Akko has the habit of getting older every year, but by 40 years.” Uri Jeremias, our host for tonight’s dinner and a man who looks as much like Santa Claus as any I’ve ever met, pauses like he’s waiting for us to solve his riddle. “When I started this restaurant in Akko 21 years ago, it was declared as 4500 years of living history, now it’s 5300!” He laughs, his long grey beard grazing his round belly. We clink glasses of Israeli chenin blanc in appreciation.
This is the last in a long line of impressive Akko (also known as Acre) facts Jeremias has been telling us as we’ve dined with him in his famed seafood restaurant Uri Buri, housed in an old Turkish stone mansion looking across to the Mediterranean Sea. Over the past two hours, as we’ve devoured his deliciously fresh and uncomplicated seafood dishes, Jeremias has told us that this small Israeli port city is a perfect example of co-existence. It’s where Jews, Arabs, Christians and Baha’í live and work peacefully together, without tension and almost no police or army presence – a rarity in Israel.
He has also told us that Akko is surrounded by excellent small farms and wineries, creating the high-quality produce and unique flavours that are putting Israel so firmly on the foodie map. It’s surrounded by stunning national parks and is historically rich too, he tells us, holding remains of Crusader towns dating back as far as 1104.
I understand all the convincing. After all, Akko is located in northern Israel’s Galilee region, where travel advisory sites will warn you to exercise a high degree of caution when visiting. It’s just a 20-minute drive from the heavily fortified Lebanese border and off the track beaten of most Holy Land tourists. Jeremias has already outlined how difficult it can be to promote international tourism to a region where the travel warnings are severe, and from where news stories in the international media are almost entirely bad. And yet, just one afternoon in Akko has already rendered any winning-over unnecessary. We’re completely smitten, and convinced that this northern region just might be one of Israel’s best-kept secrets.
Admittedly, these feelings have so far largely been induced by the charms of the Efendi Boutique Hotel. Also owned by Jeremias, the 12-room hotel is one of Israel’s most luxurious, a merging of two Ottoman-era palaces, that Jeremias spent eight years painstakingly restoring and converting with the help of Israel’s Antiquities Authority. After arriving earlier in the afternoon and admiring the meticulously restored ceiling frescoes, the 400-year-old Turkish bath and the Crusader-era wine cellar and bar, my travel companion and I headed straight up to the breezy rooftop terrace for a sundowner. The Mediterranean Sea was winking at us from a few hundred metres away. The Muslim call to prayer was ringing out around us. We looked out over the crowns of the city’s mosques, synagogues, churches and Baha’i temples and raised our glasses to unity. To finding, in a country largely identified by its divisions and conflicts, a place where different cultures and faiths live peacefully side by side.
As morning dawns, we step out onto the dishevelled cobbled streets of the fortified old city and wander through winding alleyways lined with ancient sandstone buildings, their window frames painted green and blue, washing flapping from lines strung across their facades. We pass Muslim women in head scarves and street signs written in Arabic, a just-married Christian couple having their wedding photos taken by the seafront, and smiling, wizened fishermen hawking their wares from hole-in-the-wall shopfronts. We peer into Ottoman-era granite caravanserai and through carvings in the ancient stone ramparts to the roiling green sea, and get turned around in the zig-zagging alleyways of the market, filled with the scent of spices and cardamom coffee, freshly smashed tahini and frying fish.
It’s a fascinating insight into Akko’s cultural fusion, and Jeremias was right; we haven’t seen a single gun-toting soldier all morning, a ubiquitous sight in other parts of Israel including the tourist hubs of Jerusalem and Tel Aviv.
The most intriguing side of Akko, however, and one of the main reasons why its old city became Israel’s first UNESCO World Heritage site back in 2001, lies beneath our feet. Escaping the fierce midday sun, we make our way underground into the 350-metre-long Templars’ Tunnel. Created in the 12th century by the Knights Templar, it strategically connected their main fortress in the west to the city’s port in the east. Walking through the dimly lit stone passageway in the footsteps of the Crusaders is an extraordinary experience, and one that truly drives home the idea that this is one of the oldest living cities on the planet.
