A yellow and green snake slithers below my foot. It’s pretty and colourful, but it’s a snake nonetheless. I rewind my steps in slow motion then rapidly retreat.
This is the first hike of many during a week rafting and camping down 300 kilometres of the Colorado River from Marble Canyon to Whitmore Wash, and while we were warned about the snakes and the scorpions of the Grand Canyon, the thrill of coming foot to face with one still has my heart racing.
Calling this a hike is somewhat misleading. Climbing is a more fitting description. We are in the North Canyon clambering over rock debris. It’s a bent-over, hands-on scramble, and natural footholds and nooks are the only help we have to bolster up our bodies. Each exaggerated step strains my groin muscles and tests my flexibility. We are tiny flecks of colour dwarfed by the terracotta-red canyon walls and surrounded by tessellated rock that looks like a stonemason has been busy slicing out blocks to create a giant game of Jenga. Pockets of empty space and teetering rocks are left behind.
At the river, we make camp on a small strip of beach. It’s the first night and somewhat of a culture shock. This trip requires all hands on deck – a raft full of bags, cots, tables, chairs, kitchen, food and water awaits us, and a human production line forms to unload our precious gear. Jeff is our trip leader and swiftly runs through camp set-up, hygiene and etiquette. Washing is limited to wet wipes or a brave wash in the achingly cold river. All peeing must be straight into the river while a fashioned ‘regular’ toilet is set up each night for number-twos only. A tight wiggle in a sleeping bag is our only hope of getting dressed discreetly. We are going to get to know each other intimately, and fast.
A comical scene quickly unfolds as everyone deciphers the knack of erecting a stretcher bed for the first time. Sleeping exposed under the stars is an incredibly peaceful experience – the crammed celestial sky seems almost fictitious and the roar of the rapids drowns out any snoring neighbours.
Jeff gets the camp moving at sunrise with the waft of fresh coffee. We’ve been told to kit up in full wet-weather gear, morphing the group into Michelin men in oversized parachute-like outfits. The week will see us ride through a system of 80 complex rapids and fluctuating water levels. This is one of the few rivers in the world that uses a rating system ranging from one to the highest rating, a Grade 10.
I take lead position on the raft, prepared to cop the full force. I see the slick sinkhole of 23 Mile Rapid and brace myself as the nose of the raft slams down and an icy wall of water smashes overhead. The water outsmarts my gear and snakes a chilly path down my body. Even in the milder rapids, water rebounds off the sides and splashes unexpectedly like a slap across the face with a wet fish.
Travelling just 16 kilometres each hour, we have plenty of time between rapids to lie back and absorb the skyscraper walls as the river winds through a tiny fracture in a vast plateau. It’s a geologist’s heaven. The history behind the formation is baffling and the horizontal layers – each distinct in colour and texture – are unique timestamps. The further we travel, the higher the cliffs rise as the older bedrock base pushes the young layers to the top. The eroded Redwall Limestone creates a fun game of I Spy – we spot the pillared entry of Petra, a game piece from Battleship, the pipes of a church organ and a statue from Angkor Wat ruins. In downtime, we’re entertained with the wonderful concept called the beer bag – a netted bag that drags along in the icy water behind us as a natural esky.
Approaching camp at Main Nankoweap, we see a row of windows cut into the cliff high above us. These granaries of the Ancestral Puebloans date back to 1100 CE and represent quite the impressive feat to protect their stores. A tiny path wiggles up and we naively comment what an arduous hike that would have once been. We don’t have to imagine for long though, as it’s our afternoon activity.
It’s a slow climb up 200 metres with little flat respite to ease the burn. Each taxing step varies in height from a tiny prance to a giant lunge. Several admit defeat along the way, but I pace myself with regular breaks to safely absorb the view. The goat track narrows until we must navigate single file for the last steep pitch along a rubbled switchback ledge. The pain is forgotten immediately upon reaching the granaries as the elevation unveils the immense surroundings juxtaposed against the tiny blue dots of our rafts far below. The cloudy olive river zig-zags through the distinct rift in the deep rock bed. I feel humbly irrelevant.
By day three I’ve lost track of time and regular life has faded away. A new seamless rhythm is in play and a team camaraderie has formed. Being stripped of luxuries and vanity is now liberating. Today’s highlight is Little Colorado River. At the mouth of the joining rivers, contrasting water colours swirl together as if a milk tanker has spilled its load. Calcium carbonate creates creamy glacial blue water and a snow-like frosting along the bank. Compared to the numbing Colorado River temperatures, this offshoot offers a balmy rinse off. Fashioning our life jackets into unflattering jumbo nappies, we slip into the cascading water. Bouncing off the rocks in the fast flow, I’m grateful for my padded ride. Throw in inflatable water toys and adults regress to playful kids who refuse to get out.
From this point we leave Marble Canyon and officially enter the Grand Canyon. The rock surrounding us dates back over a mind-boggling 1.6 billion years. We can now observe the Great Unconformity, a missing supergroup of rock layers representing a 1.2 million year gap in history. You can clearly see the top layer of young Tapeats sandstone sandwiched with the ancient Vishnu Schist, yet no middle layers of time. Where they have gone remains a great natural mystery.
My favourite part of the day has become lying in bed as camp is stirring, watching the rising sun play across the rock walls. The spotlight moves from just the peaks, then slowly lights each canyon layer with a warm glow.
Water has been released overnight from Glen Canyon Dam. This surge is significant because today is a conveyor belt of big rapids and this extra water just made them a whole lot crazier. Hance Rapid is just past camp and our first grade 10. The roar is heard well before we see the hint of white chop ahead. It’s a tricky weave through the menacing rocks just below the surface. No one is staying dry this morning.
Each rapid has a unique story and naming convention. Some get their label from the adventurer who conquered them (or didn’t), while others from their characteristics. We pass through Sockdolager, a boxing term for a knockout punch; Grapevine, described as more rocks than grapes on a vine; and Horn Creek, known for the steepest drop in the shortest distance. Hermit Rapid is the monster of the day. A nine-metre vertical drop bends our raft like a banana, and the impact lifts my body and deposits me into the lap of my neighbour behind. The roller-coaster continues through a succession of massive dips, a torrent slamming us each time.
I swallow my fair share of water as I’m laughing too hard to shut my mouth. Cheering as the raft is finally spat out, I wish we could do it all again.
Even after 370 river trips under his belt, Jeff still looks tense as we approach certain rapids. No run is ever the same. The rapids are forever changing and unforgiving of a minor mistake. It’s unfathomable to think of the first explorers in vulnerable wooden crafts navigating this river blindly. With these currents there is no reversing. They were 100 per cent committed with no idea of what they faced around each corner. Many explorers abandoned their boats and hiked out instead, but this in itself is dangerous. The river is not to be underestimated, even today.
Big Dune campsite is a long strip of beach bordering a plunging cliff line. We’re now at the 119 Mile point. Jeff creates a makeshift fire out of paper towels and olive oil to congregate around each night. With the wine flowing, a hearty rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ incites a dance party. The sheer rock face becomes the stage backdrop for an impromptu shadow play. Interpretative dance by torchlight, magnified and warped onto the rock, creates surreal entertainment for those watching from bed.
By day five the tree-topped North and South Rims are in clear view, towering nearly 1500 metres above us. The oldest canyon rock, layers of dusky pink Zoroaster granite and polished black Vishnu Schist, weaves down vertically like burrowing tree roots. Millennia of rockfalls have scattered immense boulders, now resting on impossible angles and tipping points. The slightest tremor would completely transform the make-up of the Grand Canyon in a split second.
Today’s hike is to Upper Deer Creek ‘patio’ and not for those with a fear of heights. The escarpment looms straight up from the water and it’s a challenging climb from the get-go. The 44ºC heat radiates off the rocks, singeing hands on contact. The final leg to the waterfall traverses a sketchy ledge. Facing the wall, I gingerly shuffle my hands and feet along like a mime artist’s impression of being trapped in a box. The ledge is boot-width in some places and the drop has no detectable bottom. The pay-off, however, is a refreshing soak as I sit, clothes and all, in the waterfall spa bath.
The extreme temperatures and dry air are taking a toll on our bodies. No amount of water or moisturiser seems to placate my dehydrated system. The fingers of a fellow camper have split like burst sausages.
The plan for our last full day is a long visit to Havasu Falls, but we are side-tracked by an impromptu pit stop at Matkatamiba Canyon. This narrow slot canyon cuts a tight v-shape channel through ribboned rock. The walls resemble the compacted layers of a Flake chocolate and a small stream flows through but is slick with algae slime. The only way up is to pressure climb: a technique of maintaining constant pressure with your body to climb without touching the bottom. Jeff wedges himself between the walls and pulls each of us out of the waist-deep water to start. Digging my backbone into one side, I push hard against the other with my feet. Each move is carefully considered as I inch my way up. It’s the point of no return. A slip is guaranteed to significantly injure not only me, but everyone else below me. Somebody on a previous trip had to be helicoptered off the river after a fall here. At one point I freeze. I’m horizontal across the canyon, painfully pushing my elbows hard into the rock to hold me, but I’m not secure. My adrenaline is racing as I am completely out of my comfort zone. Jeff clambers up and over like my Spiderman hero to provide a higher anchor point. It’s an intense physical and mental test, but the sense of achievement is exhilarating.
