands in the air to the beat of the music.
“Hands up! Hands up!” he instructs, as he breaks into a dance variation of a star jump. The crowd cheers him on, although he’s clearly not done.
“Sit on your bicycle seat and pedal, pedal, pedal,” he sings out, prompting the most enthusiastic (or, more likely, inhibition-free) fans to hunch over make-believe cycles as if they are mimes on their own Tour de France.
But this isn’t some sort of mega Zumba class. Anthony B is the headlining act of Goa Sunsplash, India’s largest reggae festival. On one hand, it’s like most other reggae festivals on earth. While there’s plenty of home-grown talent here, the bulk of the performers are international, with the likes of the UK’s Channel One Sound System and Australian beatboxer and bass producer Dub FX on the bill. There are also dance workshops, yoga classes and even panel discussions led by Donisha Prendergast, Bob Marley’s granddaughter.
However, in many ways, Goa Sunsplash is anything but your typical reggae festival. First of all, it’s in Goa, a tiny seaside state known for its mix of sandy beaches and lush jungles superimposed with centuries-old Portuguese forts and churches, vegan cafes and a seemingly endless number of booze shops. Goa is also the birthplace of psychedelic trance, high-BPM electronic music that can run the gamut from uplifting to mind-fucking – basically the antithesis of laidback roots reggae.
Perhaps even more striking is that unlike most music festivals, Sunsplash is neither in a big club nor a big field. Instead, the event is staged at Riva Beach Resort, one of a handful of high-end hotels in the northernmost reaches of Goa, an area otherwise dominated by cheap backpacker guesthouses and roadside stalls selling healing crystals. More curious still is that for the duration of the festival, the resort continues to operate as normal, so people who just happen to have booked a stay at Riva during Sunsplash weekend end up as de facto festival guests.
Yet nobody here seems out of place. Sure, there’s no shortage of usual suspects in attendance. A quick glance into the crowd reveals plenty of dreadlocks, bare feet and Lion of Judah t-shirts, not to mention the occasional awkwardly unaware youngster garbed in a Native American war bonnet. But there are also plenty of day-drinking pensioners among the crowd, along with young families towing toddlers.
Like most events in Goa, the crowd is decidedly global. While it’s clear plenty of people have come from around the world to attend Sunsplash, many are from elsewhere in India, particularly from urban hubs such as Delhi, Mumbai and Hyderabad where reggae in its many forms has a strong and solid fan base.
But this hasn’t always been the case.
When I first moved to India in the mid-noughties, the most reggae you’d hear was ‘No Woman, No Cry’ occasionally blasting over the speakers in a smoky backpacker cafe. The scene began to take off at the end of the 2010s, when bands, DJs and collectives influenced by the sounds of Jamaica began gaining prominence across India. At the forefront of the movement was New Delhi’s Reggae Rajahs, a sound-system crew who, in the course of a few short years, went from throwing low-key reggae and dancehall nights in South Delhi – where I first got acquainted with them – to opening for the likes of Major Lazer and Snoop Dogg. In 2016, the Rajahs took their efforts to the next level, launching Goa Sunsplash as a one-day event headlined by Britain’s General Levy, before extending it to two days the following year.
At one point during this year’s festivities, I find myself drawn to a huge throng of people swarming around a side stage, their howling cheers nearly drowning out the heavy basslines of an upbeat dancehall riddim thumping through the speakers. As I get closer, I realise that the star attraction isn’t the DJ but a dancer, a 20-something Indian woman who’s effortlessly switching from fast-paced footwork to perfectly timed gyrations, known in the dancehall culture as whining, as the crowd cheers her on. Impressed, I pull out my phone and begin livestreaming her performance, too captivated by her talent to notice that an old friend from Delhi, who has been involved in this scene from the beginning, has sidled up to me.
“We definitely wouldn’t have seen this a decade ago,” he shouts over the din. Though my eyes remain on the stage, I can hear an unmistakable note of joy in his voice. I assume he’s talking about her sensual dancing, which, even today, could raise eyebrows in socially conservative India.
I nod then second-guess myself, thinking back on the many nights I spent with him and our little circle of reggae-loving friends, bouncing about on makeshift dancefloors in tiny South Delhi bars. It occurs to me that his comment is not in reference to the dancing, or at least not alone. He’s talking about the entire tableau before us – the three stages, the world-famous performers, the 2500-odd jubilant fans, many of whom have flown halfway around the world to be here.