Soon, it’s time to farewell Akko and drive into the Upper Galilee to our next destination, Safed. We’re not quite ready to farewell the Mediterranean Sea yet though, so we take a detour along the coast to the Lebanese border. There, set into the cliffs hovering above the sea, we discover the Rosh Hanikra grottoes. A small red cable car takes us down to the caves, which have been naturally carved into the cliffs by the forces of the sea over millions of years. We wander through a network of tunnels linking the caves, stopping every few metres to watch the green ocean slapping up against the stark white chalk cliffs. It’s hypnotising and also a little strange, watching something so peaceful in a place just 100 metres away from where the 34-day Lebanon War raged over a decade ago.
The sun is starting to set by the time we arrive in Safed. A golden glow is sweeping through the town’s biscuit-coloured stone alleyways, setting the stained-glass windows that characterise the town ablaze. By happy chance our arrival in the city, a centre of Kabbalah Jewish mysticism since the 16th century and one of Judaism’s four holiest cities, has landed on a Saturday, the Jewish Shabbat day of rest. The town’s boutiques, restaurants and art galleries are all closed for the day, giving us the perfect opportunity to watch the quiet streets fill with devout local families strolling after synagogue. We walk along with them, passing men dressed in heavy black coats and rabbit fur hats with tight, shiny ringlets hanging by their ears. The women are in turbans, modest blouses and ankle-skimming skirts, many trailed by four or more children. It’s quiet; the air is still. We agree that this place seems touched by a special energy, but the atheists among us decide it probably has something to do with Safed being the highest town in Israel. A few hours later, however, we find ourselves on the rooftop of our guesthouse, chatting to the devout owner who has other ideas.
“There’s a reason why the energy in Safed is so special,” he tells us, nodding his head towards the mountains spreading out before us.
“The famous second-century Rabbi Shimon bar Yochai, who wrote the Zohar (the chief work of the Kabbalah), was buried in that mountain over there. So, they say Safed has geula, or redemptive energy and light, coming down to it from heaven.”
Whether or not we believe in the geula, it has played a part in drawing spiritual seekers to Safed since the 16th century. Back then, Sephardic rabbis, sages and poets escaping the Spanish inquisition settled here, making it a destination for Jews wishing to get a blessing or advice from the rabbis, and giving the city a unique, bohemian character. Today this atmosphere remains and continues to draw not only Kabbalists and new-age hippie types, but also many artists and creatives.
In the town’s Artist Quarter, we spend hours exploring the dozens of small art galleries and craft boutiques, selling everything from handmade candles and jewellery to weavings and ceramics, scattered among the synagogues. When the heat of the day gets too much, we take the 20-minute drive to the Sea of Galilee, Israel’s biggest freshwater lake and the place where Jesus supposedly walked on water. The lake’s circumference is dotted with Christian holy sites, including the Mount of Beatitudes and the ancient village of Capernaum, and numerous small beaches. We stop at one called Hukuk, laying our towels out under the palm trees, surrounded by dozens of picnicking Arab families.
A lazy afternoon of slipping in and out of the water and reading on the grass ensues. We don’t see a single foreign tourist the whole time, nor do we when we arrive back in Safed for a sunset dinner at Gan Eden mountaintop restaurant. As we nibble tasty fish kebabs and charred eggplant salad accompanied by crisp Israeli chardonnay that golden light is thrown over the mountains once more.
Wine has been produced in the region since ancient times, but it’s only in recent years that the country has become known for its thriving wine economy. Of the its five wine regions, the Galilee’s high elevation, hot days, cool nights and well-drained soils make it the most suited to grape growing. As we drive further north, we pass through rolling hills covered in vineyards, that sit alongside orchards and cattle ranches. When we reach the Golan Heights, the closest area in Israel to the Syrian border, we also start to see abandoned Syrian bunkers and tanks. They’re sombre reminders of the tumultuous history of this area.
Conflict, however, feels worlds away as we start our hike through the Yehudiya Forest Nature Reserve. The rocky terrain is carpeted with dry yellow grasses, stocky olive trees and the remainder of spring’s purple globe thistle flowers. It is beautiful in that raw, elemental way Israeli landscapes often are. After 90 minutes of sweaty hiking, the earth finally splits open and drops into a lush canyon, from the bottom of which a deep natural pool beckons. As soon as we reach its banks we throw our sweat-soaked bodies into the cool water, and swim surrounded by hundreds of hexagonal basalt columns formed from lava flows millions of years ago. It’s otherworldly.