After our final camp pack-down, we are taking a seven-minute helicopter shortcut out of the canyon. Downriver at 187 Mile is the Whitmore helipad, in reality is little more than a knoll midway up the cliff. The precision of the helicopter cutting past the canyon walls to land is extraordinary. With the rotors spinning, the pilot hovers on the ground just long enough for us to swiftly buckle in. The scope of this Natural Wonder of the World can only be realised from the aerial view. Our group flies out dishevelled and weary, but bonded by a proud sense of having conquered something quite special. A mere 0.4 per cent of annual visitors experience the Grand Canyon as the adventure we’ve just had. The focus is now firmly on removing the permeating film of grit covering our bodies. I can’t wait for a long hot soak in a bath.
Whether you’re simply travelling from the end of one country to its other, crossing the English Channel or searching for a longer adventure – one that will have you feeling as though you’ve stepped back to another era – the best way to get around Europe is by train.
Watch the countryside change outside your window, meet people from around the world and enjoy relaxed hospitality on the way to somewhere new and exciting. Plus, you surely have to be in favour of any method of long-distance transportation that allows you to avoid the clamour and stress of an airport. Here, we’ve found some classic European rail journeys that will take you to the continent’s finest destinations.
There’s no doubt about it: Portugal is experiencing a moment. Everyone you talk to wants to go there, and that’s why you should book early if you’re keen to get on board The Presidential. They don’t call it that for nothing – kings, presidents, heads of state and popes have all travelled on this train, the jewel in the crown of the country’s railway, during the past century.
These days it offers a mouth-watering journey where guests can experience sumptuous meals prepared by incredible chefs from Portugal and further afield. The culinary talents in 2019’s departures between 20 September and 26 October include Henrique Sá Pessoa (two Michelin stars), Oscar Goncalves (one Michelin star), Leandro Carreira, Alexandre Silva (2012 winner of Top Chef), Óscar Gonçalves, Nuno Mendes and Bruno Rocha, as well as rising stars André Lança Cordeiro and Pedro Pana Bastos.
Of course, you’ll need to make a decision on which option you’re going to take. The first is a nine-hour trip. Entitled the Presidential Experience, it includes a return journey between Sao Bento and Vesuvio, a four-course gourmet lunch with matched wines and an excursion to taste port at Quinto do Vesuvio.
There’s also a two-day Escapade Pack from Sao Bento to Duoro – think the Presidential Experience with added grape stomping in one of the world’s last stone pits and an overnight stay at Six Senses Duoro Valley, a nineteenth-century manor house overlooking vineyards that’s been transformed into a luxury resort.
For maximum extravagance, book the three-day Premium Pack. You’ll begin in Porto, where you’ll indulge in meals at some of the city’s best restaurants, take private tours of the country’s premier modern art museum, Fundacio Serralves, and grand concert hall Casa de Musica. Then it’s on to the train where you’ll embark on a wonderful two-day exploration of Vesuvio and the Duoro Valley.
If you look up the word efficiency in the dictionary, there’s a photograph of a Swiss train right next to it. They run on time, they go everywhere and with the ultra-convenient Swiss Travel Pass you can jump on any public train, bus or ferry and explore to your heart’s content.
Of course, the million-euro question is which train to choose. Check out the suggested routes for the Ultimate Grand Train Tour of Switzerland to help make your decision a little easier. The experts do recommend allocating between four and eight days to your train tour to take in a huge variety of the landscapes and experiences on offer throughout this fascinating country. There are eight different routes in all, covering 1,200 kilometres and crossing all four of Switzerland’s language regions. Each one offers a journey of discovery, rolling through jaw-dropping scenery and also delivering travellers to lesser known towns and villages. Get a better understanding of the country by matching your timetabling to local festivities or events.
Still stuck? Here are some of our favourites. At the top of the hit list is the Bernina Express, which travels between St Moritz and Lugano on an elevated journey across the Swiss Alps. It negotiates 55 tunnels and 196 bridges along the way, follows the edge of Lake Como and stops at Alp Grüm, a restaurant accessible only by train.
Lovers of the high life might also like to board the Glacier Express, which passes through charming towns, across steep glaciers, past waterfalls and along Switzerland’s very own Grand Canyon, the Rhine Gorge. We know the word spectacular gets bandied about an awful lot, but it really is the only way to describe this scenic route from St Moritz to Zermatt.
Then there’s the GoldenPass MOB Panoramic linking Lucerne and Interlaken, gateway to the country’s adventure capital.
There are certainly far more places to see and trains to catch, and you can get one of the local experts at Great Train Journeys to organise an entire itinerary, including accommodation, for you.
It’s one of the largest of its kind in the world and Hardangerfjord, which stretches from the Atlantic Ocean to Norway’s mountainous interior, is a sight a visitor will never forget. In parts, it is 900 metres deep and is blessed with natural wonders like thundering waterfalls and spectacular peaks.
If you want to set your full attention to its many wonders, book the Hardangerfjord in a Nutshell tour. Operating from May to September, this round trip can be done in one day, but why rush? It’s much better to slow right down, stretch the journey out to three days, and enjoy it all.
Along the way you’ll join a boat cruise on the fjord and a coach tour through countryside that explores delightful villages, like Ulvik, typical of Western Norway. You’ll also go on a sightseeing side trip that takes in the Vøringsfossen waterfall and the Norwegian Nature Center.
But there are plenty of other adventures that will reveal the region’s unique offerings. Take a guided snowshoe hike to Trolltunga, which juts out high over Ringedalsvatnet lake. Fjord safaris take visitors out on the water in rigid inflatable boats, where they can see seals and seabirds, as well as marvel at the sheer walls of rock that erupt from the waterline. Or perhaps you’d prefer to power a similar journey yourself. At Ulvik, join a guided kayak tour where, once you’ve paddled to an isolated island in the fjord, you’ll be taught basic survival skills, like how to start a fire and identify edible plants.
There are many other options for this train trip, too, including starting your return journey in Oslo and doing a one-way trip between Bergen and Voss.
Lama Drukpa Kunley is a spiritual figure in Tibetan and Bhutanese Buddhism – an awakened Buddha who achieved enlightenment but chose to manifest on earth as a mischievous drifter. He aimed to teach the way of Buddhism through thoroughly quirky methods, ridiculing the conservative religious establishment and promoting high living, mischief and a wild sex life as a means of achieving the much-coveted status of enlightenment. To Drukpa Kunley, also known as the Divine Madman, nothing was sacred. He roamed the Himalayas telling jokes, reciting naughty poetry, performing miracles, drinking chung (a Tibetan beer) and seducing women, including, bizarrely enough, his own mother.
On my own journey across Tibet and into Bhutan, I regularly encounter the legend of Drukpa Kunley. I didn’t, however, encounter him in person. He is said to have returned to his birthplace of Tibet in the sixteenth century and either lived until to the ripe old age of 150 or jumped into the Maitreya Buddha’s mouth where he remains today, waiting to be reborn.
Not encountering him in person may not be such a bad thing. Legend suggests encounters with Drukpa Kunley were anything but conventional. One such story has some monks walking towards a village and passing a madman on a hill above them. As they looked up, the madman got himself out, took aim and let loose a urine stream on the shaven head of one monk. The monk complained to the local villagers –“A madman has just peed on my head!” – angrily demanding an explanation. When they took a closer look at the offended head, the villagers were dumbfounded. The words Om Mani Padme Hum (the most widely used Buddhist mantra) were written in gold script across its crown. The monks had encountered no run-of-the-mill madman, but the Divine Madman, the elusive and unconventional Buddhist saint once known to roam the Himalayas. Rather than being insulted, the monk had in fact been blessed!
Drukpa Kunley believed religious institutions were self-serving theocratic havens for those who were too weak to face their own desires and chose to abstain from them. Despite being labelled a lunatic as a result, his popularity remains unchallenged today. This unlikely saint is revered throughout the Himalayas largely because of his ability to relate to the common people. While his playful antics and erratic behaviour continually surprised, he communicated in a way the people understood, leading them along a path to spiritual growth that did not involve harsh abstinence from the delights of life. After all, what would a life without wine be like?
In most illustrations and stories about Drukpa Kunley, he is dressed as a beggar, carries a bow and arrow, and has a dog by his side. While he is venerated in Tibet, it is in Bhutan that I discover his greatest influence. The Bhutanese believe he originally came across the mountains from Tibet, subduing demons along the way with the awesome power of his penis, which he referred to as his Flaming Thunderbolt of Wisdom! (Now that is a new one for you boys.)
Stories suggest Drukpa Kunley could have any woman he desired. He is said to have once followed a stray arrow from his bow into a house. Upon seeing the owner’s wife, Drukpa Kunley sang to her husband: “The arrow has certainly not gone astray, since it has led me to this voluptuous goddess, Tsewong, mine host, please leave us I must lay this lady this instant!”
The husband was initially enraged then realised who Drukpa Kunley was and acquiesced. Because of his penchant for virgins and a philandering reputation, Drukpa Kunley has become a symbol of fertility in Bhutan. Phallic depictions of his Flaming Thunderbolt of Wisdom adorn the walls of many traditional houses in Bhutan. Travellers to Bhutan usually giggle at the paintings. However, the local families who’ve created them do so in the hope their presence will encourage them to sow their own oats, so to speak. Despite the popularity of the Divine Madman’s liberated teachings, the Bhutanese themselves remain very inhibited and shy when it comes to sex. While Drukpa Kunley may be revered for his promiscuity and disdain for convention, few of his faithful would ever act as liberally themselves.