“Who would have thought?” I concur, realising I’ve been spending so much time capturing photos and videos that I haven’t given myself enough time to simply experience it. I put my phone away. Then we both begin to dance.
And music… There is music everywhere. The marriage of Afro beats and Spanish melodies is heard in restaurants, hotels, clubs and through the loudspeakers on the shoulders of men hauling them around.
Communism, locals and tourists say, is the perfect breeding ground for art. “Why become a doctor when I can make the same money as an artist and have more fun?” a musician asks. In the Cuban capital, the weekend starts on Thursday. At night people don’t just stand, they dance. Habaneros may still not have much in the way of material comfort, but they do know how to shimmy and whoop it up from the afternoon till the early morning.
4.30pm
Sinking your teeth into a lemon cake or slurping on large scoops of gelato in Cafe Bohemia’s sizeable courtyard – it opens up to the sixteenth-century La Plaza Vieja – is a beloved pastime. The owners of the cafe are Cuban and Italian with an interesting past. Manager Annalisa Gallina followed her brother (and the cafe’s owner) to Havana after her Cuban sister-in-law predicted “Habana Vieja’s future is pink”. Staff members at the bi-cultural cafe, which is loyal to its Mediterranean roots, bake the bread it uses for its acclaimed sandwiches and rely only on local, organic and seasonal produce.
Cafe Bohemia
San Ignacio No 364 (enter between Muralla and Teniente Rey), Habana Vieja
havanabohemia.com
5pm
Cuba is the birthplace of the classic rum-based cocktails, mojitos and daiquiris (although the Puerto Ricans might have something to say about the origins of the former), but at restaurant/bar El del Frente it’s reinvented gin cocktails that are on a different level. “You should try this – it’s really good!” exclaims one patron. She is pointing to an Emilito, a riff on a pina colada made with gin and sprinkled with chilli. The bartender proposes a Michelada, which is a concoction of tomato, chilli, pickles and other “secret ingredients”. There are hot daiquiris, too, made with gin, pepper mango and cashews. Best of all, you can savour all these at the rooftop bar. Just head to the top of the stairs, where you’ll pass a poster of the late Princess Diana.
El del Frente
303 O’Reilly, Habana Vieja
6pm
In the 1950s, a number of young Cubans decided that instead of performing salsa in a typical back-and-forth motion, they would spin each other round in a rotating fashion. And so Cuban salsa was born. This idiosyncratic dance has been demonstrated at a cosy, rustic restaurant called La Reliquia for a few years now. You can feast on Cuban dishes like the lamb roja vieja then take free salsa lessons from Randy, who also manages the place. “My mum taught me how to dance the salsa,” he says. “That’s how Cubans learn to dance.”
La Reliquia
Ignacio 260D, Esquina Amargura, Habana Vieja
7pm
The Malecón is an eight-kilometre esplanade that encompasses a six-lane roadway, seawall and extensive footpath, all running along the Havana coast. Stretching through the colonial centre of Old Havana to the Vedado neighbourhood, the Malecón is the sort of place you’ll find people strolling, jogging, fishing, tanning or just daydreaming while devouring the infinite azure of the Caribbean Sea. Whatever you decide to do – although a stroll is highly recommended – the Fellini-esque assortment of street vendors will interrupt your bliss. Young men will attempt to sell you planchao (rum), chicharitas platano (banana chips) and granisado (ice with sweet syrup), while women will try to lure you with flowers and teddy bears. “Don’t forget to visit the plaza,” says Isangel, a young man, who – no doubt – often visits the Malecón in pursuit of romantic encounters. It’s at its best as the sun is falling below the horizon, colouring the waves of Havana Bay rich shades of gold and orange.