Afterwards, we lay out on the smooth rocks under oleander trees heavy with pink flowers. Aside from a lone park ranger quietly building a small rock cairn by the shore, we’re the only ones here. We wonder why, for perhaps the tenth time since arriving in northern Israel four days ago, this region isn’t crawling with tourists. For the moment, though, we’re glad we have it all to ourselves.
I’ve only been among the Ik people for a couple of hours but anything is starting to seem believable.
Mzee Mateus Yeya Acok, a headman in Uganda’s most mysterious tribe, is sitting outside the hyena-proof stockade that surrounds Nalemoru Village. Perched on a windswept ridge high above Uganda’s beautiful Kidepo Valley National Park, Nalemoru, which means ‘village on a highpoint’ in the Ik language, is well named.
In 1972 the Ik became famous in a book called The Mountain People by Oxford-educated anthropologist Colin M. Turnbull. According to Turnbull, daily life among the Ik seemed to be a constant series of almost unbelievable atrocities – teenagers gleefully stole food directly from the mouths of starving elderly; a mother celebrated when a predator relieved her of the responsibility of caring for her child; grandparents joyfully watched a baby crawl into a fire. It made powerful reading and, at the time, it shook the world of travel literature.
Images of Turnbull’s brutal characters flicker through my mind as Kidepo ranger, Phillip Akorongimoe, parks his LandCruiser and we begin our climb up Morungole Mountain with two AK47-toting troopers from the Uganda People’s Defence Force. While things have been peaceful since the disarmament that was taking place when I last travelled to the region in 2008, there are still regular patrols in this area bordering northern Kenya and South Sudan.
“Morungole was considered sacred,” wrote Turnbull. “I had noticed this by the almost reverential way with which the Ik looked at it – none of the shrewd cunning and cold appraisal with which they regard the rest of the world.”
Within an hour of climbing I’m struggling to remind myself that 50 years after those words were written, I’m on my way to a rendezvous with the nastiest people in the world. This is even harder to imagine because Mzee Hillary, a 64-year-old Ik man with a charmingly open smile and a chatty demeanour, has joined our little convoy to guide us to his highland home.
As we trek, Mzee Hillary points out the sacred fig trees where animal sacrifices are made to bring the rain and shows me shady copses where wild honey is collected to be used in Ik marriage ceremonies. There are groves of medicinal bushes that serve as a natural pharmacy, treating everything from earache to constipation to scorpion stings. We are joined by a group of Ik women and children carrying water from the stream. They seem determined to fill every minute of the three-hour walk with happy chatter and laughter and I wonder if these people are the same tribe that Turnbull travelled among for almost two years, complaining that his efforts to understand them were constantly frustrated by their moody silence. Back then the Ik still lived in the lowlands and although Turnbull tried to convince guides to take him to the peak, he never visited Morungole and describes it in his book as “a dark mass, always hidden in haze”.
Our trail follows a narrow ridge, overlooking the sweeping curve of Kidepo Valley, and South Sudan, which seems just a stone’s throw away. About 50 kilometres away in the other direction is the Turkana country of northern Kenya. Over the centuries, the Ik had become accustomed to persecution from all sides; they were trapped between warlike tribes such as the Toposa and Didinga of Sudan and at the mercy of cattle-crazed Turkana warriors from Kenya.
“We would buy cattle from the Turkana,” one old man tells me, “but they would follow us home and steal the cattle back again. In those raids Ik often died.”
“It was like a deadly game of football,” my guide Phillip explains. “Sometimes the different tribes played at home. Sometimes they played away. And always the Ik were caught in the middle.”
The misty summit rises steeply against gathering storm clouds when we finally reach the Ik’s highest village. The thatched roofs of the bandas (huts) are barely discernible behind the thorny stockade that protects precious goats from leopards and raiders, and people from hyena-riding witches. Elder Mzee Paulino Lukuam greets me with an exchange of the triple-grip handshake that is habitual among many African people. I know it took Turnbull a long time before being allowed to see inside a village, so I’m surprised when Mzee Paulino invites me into his private compound within minutes of meeting. I have to crouch to crawl through the low door into the round mud-and-thatch banda that’s about three metres in diameter. I’d read that Ik parents evict their children to sleep outside, curled like dogs from the age of three, but Paulino and his wife share their little hut with seven children.