Not all Divine Madman legends are sexual – some are simple messages for daily life. A man in the village of Tobsang tells me one of my favourite tales. Drukpa Kunley was wandering through local fields and came across a woman harvesting wheat. “If you cook me a meal, I will do all your work,” he told her. She happily agreed and went off to kill a rooster. She prepared the entire bird for Drukpa Kunley’s meal, but put aside a leg for her husband. After he finished his meal Drukpa Kunley collected the bones and, with a wave of his hand and a puff of smoke, the rooster was revived. Unfortunately, it only had one leg and in Bhutanese lore, if you see a rooster with one leg it is a bad omen. When Drukpa Kunley left, he pointed to an insignificant rock and told the woman not to look under it for at least three days. But she was too curious and, as soon as he left, she looked and discovered a small pile of wheat, which had been a blessing. Because of her impatience however, the wheat blew away, her field was full once more and she had to do all the harvesting again. Unknowingly, she had failed the Divine Madman’s test.
The Bhutanese do not encounter their Divine Madman much today and, as I said, I am pretty sure I didn’t see him on my travels. However, there are those that believe he is waiting to be reborn and has the ability to shapeshift. Perhaps you can never be completely certain that he is not standing by your side. While no one peed on my head, many a Bhutanese has a mischievous sparkle in their eye and future travellers to their lush Himalayan kingdom may wish to keep watch for the return of the Divine Madman to stir the pot once again. If you are wandering in the mountains and someone pees on you from above, don’t fly into a rage – it may just be your lucky day.
Until recently, if you’d asked me for a word association with Singapore, adjectives like squeaky clean and law-abiding would’ve rolled off my tongue. Street art and Singapore in the same sentence? “Not on your life,” I would’ve snorted. The idea of illegal art existing in one of the most highly regulated countries in the world, where you can still get your hide caned for overstepping the mark, sounds unlikely at best.
But venture into the Lion City’s historic, multicultural neighbourhoods and – surprise, surprise – pop go the colours. Psychedelic scenes of bicycle-riding cows lurk behind a metro stop. A plus-sized slinky snakes along an alley. Giant faces weathered with laugh lines cackle above a laneway bar. Wall murals lead to graffiti strips and on to public sculptures, each addition adding layers to a place usually characterised by its spray-and-wiped surfaces. Who knew?
“There are a lot more spaces now,” says Zul Othman – aka Zero – who’s regarded as one of the founders of Singapore’s street art scene, which kicked off in the early 2000s. “You walk around Kampong Glam and you see it. You walk around Chinatown and you see it. Little India, too.”
Sitting barefoot in his shared studio in Aliwal Arts Centre, surrounded by spray cans and stickers, Zero shows me thick chunks of layered paint he recently hacked from illegal graffiti walls. Their heft represents years of the undercover art form in Singapore. “Me and my collective knew of the existing scene of graffiti writers and tagging [back when we started out],” he explains. “But we did things differently. We focused more on characters, stencils, stickers and a bit of spray painting.”
Over time, the law has become harsher and artists have turned to agreements with the state and building owners so they can continue to create. It’s a double-edged sword: there are now more pieces, but strings are often attached.
Still, the world is waking up to Asian street art, and Zero’s pleased most works here are produced by locals or Singapore-based internationals who’ve twigged to the nuances of the Little Red Dot. “On the surface, street art adds depth and things to look at apart from just shopping and advertisements. It gives a different view,” he says. “I like to see artworks that are a bit more aware, works that understand culture.”
Zero leads me around the back of the centre to a wall designated for art. His wife, Laurie Maravilla – street-art name SPAZ – who leads a collective of female street artists, has sprayed the neon-lit faces of two Asian youths over the top of an exotic woman with wild hair. Her long eyelashes and swirling tresses poke out from behind. The wall is constantly changing, he tells me, with artists from his current gang, RSCLS, happy to paint over one another’s pieces as part of the constant evolution.
We head around the building to where he and another guy have just finished a new piece. It’s a sea of skulls and spray cans in blood red and lurid purple, with a giant aqua skull peering through. A hand with a discreetly raised middle finger hovers over its nasal cavity and Zero’s trademark, an upside-down gold crown, hovers above. It’s an impressive piece, even if a sign about motorbike parking cuts through the middle.
In Singapore’s thick heat, we wander across the road to a spray paint shop called the Black Book. Beneath the relief of leafy trees, it doubles as a graffiti hangout zone. Artists splash the brick building and enveloping car park walls with loud colours, cartoon faces and huge lightening-bolt lettering. Some pieces are unfinished, something Zero finds frustrating, but it shows the life in the scene. He points out a mural inspired by Malay batik – it’s like a rainbow in a dream.
Zero gives me directions to one of his works nearby, a melancholy head partially submerged in purple waves, tucked down an otherwise whitewashed service laneway in the shadow of the domed Sultan Mosque. From there, he tips exploring the independent boutique strip of Haji Lane. It’s nothing like what I’ve come to expect from Singapore. Micro bars, cafes and shops shoulder one another. A fresh juice joint leads to an eclectic gift shop selling glass jewellery filled with dried flowers, and the urban fashion sees me linger longer than I should. There are quirky shop names, like the Drunken Balloon, Going Om and Juice Clinic, and bunting overhead. Between it all, I stumble across a massive scene of Aztec-meets-anime warriors smothering every surface of a bar called Piedra Negra.
Nearby, the Singapura Club reflects its purpose as a people-watching spot with giant portraits of characterful elders gazing outwards. I follow an alley and find a strip of sunset-hued, fabric-inspired patterns by Singapore-born Sheryo and her Australian partner, Yok. Away from the action, beside Sultan Gate, I spot a storytelling mural revealing how coffee brewing is changing from traditional Malaysian kopi and teh tarik (pulled tea) to modern espresso. Perhaps ironically, the neighbouring roastery has closed down.
The heavy weather is building to an imminent storm, so before it buckets down I take Zero’s advice and leg it to Singapore’s street art hotbed, Little India. Ho-hum streets between the neighbourhoods give way to masses of gritty street-side cafes, fabric shops gilded with gold thread and an astonishing number of shops selling suitcases. I duck in to a produce market on Hindoo Road and spot one of Zero’s recent works, a giant mural of a Tamil movie star, in the distance. It’s the biggest he’s ever done, created after nutting out an agreement with a building owner. It didn’t go entirely well, with the proprietor turned off by the blokey-cool image of a moustachioed, dark shades-sporting celeb. Zero stated his case, and the work stayed. “I painted it for the South Indian migrant workers who live in the area, who built Singapore,” he tells me. “They’re the cleaners, and this is my homage to them.” Across the road is more of his work – a park filled with giant painted elephants. As I walk through the herd, rain starts to pelt. Everything stops as people corral under awnings and covered walkways. But it’s still warm and, although I get some puzzled looks, I soldier on, pausing to gaze at huge traditional Indian dancers with painted nails near the flower stalls of Upper Dickson Road. As it gets torrential, I find refuge under the roof edge of the Little India MRT station on Kerbau Road. It’s a lucky score: I spot a zany bovine mural playfully interpreting the district’s heritage as a cattle trading post and the Hindu reverence for cows. Many of the walls I see have been painted in the past 12 months, a result of the ArtWalk Little India festival. Each January since 2015, local and international artists have been invited to spray new walls, and tracking down their works might just be the best way to tour the area’s vibrant streets.
As the clouds clear and the sun fades, I scoot to what feels like Singapore’s coolest neighbourhood, Chinatown. Red lanterns are strung across eat streets and hawker centres lure with the smells of wok-fried noodles and sizzling pork, but I’m on a mission to get to Keong Saik Road. Again, Singapore surprises – there’s personality and verve here. Once a red-light district, the gentrified precinct retains plenty of sass and a high concentration of slick eateries worth queuing for (and people do). The Australian-helmed Burnt Ends is reason alone to visit, as is number 27 on Asia’s 50 Best Restaurants 2018 list, Tippling Club. But I’ve got street art to find. Deposited down alleys and lanes, it reveals itself slowly. A pyramid of poppy bulbs edges a black slinky winding along a white wall on Neil Road. Abstract shapes in pastel hues curtain both sides of a nameless shophouse lane. The insides of hawker hub Amoy Street Food Centre – where I refuel with smoky char kway teow – harbour a Chinese dragon, traditional food cart and laughing Chinese woman. Next time I’ll combine the hunt with a cocktail crawl, starting at Butcher Boy, where they serve boozy Thai milk tea in a plastic takeaway pouch with a straw, and finishing with a late-night pork taco and margarita at window bar, Kilo Merienda, which only opens at 11pm on Fridays and Saturdays.
To thoroughly get in to the street art groove, I’ve booked myself in to a new art hotel called Hotel Indigo Katong, which takes its design cues from the surrounding neighbourhoods’ heritage. Inside, it’s a sensory joyride of ornately patterned bathroom tiles, Perspex lions, designer furniture, statement lighting and street-scene murals on bedroom walls. Rae Tang, who works there, says the style is pure Peranakan. This eclectic culture was birthed by Chinese traders who first arrived in the fifteenth century and married Malay women, resulting in a mish-mash of Malay colour and elite Chinese refinement, further enhanced with Portuguese, Dutch and Indonesian influences. The people decorated the outside world as artistically as they did the insides of their houses. “They would put patterned tiles outside, on floors and buildings, to show their wealth,” says Tang. Strolling along sun-baked Koon Seng Road in Joo Chiat, rows of terraced Chinese shophouses are so colourful they’re arguably living urban art. A hot pink and baby blue frontage feeds into its neighbour’s pastel green and arctic white facade. There’s lace-like wooden edging, wreath plasterwork and floral ceramic tiles. It’s like being in an architectural lolly shop.