8pm
Privately owned paladares (restaurants) were once illegal in Cuba – today they are not only allowed but increasingly popular, too. Imagine eating grilled fish or Caribbean prawn casserole in a room where Barack Obama, Mick Jagger and Beyoncé have all dined. In 2010, the owner of San Cristóbal, Carlos Cristóbal Márquez Valdés, decided to transform the century-old house he’d inherited from his grandmother into a restaurant, and was delighted to greet the Spanish ambassador as his first client. Such is Valdés’ fascination with VIPs, his paladar has both an Obama table and a Jesus table (we’re fairly sure he never dined there, but the table is located near his statue). Don’t be surprised if you find yourself accepting the offer of a cigar and 15-year-old rum from a smiling waiter at the end of your meal.
San Cristobal
San Rafael No 469 (enter between
Lealtad and Campanario), Centro Habana
9.30pm
In the business district of Vedado, don’t be surprised if you’re met by a seemingly endless queue. “The place to be,” says one local. “Todos los artes in el mismo espacio,” she continues, having switched to Spanish. She’s saying how all art is assembled in one space at FAC (Fábrica de Arte). This building has been turned into a modern creative labyrinth separated into five areas, some exhibiting fine arts and jewellery while others host fashion shows and live music. There’s always something on, but all the events are listed on the website’s calendar.
FAC
Calle 26, Esquina 11, Vedado
fac.cu
11.30pm
Cuban trovadores (itinerant musicians) have relied on their guitars and artistic sensitivity to deliver emotion-charged tunes since the mid-1800s. To see their modern counterparts play, head to La Bombilla Verde. In a darkened, austere apartment with a small bar and terrace, aspiring musicians from across the country serenade guests enjoying tapas and well-priced cocktails. The players like to share with the audience the story behind the songs between melodies, somehow making the experience seem more like a reunion between old friends than a performance.
La Bombilla Verde
Calle 11 No 905 (enter between 6 and 8), Vedado
1am
Fans of the dark and decadent should consider themselves lucky if they get to experience what Habaneros say is the city’s best-kept secret. They call it Elegguá, but most travellers know the same place as the Conga Room. It’s what you might label an underground venue, except that it’s located on the first floor of a residential building. To gain entry, you’ll need to acquire a flyer on the street – although the few people handing out these cherished pieces of paper are rather selective. The prize should you receive one? Rumberos with machetes and knives who will transport you to the depths of the Santería religion and Afro-Cuban folklore. Worry not: you will survive.
The Conga Room
Aguiar #209 (enter between Tejadillo and Empedrado), Habana Vieja
My laboured breathing is amplified in my ears, my strained calves burn and sweat stings my eyes. Each exhausting step sinks backwards, making progress slow. The footsteps of those who’ve gone before me imprint the ridgeline like vertebrae winding steeply up to the pinnacle.
Finally, at the top, I absorb the enormity of the endless rust-hued dunes. Climbers beginning the ascent far below are mere specks, like ants exploring a kids’ sandpit. The rising sun lights the front dune faces, while the opposite sides remain in shadow. The contrast accentuates the precise rims and curves, as if a ribbon has been frozen mid-twirl.
The area’s drawcard is Deadvlei, a lake bed of stark white clay dotted with fossilised 900-year-old camel thorn trees. Big Daddy looms over it, so we decide to take the shortcut in. My guide Richard and I giggle at each other’s slow-motion astronaut walk down the steep bowl of the dune. Our steps create lava-like momentum, pushing us down effortlessly. With its sticky combo of sand and sunscreen, my skin resembles a sugared donut. The dark forest sculptures are striking against the saturated hues of the red dunes, vivid blue sky and crackled white ground.
Kulala Desert Lodge is a 45-minute drive away, thanks mainly due to rough off-road terrain. A line of 23 kulalas (it means ‘place to sleep’ in Swahili) sits between the dunes and Naukluft Mountains. With moulded clay huts camouflaged in a barren landscape of rock and sand, the camp resembles the Flintstone village. By mid-morning the stifling desert heat coupled with a stiff breeze creates an atmosphere a little like the interior of a fan-forced oven.
The constant winds make flying in quite the adventure. Wilderness Safaris operates a fleet of small aircraft and they’re ferrying me to four camps across Namibia. I make it to the Kulala airstrip on a plane no bigger than a minivan. The turbulence is epic. I check my seatbelt for the fourth time, but each air pocket causes my butt and the seat to break contact. This is not a mode of transportation for the faint of heart, but the vast distances can only be conquered by air.
Leaving behind the ocean of scalloped dunes, I next fly to northwest Damaraland along a coastline cloaked by low-lying cloud. The tiny dirt airstrip is barely detectable as we weave down through peaks of the Etendeka Plateau, distinct because they look as though they’ve been lopped off by a chainsaw. The scenery, with the ground layered with rubble and boulders, resembles the surface of the moon.
Desert Rhino Camp has eight tents spread around a communal hub. Aside from the canvas walls, there is little else that resembles a typical canvas abode. A queen bed overlooks 270-degree views and the shower has a private outlook.
As its name suggests, this camp revolves around the critically endangered desert-adapted black rhino, with 90 per cent of the world’s remaining population living primarily in northwest Namibia. Opened as a joint venture between Wilderness Safaris and Save The Rhino Trust, the camp has an unfenced 300,000-hectare concession with 16 rhino regulars calling it home. On the black market, the species’ horn fetches a staggering US$60,000 a kilo, so each of the residents here has been dehorned for its own protection.
We’re up at 5.30am and the trackers get a head start detecting any morning activity, while we hang back in the jeep awaiting further instruction. Two trackers follow the riverbed on foot, assessing tracks and dung for recent visitors. They can expertly decipher fresh imprints and identify the sex from how the dung has been spread. Several hours pass before we get the signal to accompany them. Walking single file between the trackers, it’s a mission to keep up. My ankles bow painfully with each unstable step. It feels as if I’m clumsily navigating across a field of tomboller marbles.
We spot a skittish young female, called Nane12, trotting near a hillside. She pauses regularly to stare us down. Since she’s known to be a little cantankerous, we keep our distance. It feels instinctively wrong to stand, unarmed and far from a safety vehicle, exposed to an animal weighing a tonne. Later we have a lucky second encounter with Don’t Worry, a 28-year-old male who has certainly taken his name to heart. When we join him on the riverbed, he’s only 70 metres away. This prehistoric-looking creature seems cobbled together with leftover pieces from the animal production line. He carries a hippo frame, splayed elephant feet, pug-like excess skin folds, cute bear ears and a flimsy rat’s tail, all capped off with a face that weirdly resembles ET. He’s definitely seen us but continues to swagger along, seemingly content with our company.
In the morning, all the staff members gather to farewell me in song. The Damara click dialect is a poetic flow of foreign words punctuated by pops and clucks. I have no idea what they are singing, but I could listen to it all day. The collective strength of the voices makes for an emotional send-off, and I’m still thinking about it as we clear dung piles and shoo animals from the runway. This time we’re taking off on a three-flight skip to Hoanib Skeleton Coast Camp, my northernmost destination.
This oasis is a pinprick on the vast remote desert. The unique design of the camp – stretched sail roofs shaped into abstract waves – is visually striking against the apocalyptic setting. Within the tents, there’s a designer beach-house vibe, but I’m soon distracted from the luxe fit-out when a procession of six elephants approaches a waterhole right outside my window. Unpacking is abandoned as I watch them, their trunks curling and scooping refreshment into their mouths then spraying it over their backs. Light grey skin darkens and mottles before the elephants douse themselves with a cooling coat of dirt. The dexterity and capability of their trunks is mesmerising.
These are not the camp’s only four-legged visitors. Standard camp rules dictate you must be accompanied by a guide after dark, but, just as we’re about to head to dinner, I’m told we must instead jump in the jeep for what would be a 30-second walk. Headlights reflect eyes in the dark, quickly exposing two thirsty lionesses cutting through camp to the waterhole.
It’s a five-hour drive to the infamous Skeleton Coast, although expedition might be a more suitable description. The dry Hoanib River provides a natural highway snaking west, its towering banks of compacted sand resembling a rock canyon. The smooth ride ends as the tyres enter deep dirt troughs and thick saltbush. Driver Reagan swerves erratically through the tight course, noisily scraping the paintwork as we go. After a quick pit stop to let air out of the tyres, we hit the dunes. Kilometres of sand smother the mountains, with just a few peaks emerging. Reagan manhandles the steering to straighten up after the vehicle fishtails. As the jeep tilts on the steep, soft slopes it feels borderline reckless. Three attempts are needed to gain enough momentum to conquer one monster dune. During an insane vertical drop, Reagan cuts the engine and we simply slide down.