Contemporary street art is thin on the ground here, although a fun piece called Jousting Painters by lauded Lithuanian street artist Ernest Zacharevic looms large on the corner of Joo Chiat Terrace and Everitt Road. It shows two lifelike boys riding horses drawn in doodle form. In a sign there’s more to come, local mural artists the Ink&Clog have recently opened their first urban art store, Utama Co, selling spray paint nearby. Wiping my sweaty brow, I head inside to steam up some more with a $5 nonya laksa at the cafeteria-feel 328 Katong Laksa. It’s famous locally for delivering the goods in this foodie heartland. It’s also known for being a Gordon Ramsay favourite, although seeing his mug on the wall isn’t nearly as surprising as discovering the urban galleries of street art Singapore keeps on the quiet.
It’s a dazzling bluebird day when I break my snowboard into two pieces and carefully assemble them so they become a set of cross-country skis. It’s my first time splitboarding and I’m both amped and a little apprehensive.
I extend a set of collapsible poles, hoist a backpack full of lunch, layers and avalanche equipment on to my back, and follow our eager group into the Japanese Alps. We are led and tailed by Evergreen Outdoor Center guides who are committed to two things: finding us untracked powder slopes and ensuring our safe return.
It’s a three-hour slog to the top of the ridgeline, but the views steal my breath away. The Japanese Alps, a series of ranges that bisect central Honshu and are dotted with 3000-metre peaks, are the most dramatic in all of Japan. Named after their European equivalent they backdrop the area’s major ski resorts and beckon serious skiers and snowboarders into their majestic topography.
We lunch quickly at the top and reassemble our skis so they are again boards. Hearts hammering, adrenaline surging, we drop over the ridge and take turns snaking through soft powdery snow down the steep mountain face. Our hoots ring out across the icy valley as we follow the fall line through well-spaced trees, past a frozen waterfall and down a deep valley. From the bottom looking back we see our tracks etched like signatures into the mountain. It’s all over in 40 minutes then we’re back on the busy piste of the underlying ski resort fist-bumping our good fortune.
The experience marks the end of a week of snowboarding at Hakuba Valley and the start of a whole new adventure. Hakuba is an enormous ski area made up of the 10 individual resorts that hosted the 1998 Winter Olympics. Famous for its deep powder snow and steep, varied terrain, it’s become a popular winter destination for Australians. And yet while it has onsens, ryokans and great Japanese food there is still an inescapable sense you are in a westernised ski town.
On this, my third visit to Japan, I want to see and experience more than après bars and slopes packed with Aussies. Japan is a fascinating blend of modernity and ancient tradition and this time I’m looking for a deeper understanding of its people and culture. More than anything else I want to eat my way around the country. Japanese food is regionally distinct and infinitely varied – I’ve been told that to appreciate its subtleties and depth of flavours you need to explore the areas where the freshest produce is sourced.
And so, with the help of Japan I Can, I plot a moveable feast around the centre of the country. Starting in Nagano and using the extensive and ultra-efficient rail system, I will loop out to the Sea of Japan, duck back into the mountains to an onsen retreat, explore the historic merchant city of Takayama and skip across Japan’s biggest lake, Biwa, before ending my journey on the Pacific coast at its third biggest city, Nagoya. In total I’ll visit six prefectures, each of them known for a signature dish or cooking method.
Food, I discover, acts as a portal into Japanese culture and history. In Nagano I follow custom and slurp a hot bowl of soba noodles in a small speciality restaurant. Soba – thin noodles made from buckwheat flour – was first consumed in the Edo period (1603–1868) when small soba-and-sake eateries dotted the cities and towns like the cafes of today. Rice was the main staple of the time, but because it was deficient in thiamine it could cause serious health issues. Soba, rich in thiamine and amino acids, solved the problem and remains hugely popular today.
Tsukemono (pickled vegetables) are a constant wherever I roam. They turn up at breakfast, lunch and dinner in small colourful piles: radish, cucumber, eggplant, carrot, cabbage, water lily root and ginger. The pickling tradition tells the story of a land that was once largely Buddhist – so no one ate meat – and which spends a significant portion of the year buried under snow. While modern-day skiers and snowboarders rejoice at the arrival of a bucketing snowstorm it must have made life incredibly challenging in the day of peasant farmers in the mountains.
It’s snowing when I arrive in Takayama, a bustling merchant town in Gifu Prefecture known as Little Kyoto, and I don a puffer jacket and take to its historic streets. The township narrowly avoided destruction during World War II only to be razed by fire shortly afterwards. Local tradesmen rebuilt much of the town in the old style and its main trading street is stuffed with beautiful artisan stores, small restaurants and sake distilleries. Takayama is famous for its Hida beef, a richly marbled type of wagyu, sourced locally from specialised cattle. I try it grilled rare and it’s so tender and juicy – and almost sweet – it makes my mouth water. Afterwards I tour a sake brewery and get a glow on. There’s something to be said for sipping rice wine while snowflakes swirl and jive to a Coltrane solo outside a frosted window.
In the nearby World Heritage village of Shirakawa I’m transported back to the Edo period when the winters were long and jazz-free. The four-storey wooden houses have thickly thatched roofs pitched steeply to shed snow (known as gassho or prayer-hands construction). Even so, they are layered marzipan-thick with white frosting giving the village an enchanting appearance. Inside tells the real story: it’s dark and cold and smoky and speaks of austere times when subsistence farming was supplemented with the funds from gunpowder manufacture.
Modern Japanese winters are much easier to deal with, but it remains a quiet time for non-skiing tourism. While most of the gaijin (foreigners) are fanging down the slopes I get to see many of central Japan’s cultural highlights – Matsumoto’s samurai castle, Nagano’s Zenko-ji Temple, Kenrokuen Garden in Kanazawa and the Shinto shrines at Chikubu Island on Lake Biwa – often with only a handful of fellow travellers. Shirakawa, with its busloads of tourists, is the exception.
In the hot-springs town of Unazuki I score a room in the luxurious Ryokan Enraku, which once hosted Emperor Akihito. Yuki, a middle-aged woman in a beautiful kimono, shows me to a series of rooms overlooking the mountains and divided by washi screens. I kick off my shoes, change into a cotton yukata robe and descend seven floors to a steaming outdoor onsen by a burbling river. I’m the only westerner in the onsen, the hotel and, as far as I can tell, the entire village. Practising my rudimentary Japanese and bowing frequently I feel like an eighteenth-century Dutch trader breaching the closed country edict, a period during which Japan banned foreigners for more than 200 years.
Dinner is often the highlight of a ryokan stay and mine arrives that evening in 10 tantalising courses. As the Sea of Japan is close by the seafood is especially delectable. There’s tuna sashimi with reduced sake, bonito flakes and pickled plum, charcoal-grilled zuwai crab, grilled himi beef, and crab porridge with seasonal pickled vegetables. All of it is presented so artfully I feel guilty pinching it between chopsticks.
Not that Japanese food needs to be exotic for it to be wonderful. At the end of my trip I’m in Nagoya sipping on a simple bowl of miso soup. Unlike the white miso I’ve regularly been enjoying, this one is deep red in colour and has a strong umami flavour. It’s a completely new taste sensation. Miso, I learn, comes in many regional variants and dates back to the dawn of Japanese cuisine when it was paired with rice and seasonal side dishes. Downed for breakfast, lunch and dinner it remains Japan’s signature dish.
Food, as it does everywhere in the world, brings people together here. In Japan I learn to slow down and enjoy a two-hour degustation. I love cooking thinly sliced wagyu on the tiny table barbecues or boiling it alongside vegetables and fresh herbs in a bubbling shabu-shabu broth. The restaurants here tend to be small and at some you sit on a communal bench that allows you to meet people. The Japanese, although shy by nature, are wonderfully polite and hospitable.
Perhaps my favourite meal of the journey is in a small restaurant in Kanazawa called Sentori Sushi. I sit at a wooden bar and watch the head chef expertly roll parcels of soft white rice in his hands and layer them with delicate slices of raw tuna, eel, shrimp roe and abalone. Paired with a little sweet local sake and eaten, at the insistence of the chef, with my bare hands, the food is simple, fresh and delicious.
But what really makes it special is the conversation. Chef Kazuhisa Yoshida speaks English slowly and thoughtfully. He reveals that he is the third-generation owner of the restaurant, which welcomed its first customer in 1952, seven years after the war. We speak about Australia (he’s been twice) and he tells me about the local fish market, his grandfather and his fondness for the Australian artist, Ken Done. An elderly gentleman and his wife overhear our conversation and join with their own anecdotes about Down Under.
They can’t seem to believe I’m here in a back street of Kanazawa in midwinter. Why are you here my new friend asks? “For the food. For the sushi,” I respond, and we all laugh. Them because they think I’m joking. Me because I know I’m not.
It’s late afternoon and I’m barrelling along the Buntine Highway in the Northern Territory. Cattle country. Here, even the names of dried-up creeks sound like they belong in a Slim Dusty song.
With the sun low in the west, there’s a golden-hour glow illuminating everything: the hardy gums, the tall grasses, the red-earth ant nests. It all feels like the Australiana dream of a landscape painter. I can’t help but smile. As I drive along I’ve got ‘From Little Things Big Things Grow’ playing on the hire-car stereo – it’s a quintessential Australian song that makes me smile all the more.
Gather round people, I’ll tell you a story An eight-year-long story of power and pride ’Bout British Lord Vestey and Vincent Lingiari They were opposite men on opposite sides
Apart from the occasional road train, I don’t pass any other vehicles out this way. There’s no phone reception, no billboard advertising, nothing but the long and bumpy highway unravelling before me and flat, dry country all around. Everything is still. The only things I see moving are flocks of screaming cockies above and nervous-looking joeys chancing it by the roadside.
Vestey was fat with money and muscle Beef was his business, broad was his door Vincent was lean and spoke very little He had no bank balance, hard dirt was his floor
My path to begin this trip was itself long and bumpy. Like many Australians, a visit to the outback to spend time in an Indigenous community had always been on my to-do list, but was relegated thanks to the lure of overseas travel. Years ago, when I first heard of the Freedom Day Festival, the idea to make the journey to Kalkarindji, 400 kilometres southwest of Katherine, was born. Still, other things always seemed to get in the way. To be on the road and on the way at last, with that familiar Paul Kelly harmonica refrain calling through the speakers, feels like a bucket-list item is finally being ticked off.
Gurindji were working for nothing but rations Where once they had gathered the wealth of the land Daily the oppression got tighter and tighter Gurindji decided they must make a stand
While many Australians can sing along to the words Paul Kelly and Kev Carmody wrote about Vincent Lingiari and his mob, few know much about their meaning. The place I’m headed, Gurindji country, is where this true story – a story about Aboriginal resistance and the birth of land rights – all begins.
They picked up their swags and started off walking At Wattie Creek they sat themselves down Now it don’t sound like much but it sure got tongues talking Back at the homestead and then in the town
And it’s on Gurindji land, more than half a century on, that Indigenous communities and other Territorians converge each year for the Freedom Day Festival, which commemorates and celebrates the courage of Vincent Lingiari and his people. It’s here in the twin townships of Kalkarindji and Dagaragu that Vincent Lingiari’s family still live, along with the families (and some remaining survivors) of those who joined him in the legendary eight-year struggle – first for wages then for their land.
Vestey man said I’ll double your wages Seven quid a week you’ll have in your hand Vincent said uh-huh we’re not talking about wages We’re sitting right here till we get our land
Despite the political origins of Freedom Day, this festival makes sure it also gives plenty of attention to music, sports and good times. There are indeed some important political and cultural moments throughout, and the history of why this festival exists is never forgotten. Ultimately, though, this is an opportunity for the Gurindji to celebrate and let their hair down.
“Welcome to our country,” says Rob Roy, a Gurindji leader and Traditional Owner, when I arrive in town. “We love having you mob from down south come here to visit. Settle in, relax and enjoy yourself.”
As far as bush festivals go, Freedom Day is about as down to earth and back to basics as it gets. Out-of-towners generally set up a campsite somewhere around the edges of Kalkarindji. The weekend schedule is loose and likely to change. All the events – from the music to the footy – are within walking distance of each other. It’s hot, dusty, slow-paced and unpretentious. Even headline acts like Dan Sultan and visiting politicians like Richard Di Natale sleep in tents and line up for the showers just like everyone else.
On Friday, the first day of the three-day event, people gather for the Freedom Day March. With an assorted mix of locals, politicians, union leaders, anti-fracking campaigners and visiting festivalgoers, we first listen to the Welcome to Country and some speeches, then we begin to march as one, honouring those who walked off the job back in the day, with hundreds of bright flags colouring the way.
I walk with Charlie Ward, Gurindji historian and author of the book, A Handful of Sand. The title references the iconic image of Gough Whitlam symbolically giving back the earth to Vincent Lingiari by pouring it into his hand.
“Kicking off the festival with the march means a lot to the Gurindji mob,” says Ward. “It began with the strike leaders wanting to remind the next generation of the sacrifices they’d made in their long struggle for freedom, and the journey from Vestey’s Wave Hill Station that began it all.” And so the festival begins.
Over the next three days, I attend talks at the art centre and buy a piece of local art. I watch barefoot basketball matches take place on the town’s new courts. I enjoy plenty of games of footy, with teams from all over the Territory battling it out to take out the top prize.
And I meet and chat with local Gurindji people, who seem proud to be showcasing their country to visitors who’ve come in from out of town. It’s the music, however, that really grabs my attention. The eclectic selection of performers – from folk singers to Johnny Cash impersonators, hip-hop stars to bush bands like Sunrise Band, Rayella, Mambali, Robbie Janama Mills and Lajumanu Teenage Band, who are the crowd favourites – is a real treat. It’s the bush bands that really get the Gurindji crowd kicking up dust on the dance floor. Each band offers an honest brand of music that fuses big, crunchy guitar rock with reggae then adds in an Indigenous twist, often with lyrics sung in their local languages and the introduction of digeridoos and clapsticks. While it’s a delight to see some big-name acts out here in this place, I have to agree with the locals – watching these homegrown bands, with the full moon overhead, is a highlight.
“We reckon this is possibly the best bush-band line-up on offer anywhere in the Territory,” says Phil Smith, a Gurindji Aboriginal Corporation employee and festival director. “And when we throw the likes of Dan Sultan, Remi and Baker Boy into the mix, this becomes a festival well worth travelling to from anywhere across the country.”
I couldn’t agree more. The Freedom Day Festival is everything I’d hoped for. There’s a sense of camaraderie among those who’ve travelled so far to attend, and a sense of gratefulness from the Gurindji for us making the journey to help honour their story and visit their land. As the epic fireworks show cascades across the sky, and the young ones who’ve never seen such a thing look up with mouths wide open, I feel privileged to be a part of all of this.
Talking with some of the Gurindji people on my final day, I learn the Vincent Lingiari story, as told in the song, is much more than eight years long. It’s a story that continues to this day. Lingiari’s vision for self-determination and self-sufficiency is one that endures. The success of this festival, I’m told, as it gets bigger and better each year, is undoubtedly another step towards moving things in this direction.
As I pack up and prepare to leave this place I can’t help but think that if more visitors make the time to come to Gurindji country each year, they’ll be helping make this vision a reality in their own small way.
From little things big things grow. From little things big things grow.
There’s a cross in the mast on the phinisi schooner, a traditional Indonesian boat I’m sailing on to the Alor Archipelago. The Ombak Putih, which is the name of the boat and translates to white wave, promises protection as we navigate the rising swell of the Alor Strait. We are the only seafaring vessel heading into waters edged by volcanic masses. In an area dubbed the Last Mile, it feels as if we’re heading towards the edge of the earth. We’re at the mercy of nature as it sends lightning crackles across the night sky, illuminating mounds of steep stratovolcanoes.
The Banda Sea lies to the north of the Alor Archipelago, an area that sees a limited number of visitors each year. It’s easy to understand why – its remote and undeveloped volcanic islands punctuate the ocean like gigantic stepping stones. When joined together they make up a section of the Ring of Fire. Maps show it as a thick red horseshoe of intense volcanic activity following the edge of the Pacific Ocean, as if warning us not to enter.
Our 40-metre, handcrafted vessel seems at home in this rough environment as she pushes the currents aside to reach the islands. As I watch constant flowing plumes of vapour escape from the jagged peaks, I mutter a mantra to the volcanic gods. Most travellers to the Banda Sea stay on liveaboard vessels to dive some of the world’s most vibrant and richly populated coral reefs; few go ashore to meet and spend time with the indigenous tribes and communities that are cut off from mainstream tourism.
Each morning, the crew finds a safe landing spot to go ashore in inflatable boats and visit the remote villages before the heat of the day sets in. They take with them supplies of water filters and solar lights, which help build lasting relationships with the villagers. People from surrounding islands are also employed onboard the boats, presenting them with opportunities rarely available to islanders who only receive basic elementary education. It’s day four of a 12-day cruise and, as our inflatable raft bobs over the white caps, we head towards Alor Island, which, at 2865 square kilometres, is the largest landmass in the Alor Archipelago. The water is fish-tank clear and the soft white sand sparkles at the water’s edge. I have a pinch-myself moment – it’s as if I’m watching a documentary on the best remote getaways on a big screen.
“Try the welcome of the betel nut. But don’t swallow – spit it out,” our guide Arie Pagaka warns us with a knowing grin as we land on the beach. “The Abui tribe will perform the lego-lego dance around the mesbah. It is unique to Alor.” He explains the mesbah is like an altar that represents the community; it’s the heartbeat of the village.
After an hour’s car journey, navigating snaking bends close to the cliff’s edge, we arrive at the tiny village of Takpala. In bare feet, the chief and his wife walk over jagged rocks to greet us dressed in traditional ikat cloth and wearing elaborate feathered headdresses. His wife, revered for her position, immediately stages a tribal dance to ask the ancestors for a blessing for her village.
Performing tribal dances has become a way of maximising the tourist dollar here. The harsh environment of the region offers little opportunity for income, and the people rely upon a trade of almonds, mung beans, cloves and corn.
As if under a spell, we quietly follow the elders into their village. The older women begin to sing in low harmonic voices as they stamp the earth with bangled feet while they head towards the mesbah, their arms interlocked behind one another in unity. The ritual is trance-like – they stomp one foot in, one foot out, kicking up dust as each generation joins the circle.