Our first sighting of Mowe Bay is a welcome one. The Skeleton Coast is famous for the shipwrecks buried along the shoreline, but most are much further south. Here, however, the desecrated carnage of the Suiderkus is strewn across the rocks, showing how savage this stretch of ocean can be.
Lunch is set right on the pebbled beach beside the pounding waves. This has to be rated as one of the world’s hardest-to-reach restaurants. Fortunately there is a shortcut home. A 10-minute scenic flight offers an unbeatable perspective of the tiny trail we’d earlier cut through the infinite landscape.
Heading inland, Ongava Tented Camp is my final destination. Ongava is a 30,000-hectare private reserve bordering the renowned Etosha National Park. After days of muted tones and few signs of life, the dense mopane scrub is a jolt to the senses. My guide, Shilongo, takes me out at sunrise, which is primetime for observing herds of zebra, impala and wildebeest grazing in the open. He brakes suddenly thanks to a telltale sign. The animals have stopped eating and are staring in the same direction. As we wait, anticipating a visitor, the congregation becomes increasingly agitated, snorting and huffing in alarm. Panic ensues as dozens of impala sprint out of the thicket. A minute later two lionesses saunter into the clearing and pad towards the animals. The snorting becomes frenzied as the predators get tantalisingly close. The prey scatters and the defeated lionesses turn to us as if questioning where the hunt went wrong.
Completely unfazed by human companionship, they let us trail only metres behind as they repeat this flawed but fascinating hunting exercise. These inexperienced youngsters clearly have no chance of breakfast. We cheer when they finally slink off in order to try an ambush. But they get sidetracked, tackling each other to the ground.
Playful growls escalate into an outburst of guttural grunts. We follow the lions into the bush to find a pride of 13 reuniting as if it’s Christmas Day. It’s an affectionate tangle of bodies rubbing and intertwining. With the temperature rising, lounge mode kicks in. Cubs knead mum’s belly as they guzzle milk, adolescents intently lick their paws, elders doze. These oversized felines display such familiar behaviour it’s easy to forget the threat that lies within patting distance.
Ongava means rhino in the Otjiherero language and, here, black rhinos are known to charge jeeps. Thankfully, you can instead walk with the much larger white rhino. Nearing sunset, we leave the vehicle behind to accompany a mother and baby. They see us but are seemingly unperturbed, although Mum constantly manoeuvres herself between us and the inquisitive youngster. Shilongo quietly sets up a sundowner picnic on the jeep bonnet. As I sip a Savanna cider, we’re joined by yet another pair. Four enormous rhinos are so close that each bite they take while grazing is audible as grass is ripped and chewed. You couldn’t ask for better company during a final Namibian sunset.
The first thing I notice about Norfolk Island, aside from the shed-like airport, is the thickness of the air. It’s February and the subtropical climate of the island, situated 1500 kilometres east of Brisbane, is certainly delivering the humidity. The weather is milder than expected, but I’m sweating profusely and the sapphire blue waters that surround the cliff-framed cost are looking rather appealing.
A crowd of locals stands metres away behind a cream fence, waving vigorously at arrivals and preparing farewells for the departing. Everyone seems to know each other, but what would you expect of an island that has a population wavering around 2000? Through the noise, I identify wataweih and whatawee as the main greetings and I make a mental note for my future grand finale.
Rose Evans is my guide for the day and I take careful note of landmarks as she drives around grassy bends and over steep undulations. But with famed Norfolk pine trees deepening the hue of endless sweeping pasture I quickly lose my landmarks. The landscape is far less tropical than I had imagined, which I later learn is the result of one of the earlier settlements where overgrown tropics were replaced with pastoral lands. It looks like a quaint UK countryside village, with the weather you’d expect of a subtropical island.
A brief introduction to World Heritage-listed Kingston, the blue lagoon of Emily Bay, the thrashing waters of Slaughter Bay and the town centre eventually ends at my private beach-house accommodation at Coast. From my deck, the blue skies are starting to scatter with grey clouds that threaten rain but never deliver, mocking the locals who are awaiting the end of a near-catastrophic drought. Not that you could tell by the landscapes that are hypnotizingly green. Through the pine trees, I spy the varying blues of the ocean and its surrounding reef, the source of many ships’ end.