When the singing halts, there is no noise except the rhythmic rattle of bangles clanging together. The raw, deep, guttural singing of the chief suddenly interrupts, turning my skin to goose bumps as his powerful voice stirs deep emotions. They move together as if they are preserving their culture from the influences of the outside world.
The heads of the village then perform a short, intense war dance, where they charge at each other bearing teeth and spears followed by hollering and jumping skywards to show off their agility and power – they remind me of two dominant lions fighting over females on the savanna. The chief, Abner Yetimau, approaches me with an intense gaze, causing my body to stiffen. When his mouth breaks into an irresistible smile, I visibly relax. He wants to tell me about his village. Not one to turn down a chief, I sit alongside him and listen. Abner, 53, has been head of the village since 1984 and takes his role very seriously. He tells me their ‘government’ is made up of eight members who discuss tribal affairs, like marriage, trading goods and their spiritual duties around the mesbah, which is where they make all the important village decisions.
“Every July, when it’s dry,” he points to the rugged uninviting mountain, “I climb up to the top, I stay at night to pray, and make wish for two days.” He rolls a cigarette and I wait for him to continue. “Our old village used to be there, my ancestors are there in the sacred land – I talk with them.” He takes a puff on his cigarette, slowly blowing out smoke. “The spirits control our earth, they watch over us. I ask them for guidance on how to be the best chief.” He turns to me, flashing his infectious grin.
I ask Abner if he performs healing on his people, and he describes a ritual I have not previously witnessed. As chief, he will swirl water around his mouth, proceeding to blow a stream over his patients while saying secret, magical words. He will also touch the person to feel their symptoms and their bodily vibrations, and perform a sort of hands-on healing. Abner goes back into deep thought as we discuss his role as chief. He pushes his chest out. “I like the honour and the respect.” He emanates unquestionable power and I can’t imagine anyone disagreeing with him.
One of Abner’s duties is to communicate with the spirits as to where each house is built within the village. They have to be certain there are no bones where the foundations are laid, as this could disturb the spirits. As chief, his family has the most important house with four floors. He invites me in, wanting to give me the grand tour.
The ground floor is an open-air communal space, the hub of the home, where guests are greeted and strong thick coffee is served on a packed mud floor. The second has the bedroom and kitchen area. It’s a tight dark squeeze to clamber up a narrow ladder, but each level offers a different view. The third stores rice, cassava and corn, while the top floor protects the weapons and valuable moko drums. Thought to originate from Indochina, the drums are a part of a wife’s dowry. The distinct artwork, which features on every drum, represents Ramayana, the famous Hindu love story. They are considered a prized possession as they are no longer produced and are worth a substantial amount of money.
On my descent, a gecko shoots across the wall to a far corner. The chief’s wife gives the thumbs-up sign in front of a broad grin filled with red, betel-nut-stained teeth. Apparently a lizard spotted in the right corner is a sign of good luck, but if it pops up in the wrong corner, it’s a bad omen.
On our descent through dotted mountainside villages, I silently wish the western world could bottle some of the community spirit I’ve experienced here.
We are welcomed back on the deck of the schooner with cooling face cloths and a buffet lunch of king prawns, chicken kebabs, tasty Indonesian salads and spruced-up rice dishes. I can’t help but compare the obvious imbalance of the scales, but the Abui people have taught me that richness encompasses so much more than material wealth.
That afternoon we mask up with snorkel gear, jump back in the inflatables and head into the crystal waters. The vibrant colours of the tropical fish mirror a colour-by-numbers drawing – each brush stroke neatly kept within the lines. I’m so absorbed in the addictive underwater world, I have to remind myself to look up to check I’m still with the group – it’s easy to lose a sense of time and direction when nature is putting on a top-class show.
That night, I stretch out on a day bed on the deck of the schooner’s stern watching the sun slip below the horizon as we sail on to our next destination. There’s no storm or swell, just the swish of the ocean lapping gently against the side of the hull, lulling us into a new day and another place, where we’ll again be immersed in an untouched culture far off the beaten grid.
On Svalbard, the remote Norwegian archipelago halfway between Europe and the North Pole, it’s illegal to die. Which, for most travellers, of course, isn’t a deal breaker. In fact, it could be reassuring bearing in mind this is the land of the polar bear. It’s also forbidden, my guide was telling me, to leave the settlement without a gun in case you run into a spot of bear-shaped bother.
I am on a cheery whistle-stop tour of the main settlement, Longyearbyen, before joining my ship for a two-week Arctic voyage around this glacier-fringed, far-flung outpost and the east coast of Greenland with wilderness experts Aurora Expeditions.
The extreme below-zero temperatures are the reason for the death ban – the corpses don’t decompose. Scientists exhuming bodies two decades ago collected live samples of the influenza virus, which wiped out five per cent of the planet’s population in 1918. Add the threat of avalanches, permanent darkness for four months of the year and the fact that 60 per cent of the land mass is glacier, 27 per cent bare rock and only 13 per cent vegetation. Life here is tough.
But to visit? Svalbard has a surreal appeal and a desolate, spellbinding beauty. This is life on the edge. Think Twin Peaks or the twilight world of eerie Nordic noir thriller Fortitude, which was, in fact, set in Svalbard, although it was filmed in Iceland.
The brightly coloured wooden houses are built on stilts to preserve the permafrost, northern lights viewing is big business, you can go dog-sledding, bask in the midnight sun during summer and the stellar wildlife-watching isn’t a hard sell. I wander through Longyearbyen’s award-winning museum for a crash course on the archipelago’s geology, flora and fauna until it’s time to board the boat.
On this occasion, I’m travelling on the Polar Pioneer, a Soviet-era research vessel that will retire with Aurora Expeditions at the end of 2019. The purpose-built, state-of-the-art, ice-class expedition vessel, the Greg Mortimer (named after the company’s co-founder), will replace her for future expeditions, offering a ship with green credentials and a patented X-bow design for added stability as it slices through polar seas. After more than 27 years pioneering small group adventures across the planet’s wildest locations, the future for Aurora Expeditions is greener, sleeker and a good deal swankier than its predecessors.
Life onboard is relaxed and the voyage begins with team introductions, from expedition leader Dr Gary Miller, the Russian crew, the naturalists and the photography and kayaking guides. There’s also the compulsory polar bear safety and environmental briefings, lifeboat drills and crucial seasickness advice from the ship’s doctor, before we cast off for Isfjord under baby blue skies.
Each morning the Puffin Post, slotted through the cabin doors, outlines the plan for the day – including Zodiac cruises and beach landings – along with a recap of the previous day’s highlights, the ship’s position, a useful Russian phrase and an inspiring quote. It’s the only form of news you get after the
Longyearbyen 4G falls away, forcing you into a digital detox.
Our voyage offers two days to explore Svalbard’s northwest coast and fjords – it is a great taster of the archipelago, and we manage to cram in a smorgasbord of highlights.
Bundled up like Michelin men, we clamber down the gangway at Kongsbreen for our first Zodiac cruise. The water is the colour of a cappuccino, bobbing with brash ice and playful bearded seals, and the mountains that surround the glacier are a rusty red Devonian sandstone. At Ossian Sarsfjellet we land on the shore then hike up a hill as Svalbard reindeer graze the slopes.
The mist-wreathed island of Ytre Norskøya was once a hub for the Dutch whaling industry in the 17th century, when the waters ‘boiled’ with bowhead whales. Skirting around piles of rocks, makeshift graves above the frozen ground and a Zealander’s ancient skull, we wander across the mossy tundra.
As we tramp uphill a family of arctic foxes scampers across the slope, while over the cliff’s edge we spy perky puffins perched precariously on a narrow ledge.
Sailing on to Hamiltonbukta, the Zodiac cruise takes us past cliffs of cacophonous guillemots before edging towards the face of a glacier as huge chunks of ice crash into the water. The crackling sound of the radio fills the cold air as we fill sacks with old fishing nets and plastics for the Clean Up Svalbard initiative. It’s the news we’d all been waiting for – a yacht anchored in a nearby fjord has spotted a mother polar bear and her cub sleeping on the tundra.
It’s our first polar bear sighting for this trip. With binoculars, and an air of excitement, we scour the slope, only just able to make out a buttery smudge against the scree. All too soon, it’s time to leave, the captain pointing our bow across the ocean to Greenland.
Our days at sea are filled with lectures and photography workshops. Biologist Ryan Burner gives a presentation on bird migration. Huddled in the lecture theatre we learn about the arctic tern, the mightiest migrant, which travels from pole to pole each year, escaping the Arctic winter for balmier southern summer seas.
Naturalist Roger Kirkwood spins tales of Arctic marine mammals and our impact on them, from the times of whalers, sealers and walrus-hunters to current-day environmental factors. These accounts feature animals like the Greenland shark, which can live for up to 500 years, and hooded seals, which we’d seen lounging on ice floes. I learn that the male hooded seal inflates a red septum out of one nostril to attract a female. It sounds like quite the party trick.
The crossing is mercifully calm, the sea flat and glassy, with a cold current creating an eerie Arctic phenomenon: a fogbow, which is a white arc infused with light. Through the haze, Greenland makes its appearance.
The world’s largest non-continental island sprawls over 2,165,000 square kilometres, 80 per cent of it ice cap. In terms of scale it’s off the charts. Greenland’s fjords are sailed by glacial bergs the size of skyscrapers, while the trees – dwarf birch and arctic willow – are just centimetres high.
Our first landing is at the aptly named Myggebugta, or Mosquito Bay, a Sirius Patrol hut standing sentinel on the shore. Founded during the Second World War to defend northeast Greenland, the sledge patrol was made up of nine Danes, one Norwegian and two Greenlanders. It was disbanded at the end of the war but reinstated in 1950 by the Danish government. Today, its role is military surveillance and policing the Northeast Greenland National Park.
After a quick snoop around the wooden hut we set off across tundra sown with blooming bog saxifrage and up hills in search of musk ox, shaggy relics of the last ice age and Greenland’s largest grazing mammal. Our guides are armed in case we happen across polar bears, and our eyes are on high alert for any sign of animal life. Insects, however, are the only other creatures we find as we reach the summit. With the sun beating down on us, we take a moment to observe the peaceful panorama of the bay below.
The ship drifts through a sun-kissed afternoon to Kap Humboldt where we find a trapper’s hut, ransacked by a polar bear, and then on to Blomsterbugten, or Flower Bay, where we spot wolf tracks and the remnants of fox traps left by Norwegian hunters. But it’s not until we reach Nanortalik’s paleo-eskimo site that we spot a lone musk ox, which bolts like a shaggy mammoth across a carpet of billowing bog cotton. These primeval creatures once roamed as far south as Kansas, but now natural populations can only be found in northern Canada and Greenland. Hoping to track down a herd, we walk across the tussocky tundra, trying to stay down wind until, hunkering down in the grass, we gaze on a grazing herd. We hardly dare to breathe.
Icebergs aren’t nearly as hard to find. In Scoresbysund, the world’s largest fjord system, a labyrinth of waterways, we cruise through Iceberg Alley near Rode Island. It’s a jaw-dropping spectacle of soaring pillars, arches and ice caves, sculpted into outlandish shapes.
We’re anchoring off Ittoqqortoormiit, home to 350 east Greenlanders and around 100 sled dogs. The town was built in 1924 by a Dane, Ejnar Mikkelsen, before Greenlanders from the village of Ammasalik, 800 kilometres south, arrived to settle the area a year later.
Hunting was originally the mainstay of its economy, but now the village relies on tourism (there’s a small museum and guesthouse, which offers dog sled tours, hiking and fishing trips), although locals still export sealskin and polar bear pelts. Hunting restrictions are in place but the village has a quota of 35 polar bears a year.
We’re starting to develop berg-blindness and have overdosed on ice, but we’re not prepared to give up on sighting a bear up close. “It’s not over till it’s over,” Gary reminds us.
And he’s right. At 5.30am on our last morning his voice crackles over the intercom: “We have bears! Zodiacs launching in 30 minutes.”
Scrambling out of our bunks, we grab our life jackets and make our way on deck, and there, lumbering along the shore, is a polar bear drama unfolding. A large male is chasing off a younger bear, while a mother and two cubs run in the other direction.
It’s a pinch-yourself, lump-in-the-throat moment – the best day of the expedition. Puttering around Rømer Fjord in Zodiacs, we watch the bears pick at a narwhal carcass left on the shore by hunters. We keep a safe distance, but when a bear decides to take a swim, it makes the kayakers work hard to avoid doing the same. By the end of the day, the bear count reaches a greedy seven.
The next morning’s Puffin Post fittingly quotes an excerpt from Polar Bears by Dr Ian Stirling: “A wild polar bear is the Arctic incarnate. The Arctic is not a forsaken wasteland to a polar bear, it’s home.” And one that we have been privileged to share.
As I climb the stairs to the Odeon of Herodes Atticus, the stone theatre located southwest of the Acropolis, about 30 people – pagan celebrators – are putting the finishing touches on their tight-fitting costumes. Some are satyrs; others are dressed as Bacchides or in maenad costumes. Most are sporting Dionysian masks, some with pointy horns. Both men and women wear furry boots and wreaths of ivy, but it’s the male pagan outfits that come with a distinguishing addition – a leather phallus is tied around their pelvises. It’s a somewhat obscene look that enhances the sight of the colossal bright red and leatherbound phallic-shaped pole that stands before a cheeky figurehead of the Greek god Dionysus.
This is all part of Falliforia, a wild celebration thrown by the paganist communities of Athens to honour Dionysus, the half-man, half-goat god of wine, theatre, fertility, religious ecstasy and orgiastic joy. It’s a yearly festival held at the end of each winter that turns the historic centre of the city into an unhinged inferno.
“The phallus is not just the male part,” says Manthos, a pensive man with a grey mane of hair. He is a leading member of the Labrys religious community, the Greek polytheistic group behind Falliforia, a procession honouring freedom and rebellion, solidarity and joy, fertility and hedonic mania, and the Dionysian spirit.
“The phallus symbolises fertility, the vigour of life,” continues Manthos, who has been disguising himself as a satyr for every Falliforia festival since 2013. “This is where all carnivals started, even the Rio one,” he adds while a Bacchis butts in, holding a plate full of raisins. Apparently, these were the favourite snack of Dionysus, to whom ancient Greek mythology attributes the birth of the grapevine.
Falliforia literally means to carry a penis and is a religious celebration dating back 2500 years. In classical Greece, worshippers of the goat-footed god Pan wore masks, brandished torches and wooden sticks adorned with leather phalluses, danced like demons, and drank until they dropped to commemorate the triumph of spring over winter and the resurrection of nature.
The blood of the festival-goers is now boiling. Young maenads are banging drums and mature animal-print–wearing shepherds are playing their bagpipes. Dionysus worshippers gather, as do a potpourri of curious locals and tourists from all corners of the world.
“Hail, Bacchus,” the revellers chant, forming a tight circle around the master phallus while stomping their feet. Manthos, now arch-satyr, drops wine in front of the Dionysus xoanon (a wooden image of a Greek deity), and a man wearing a Bacchus mask burns incense. The procession commences through the historic city centre, with four men holding a rope stretcher the titanic phallus temporarily rests upon. First stop, the Acropolis Museum.
“Everything well?” asks a sassy satyr, putting his hands uninvited around my shoulders as I stand in front of the parade to take photos. Another satyr offers a posh-looking lady, who probably just happens by chance to be in the vicinity of the acclaimed museum with her husband, a wooden stick upon which a particular male organ hangs from the top. “No, thanks,” the lady nonchalantly answers, while the glasses-wearing husband tries to conceive what just happened. A few Bacchi chase two young girls, who scurry away, laughing, while a couple of Dionysians lightheartedly threaten a middle-age man idling on a bench at the foot of the Parthenon with penises made of plastic. Indecently teasing the passers-by is part of the ritual.
“It is not about obscenity,” says Vasilis, a polytheist assuming the identity of – you guessed it – a satyr. “It is the Dionysian mania and its scoptic character.”
For the next five hours or so, the nostalgia-riddled centre of Athens transforms into a demented yet luring asylum. Bystanders better get used to it.
In front of the Acropolis Museum, the porters of the master phallus carefully prop it up for worshippers to gather around. It’s time for the first Kordakas dance. Kordakas is an ancient Greek comedy dance believed to have first appeared in Greek playwright Aristophanes’ comedy, The Clouds, in 423BCE. The etymology of the word Kordakas stems from the Greek infinitive kordakizein, which means, sarcastically, to blow your own trumpet. As a dance, it is inherently provocative and salacious, but at the same time humorous, and is thought to be the predecessor of the famous tsifteteli dance, a rhythmic, lustful jig that has predominantly been associated with Anatolia and the Balkans.
Alongside the lewd jerk of the thighs, the Kordakas dance demands revellers must also sing the gamotragouda, a selection of Greek folk songs with intense sexual content that “survived Christian influence”, says Vasilis.
Falliforia merrymakers then weave their way through the cobblestone alleys of Plaka, commonly known as the Cyclades of Athens (the district of Gods), showering dumbstruck tourists with wine and fake penises. Onlookers respond with a barrage of smartphone photos. When the frenzied march reaches Avissinias Square, the focal point of the Baroque Monastiraki neighbourhood, the phallus being hauled on the backs of the masked rabble-rousers is erected once again, as the Kordakas dance and gamotragouda songs are performed with enough gusto to shake the spirits. The scene is surreal. Monastiraki is famous for its flea markets, but it’s also a hot spot of friction.
Situated in the heart of Athens, Monastiraki’s Avissinias Square is where everybody – the trendiest local hipsters going clubbing in the nearby Psyrri district, Latin street dancers basking in attention, international socialites craving a taste of Greek folk, recently displaced refugees and migrants from Muslim countries puzzling over the European way of life – meets. Imagine what happens when you mix all these with deranged satyrs in front of Panagia Pantanassa, a Byzantine church, one of the oldest in Athens and a landmark on Avissinias Square.
It’s now about 10pm, and the Falliforia parade heads back towards the Odeon of Herodes Atticus. This year the festival will conclude with a hymn expressing devotion to the gods – all 12 of them – and the removal of the Dionysian masks, which will be deposited under the nose of the Dionysus xoanon.
Kiki and Maria, two prepossessing Bacchides, hold on to their masks, stating
the festival fills them with joy. “I feel connected to nature, to my true self,” says Kiki, a petite and curly-haired woman, who works as a public servant by day. “It’s the reversal of identities,” adds Maria, who studies history and archaeology. They both agree the Dionysian mask does not hide but rather releases their true self, and they can’t stress this message enough.