Over dinner at Hilli’s Restaurant, Rose tells me how she came to call the isolated island home. As a young Queenslander, she holidayed on Norfolk Island and fell in love with the place and a local. Shortly after, she moved and has been here ever since. I’d soon come to learn this romantic tale isn’t unusual in this part of the world, and my hope for a paradise ceremony strengthens.
A Pinetree’s orientation tour is my half-day introduction to the island’s main sights. Along with my fellow grey-haired explorers, I listen as Max, our guide, rattles off fascinating island facts. For instance, the phone book uses locals’ nicknames rather than their surnames, there are no snakes or spiders here, and cattle and birds are the main fauna. I’m thrilled to learn about the absence of deadly critters we’re so used to in other parts of Australia.
“The language is 227 years old,” Max explains of Norfuk, a combination of old English and Tahitian. “It was created by some men who stole a ship, picked up their friends, settled on an island where they burnt their ship then couldn’t speak to one another.”
His dry sense of humour gets mixed responses on the bus, which is as entertaining as his stories that have me in fits of giggles. But Max makes it very clear there’s one conversation he won’t have on his tour – politics. The previously self-governed island came under Australian Government rule in 2017 and it’s still a touchy topic.
Instead, Max recites the historical tale I’ll hear multiple times over the coming days. It’s a fascinating narrative featuring ancient Polynesian seafarers, First Fleet farm lands, brutal convict settlements and a famous mutiny.
A similar discourse is delivered at a traditional sunset fish fry, during the Pinetrees’ Sound and Light Show where costumed players enact the horrifying days of the convict era, and again as I’m wandering the cemetery on a ghost tour.
I’m transfixed by the islanders’ unwavering script on the HMS Bounty mutiny, which in 1789 saw Fletcher Christian and eight other crewmen overthrow and set adrift Lieutenant William Bligh and 18 other men. The mutineers then returned to Tahiti to reunite with the women with whom they’d “fallen in love” before eventually heading to Pitcairn Island. There they set the ship ablaze and stayed for 20 years. By 1808, all of them, apart from John Adams, had been killed by each other or their Polynesian ‘loves’. Finally, in 1856, Queen Victoria granted Norfolk Island to Adams and the women and children who remained. When I question the story, drawing comparisons to other accounts of less gentlemanly behaviour during the British Empire’s history of invasions, one local offers a dismissive forced smile. And while my journalistic curiosity has me wanting to dig deeper into the romance of this story, I have a fond admiration for the pride the Norfolk nation has in their history.
It’s at this point I decide to join a Kingston ghost tour. Thanks to the island’s violent penal past, Norfolk is considered one of the world’s most haunted islands, and this has the attention of my inner woo-woo transfixed. Being a sceptical believer, I join the group with a lantern, an open mind, some garlic and a pinch of salt, hoping to hear fascinating stories but not expecting any actual ghosts. Accompanied by the sound of crashing waves, we move through the cemetery and past headstones etched with stories of murders, drownings and untimely deaths. I catch myself smirking when a guest questions a shadow (caused by a tree) in the distance, but tighten my grip on my black tourmaline crystal and soundlessly recite, “Please don’t follow me home, please don’t follow me home” in a bid to repel spirits.
It’s said a large number of the Norfolk’s spirits hang out around Kingston’s main street, Quality Row, and its elegant official houses. But it’s the duplex that catches my attention. As we park opposite, the bus fills with whispers and apprehension. We’re told about the house’s dark past, and some people choose to stay where they are. I spend my time ensuring I’m surrounded by living people, but eventually freak out and refuse to enter the servants’ quarters. Whether it’s anxiety or the supernatural, I’m convinced the building has evil juju. I let out a hushed giggle when a man jumps because he catches his son’s shadow while taking a photo; another when a woman, who is standing near a window without glass, quietens the group to ask if anyone else felt the “chill in the air” that “ran across” her skin. When I return to my cabin, I fall asleep with the light on.