“Falliforia is about fertility, the victory of spring over winter,” reiterates Patronios, a chubby man who has not missed the festival for 10 years. “It is about nature’s virality.” Patronios’s huge grin can both entertain and swallow you, and he may have drunk one too many glasses – a bottle, perhaps – of wine. But there is no residual guilt, because every reveller lived it up today. After all, their god Dionysus has blessed the rampage.
It’s the Earth, but not like I’ve ever seen it before. My paddling is erratic with no discernible rhythm, probably because I’m distracted ogling the dazzling shades of blue. Tropical waters stretch away from me in every direction, my line of sight broken only by an occasional limestone island topped with tangled jungle. From water level, the sky and ocean both seem absurdly big, peacefully joining at the horizon everywhere I look.
The silence is almost complete, save for the light slap of water against my kayak and the chatter of seabirds as they pass close over my head. Beneath the surface of the water, corals are clearly visible and I can pick out certain fish species – the turquoise of a moon wrasse, iridescent flashes of fusiliers in the sun. Exploring by kayak is prompting an unfamiliar sensation. Rather than observing nature as an outsider, I feel as though I might actually be part of it.
Guide Nathan Wilbur leads my group to a picture-perfect sandbank, just high enough to protrude from the sea at low tide. After gliding in safely over the reef, kayaks are hauled onto the golden sand and I imagine we’ve discovered our own island.
I’m in an archipelago in Indonesia’s far eastern province of West Papua. Raja Ampat is considered one of the last frontiers for diving and with good reason. The island chain is the richest marine environment in the world, boasting 75 per cent of the world’s coral species, 1700 species of fish, five types of sea turtles, 13 dolphin and whale species and even two types of manta ray.
Situated at a meeting point of the Indian and Pacific Oceans, this part of the ocean is subject to roaring tidal currents. They are laden with the planktonic larvae that are the basis of Raja Ampat’s underwater riches. Diverse habitats – coral reefs, mangroves, seagrass beds, limestone caves and 1500 islands – occur here. According to scientist Mark Erdmann of Conservation International, these factors combine to make Raja Ampat a “species factory”, and new scientific discoveries transpire regularly. Just last year, a fisherman reeled in (from a depth of 300 metres) a metre-long coelacanth, a species considered a living fossil.
Although the island of Papua is Australia’s nearest major land mass, expect a journey to Raja Ampat to take two or three days. I reach the gateway town of Sorong on a direct four-hour flight from Jakarta, but other visitors come from Bali with a middle-of-the-night stop in Makassar on Sulawesi. After overnighting in Sorong, I board a two-hour boat transfer to my small dive resort. Those staying at homestays take a ferry to Raja Ampat’s biggest town, Waisai, then transfer to smaller boats.
Isolation has largely protected Raja Ampat, which is a latecomer to the tourism party. In the past few years, however, tourism has boomed. Just 2000 visitors arrived in 2008. In 2017, according to Indonesian government statistics, that number had grown to an estimated 30,000 visitors, prompting concern from many that the area’s fragile environment may be threatened by the transitory population boom.
Most travellers arrive on liveaboard dive boats, owned by foreigners and staffed by Indonesians from distant provinces. So far, little tourism benefit has flowed to the Papuans, the islands’ original inhabitants. Many are poor, scratching a living from fishing, with an estimated 20 per cent of the locals living in poverty.
This is where not-for-profit Kayak4Conservation, which links tourists directly to local Papuan guides for multi-day adventures, comes in. Dutchman Max Ammer is behind the organisation and is also the founder of two low-key diving resorts on Kri Island – the rustic Kri Eco Resort and the relatively upmarket Sorido Bay Resort, where I am staying.
He explains his concerns about the methods used to conserve the Raja Ampat Marine Protected Area. Tourists pay a park entrance fee the equivalent of AU$94. Some of this money compensates locals so they care for nearshore reefs and keep their villages spick and span. But it doesn’t create employment prospects. “The government is handing out a lot of money, and to me this is destroying the people,” Max explains. “We do it the other way around – if they want to work, we give them a chance.”
Kayak4Conservation was established in 2012. Local Papuans were trained in fibreglassing skills and, using a donated South African kayak mould, built a fleet of 11 single and four double kayaks. Local men were trained to guide tourists through the labyrinth of spectacular islands, stopping at world-class snorkelling and jungle sights along the way.
Max scoped possible waypoints for overnight stays, and landowners were offered microloans to build traditional guesthouses or homestays. Hosts supply tourists with simple Papuan-style huts and home-cooked meals, but they also protect the immediate environment.
The organisation now employs seven local guides and nine homestays are involved in the project. The funds are helping families generate a sustainable income, moving away from pursuits such as shark-finning, bird poaching and logging. “Before, maybe these guides could earn $150 a month,” Max explains. “Now, sometimes, it’s possible to make that in a day.” He says the direct connection to the project is key: “If it’s your homestay, you take care of it because guests are coming and you want it to look good.”
I’m desperate to get out in a kayak, and Max directs me to Nathan, manager of Kayak4Conservation. I find him near the organisation’s guesthouse, putting the final touches on a new hut set in the trees by the beach. Kayakers typically spend a night here before and after their trip, with some also adding on a diving package at a nearby resort.
Nathan and I chat about why guests would travel for two or three days to come here to kayak, rather than go somewhere easier to reach. He points out Raja Ampat’s unique offerings – things that just don’t exist elsewhere. For some people, being off the grid in the wilderness is exactly what they crave. It makes sense to me. During my stay, I’m doing short, single-day excursions and taking a boat to explore some of the other highlights on the various kayak itineraries.
The kayak embarkation point is Kri Island, which boasts some of the best dive and snorkel sites in the world. In fact, dive site Cape Kri holds the world record for the most fish species counted in one dive, with 374 species recorded by scientist Dr Gerry Allen.
As well as underwater marvels, kayakers can find strange mammals in the rainforests. On Kri, a resident wild cuscus occasionally shows up at Sorido Bay Resort’s open-air restaurant. He dangles from the rafters by his tail with an outstretched paw, begging for a banana or two. Closer to the Kayak4Conservation guesthouse, a tree kangaroo that lives in the vicinity is often sighted.
The islands are replete with birds. Striking black-and-white radjah shelducks amble along beaches, imperial spice pigeons coo in treetops and bright red eclectus parrots squawk as they flit from tree to tree.
The red bird-of-paradise and Wilson’s bird-of-paradise are both endemic here. Kayak4Conservation trips can include a guided hike to a special tree to observe one of nature’s most flamboyant courtship displays, although on my visit it was sadly not date night for the birds-of-paradise.
One of the first stops on a kayak trip is a famous sandbank, Manta Sandy. Manta rays reliably congregate here, waiting for obliging cleaner fish to remove any parasites. Snorkelling on the top of the water, I squeal with delight as one majestic manta then another materialises from the plankton soup, banking and wheeling beneath me like underwater eagles.
At a homestay at nearby Arborek Village, I meet a group of three Papuan girls. Seemingly shy at first, a few smiles soon become giggles. “What’s your name?” one of them then asks. I snorkel under Arborek Jetty, mentally congratulating the community for protecting this reef. Bumphead parrotfish pass by, grazing on corals like a herd of wildebeest. A giant cuttlefish flashes colour signals at me that I think I’m supposed to understand.
On the island of Gam, Hidden Bay is kayak heaven. A narrow opening in the coastline becomes a kilometres-long ocean inlet offering a maze of limestone cliffs and islands. The flow of water and crashing of waves has undercut many limestone outcrops, creating mushroom-shaped islands with dainty orchids clinging to vertical walls. Mangrove trees line the water’s edge, their stilt-like roots intertwined with bright soft corals.
Kayakers, snorkellers and divers all visit the Passage, a narrow channel separating the sheer walls of Gam and Waigeo Islands. It’s only 20 metres wide in parts, and ripping tidal currents make it more like a surging jungle river than ocean. Secret caves and massive giant fan corals in improbable colours abound.
Nearby, I visit Kayak4Conservation’s Warikaf Homestay for lunch. This tiny overwater guesthouse sits below a mountain in a secluded bay, hidden from the world by a well-placed island. I’m offered a shower from a hose fed by a gushing mountain stream. On the peak of a hill sits a wooden viewing platform that promises postcard vistas.
With these compelling reasons to explore here, I’m not surprised to meet an overjoyed Kayak4Conservation customer. A tall German man, Thorsten Schmidt, face glowing from days of sunshine, beaches his kayak and hurries up to Nathan. “I’ve been trying to reach you but there is no phone signal,” he gushes. He gestures to his guide, Yesaya Demas. “Can I borrow this guy for a few extra days? I’m due to finish today but I really want to keep paddling.” Unfortunately, Yesaya is in demand and Thorsten has to stick with his original booking.
Yesaya is a quietly spoken man from Arborek Island. He explains to me he can make more money as a kayak guide than as a deckhand or fisherman, and this helps his family live better. He shyly says he is proud to be showing tourists his beautiful island home.
Thorsten describes the serenity of independent ocean travel. “Being in the kayaks with just Yesaya was completely magic,” he says. “You’re out of civilisation. It’s quiet – just you and the nature. We saw everything – coral reefs, Napoleon wrasse, and manta rays even swam beneath us.”
It’s a sentiment echoed by Max. “Sometimes people kayak with whales,” he says. “It’s common to see things here that you would normally never see.” But he’s preaching to the converted, and before I start the long journey home, I assure him I’ll be back for a longer kayak trip to experience this place at its magical best.
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