Done with ghost and history hunting, I’m determined to pursue some nature-based adventures. Heading to Emily Bay, I meet with Jay Barker from Permanent Vacations who’s taking me on a snorkelling tour of the reef. The conditions look a little choppy, and my heart rate increases when Jay tells me we’ll start the tour at aptly named Slaughter Bay. I flipper up and dive in. The water is warm and, while the waves are strong, the reef is soon in view and my initial nerves dissipate. The crackling of the ocean is calming, the coral vibrant and the fish flourishing. Wrasse and blue trevally swim by, while rare Aatuti fish show their colours as the bullies of the bay. It’s without a doubt one of the liveliest reefs I’ve ever set goggles on.
Three hours pass before we pop up for a break. The ripples on the water are lit by the sun, while Lone Pine, which has been here for as long as anyone can remember, stands tall on Point Hunter in the distance. I’m breathless from both battling the current of Slaughter Bay and the inspiring landscape.
With the tide coming in and my skin starting to wrinkle, Jay offers to take me to some rock pools by Anson Bay on the northwest side of the island. Barefooted, I walk up a narrow sandy path and find a rope tied to a tree. “Hold on to this and pull yourself up,” Jay instructs as I start to wish I hadn’t bailed on the past two months of personal training. At the top of the climb, there’s a narrow goat track leading to more ropes, a side-stepping cliff edge and vertical track to the water. I don’t make it all the way down and, in a bid to hide my fear, dub it a good vantage point for photos. As we make our way back to the top of Anson Bay, I kick myself for not going further and vow to come back and tackle the rock pools in the future.
When I wake up the following morning, with muscles stiffer than a log of pine, I’m grateful to have a day free to explore in a Mini Moke. It’s Valentine’s Day so I enlist Jay to be my lunch date and navigator. We walk from the peak of Mount Pitt to Mount Bates, the highest point of the island, where the tropical landscape I had expected is thriving, then settle in at 100 Acres Reserve for a lunch prepared earlier by Picnic in Paradise. Surrounded by the sounds of black noddy terns and white terns nesting nearby, it’s not quite a scene from Bachelor in Paradise, but I feel totally at peace here, and not in a woo-woo ghost kind of way. A session at Serenity Day Spa and homemade pasta from Dino’s at Bumboras, a restaurant run from the owner’s home, built in the late 1800s, is a fitting end to the day.
Early the next morning, a symphony of cows mooing and white terns cacawing forces me from my slumber. A rooster sounds its alarm, crowing a good morning chant to the rising sun. The sun is shining through the window, dulled only slightly by the sheer curtains. The breeze pushes its way through the screen door, filling my room with the briny smell of the ocean. I wrap my hands around a cup of tea and step onto the deck for one last view of the pastoral lands and Pacific blues. I may not have uncovered all the mysteries hidden beneath the Norfolk pines and between the haunted buildings, or found myself the recipient of a bloom at a red-rose ceremony, but beyond its museums and mesmerising sweeping landscapes, this patch of land in the South Pacific has more adventure than a lone traveller could ask for.
Whatever happens do not fight the call of the city, which wants to pull you into its history of eating and drinking like an old friend who hasn’t seen you in years. Raise that glass, choose some tapas and let Madrid take control. There’s no way you will end the night disappointed.
5pm
The night is long in Madrid, so as the afternoon lingers it’s best to start yourself off with a good base of food and drink. It’s a case of choose your own adventure at Mercado San Miguel. This cavernous carnival of food and drink offers a traditional ambience but with tastes modernised for today’s dynamic palates. Upon entering you’re accosted by diet-killing delights on all sides. Cured meats, plump seafood, luscious fruit, vats of olives and decadent pastries are displayed at beautifully presented stalls, while at other stands you can stop to eat paella and tapas and sip frosty glasses of white wine. Drift with the current of the crowd as you set the tone for the night.
Mercado San Miguel
Plaza de San Miguel 5
mercadodesanmiguel.es
6.30pm
By now the sun is getting ready to set, and there is no better place to put the day to rest than at the Ginkgo Sky Bar atop the VP Plaza España Design hotel. This ultra-fabulous lounge, restaurant and music venue has panoramic views of the Royal Palace, Almudena Cathedral and other landmarks you simply can’t get anywhere else. The only competition faced by the vista is the bar itself – from its faceted mirrored ceiling to the tropical vertical garden surrounding the bottles, there’s plenty to catch the eye. The signature cocktail blends gin, Fino de Jerez, pink pepper tonic water, shiso leaves and lemon grass. You might find yourself wanting to stay for the live music and DJs, but come back later if you must.
Gingko Sky Bar
Level 12, Plaza de España 3
ginkgoskybarmadrid.com
8pm
Tear yourself away from the heavens and descend to the bohemian depths where the hip Chamberí and Salamanca neighbourhoods meet. Here, in the epicentre of cool, you’ll find a miniature Brunswick minus the hipsters and matcha tea shops. Artist, designers and musicians fill the streets, as do little tiendas – Magro Cardona with its handmade shoes is a case in point – that exist nowhere else in the world. All that window shopping can build up an appetite, so hit Casa Macareno. The energy in this white, bright taverna is electric as locals begin to fuel their evenings with vino tinto, house-cured meats, anchovies, patatas bravas and golden cod croquettes.
Casa Macareno
Calle de San Vicente Ferrer 44
casamacareno.com
9.30pm
While it’s the south of Spain that is best known for flamenco, there is one institution in Madrid that does it in spectacular fashion. Corral de la Moreria is home to the most talented, authentic and powerful dancers the world has to offer, and their epic shows change every eight days (just in case you’re going to be hanging around the city for a while). Here, the dancers perform the flamenco of the streets accompanied by musicians who are at the top of their game. It’s possible to book here for dinner and a show, but with so much more to do simply buy a show-only ticket to witness the dancing.
Corral De La Moreria
Calle de la Moreria 17
corraldelamoreria.com
11pm
Cut across Plaza Mayor and head towards Cava de San Miguel, a street that appears to have been frozen in time. Patrons bubble out onto the footpath from ancient tapas and wine bars. Bar El Gallego is a good place to start, but it’s best to bounce from one hole in the wall to the next until ending up at the granddaddy of them all, Sobrino de Botín. With its gold-leaf interior, wine catacombs and heritage – it opened in 1725 and is the oldest continually operating restaurant in the world – it’s quite the experience. Don’t come for the spectacle or its pedigree though. Here, it’s all about the suckling pig, especially if you’re into food that will change your life.
Sobrino De Botín
Calle de Cuchilleros 17
botin.es
12.30am
If you are looking for a traditional experience then a stroll through Barrio de las Letras is a must. This was once the home of Cervantes, the great Spanish author of Don Quixote. Look down and you’ll see his legacy, as well as that of other writers from Spain’s Golden Age of literature – on some footpaths their prose is rendered in gold lettering. Here, like a modern-day Sancho Panza, you can bounce from bar to bar, striking up conversations with locals and travellers, on your quest for the greatest Spanish experience ever. While one outpost is as magical as another here, a seat outside on Plaza de Santa Ana offers up the kind of people-watching extravaganza sure to inspire the poet deep inside of you. There are tiki drinks at Bar Hawaiano Muana-Loa and classic cocktails at Lateral Santa Ana, but at this time of night you might be ready to knock back something simpler. An ice-cold draft beer, perhaps? Cervecería Alemana opened in 1904 when a posse of German brewers decided to bring their skills to Madrid. A local family eventually took the place over, but not much, including the bow-tied waiters, has changed. It still serves a good range of Spanish beers best drunk at one of those tables on the plaza.
Cerveceria Alemana
Plaza de Santa Ana 6
cerveceriaalemana.com
2am
It’s now well past the witching hour, so it’s time to head underground. Salmon Guru is where those in the know meet beneath the neon. You may have to wait a hot minute to get inside, but once in you will be treated to the most inventive and delicious drinks in the whole city. Some come encased in eggshells you must break; others in glass domes filled with smoke. Diego Cabrera is the man in charge of mixing and his work has seen the venue hit the World’s 50 Best Bars list.
Salmon Guru
Calle Echegaray 21
salmonguru.es
3am
By now, if you are still standing, you need to dance it out. If it’s Monday you’re definitely in luck because there is simply no better place to do that than Fucking Monday. This temple to debauchery has a vast dance floor, rows of bars and even a slick lounge upstairs that hosts an all-night beer pong tournament. Here you’ll discover the kind of fun that can make you want to keep partying, fuelled by cheap drinks and the crowd’s fierce energy, right through till dawn.
Fucking Monday
Calle de Isabel la Católica 6
facebook.com/fckingmondaymadrid
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