As we duck through the asak – the low tunnel out of the family compound – Phillip tells me, “They’re still proud of a culture that has remained [almost] untainted. One almost unique thing about the Ik compared with other tribes in this area is that there is virtually no sex outside marriage and most women will only ever sleep with one man in their lives.”
I wonder how this tradition could have remained alive when, according to Turnbull’s experiences when he lived here in 1965 to 1966, Ik women “regarded their bodies as their greatest assets in the game of survival”.
I am no closer to solving the mystery of the British anthropologist’s bitter relationship with the tribe, but then mystery has surrounded the Ik for thousands of years. Nobody is sure where they originated but linguists have noted similarities between the Ik language and speech from southern Egypt. I’ve heard mystifying rumours their language was peppered with words that sounded Latin and Phillip had told me some Spanish travellers he’d brought here were even able to decipher occasional words. I question old Mzee Mateus in Spanish with no success whatsoever, but he’s eventually able to explain the mystery: apparently an Italian Catholic pastor called Father Florence had lived among the Ik in the 1960s and 1970s and had left many words behind including a tradition of Christian names.
When Kidepo Valley National Park was gazetted in 1958, the British colonial government forced the Ik to stop their traditional hunting and move to the foothills. By the early 1980s, pressure from neighbouring tribes, along with drought and famine, had forced the Ik to take to the peak of their sacred mountain. The Ik, now having dwindled to a total population of around 10,000, have retreated as far as they can possibly go.
Only once did the Ik take Turnbull close to Mount Morungole – to what they called their Place of God. “…The Ik had become increasingly uncommunicative,” he wrote. “Never again would they take me near that place, or talk about it. But, as little as I knew, I felt that for a brief moment I had made contact with an elusive reality, a reality that was fast retreating beyond Ik consciousness.”
Mzee Mateus was a young headman when Turnbull came to visit and remembers the anthropologist (who died in 1994). When I show him a copy of The Mountain People he is excited to recognise some old friends in the aged black-and-white pictures.
I don’t mention the contents of the book but the old man says, “I heard that he wrote some impolite things about us.
“If Colin Turnbull ever came back I would simply tell him, ‘Please, there is no business here that we are going to welcome you for. Please leave us and go home.’”Mzee Mateus Yeya Acok is now almost 90 years old and believes that he has been blessed with a long life because, as a boy and young man, he always obeyed his parents. As he speaks, the younger people and children huddle around us, listening to the old man’s reminiscences in respectful silence.
“When I was a boy we’d sit on the plains staring at the peaks of Morungole with its colobus monkeys and great stores of wild honey,” he tells. “Now we sit on Morungole shivering in the cold, gazing over the savannah far below with the endless game that is now forbidden to us. Life has always been hard for the Ik but we’re tough. Times will keep changing but in another thousand years there will still be Ik on Morungole Mountain.”
The ocean’s salty water floods through my stinger suit, caressing my body like a silk sheet that’s delicately pulled across my skin. The muted sounds of my fellow snorkellers talking, breathing and humming are in tune with the bubbling sounds of the reef, while tiny crustaceans snap and crackle, adding sounds that remind me of popcorn and sizzling bacon to the underwater symphony. Despite the reef’s tribulations, the sub-aquatic soundscape is vibrant.
Below me, a coral bommie glistens as the sun’s rays pierce the rippling water, creating a fittingly magical sparkle to the inaugural Dreamtime Dive and Snorkel tour. Schools of trevally and red bass follow the leader and moray eels pop their heads from dark hideouts, careful not to get too close to the action. Clownfish disappear into the wobbly arms of anemones, while colourful angel and parrotfish dart between green, blue, brown and pale coral – a contrasting reality of the state of the world’s largest living organism. Vibrant coral clings to life while others have noticeably succumbed to the impact of the modern environment.
We’re here in Cairns with Experience Co, a company that offers adventure-focused tours in 30 destinations across Australia and New Zealand, and the flagship company for Dreamtime Dive and Snorkel. Since arriving just a couple of days ago, we’ve taken a helicopter ride over the Great Barrier Reef, gorged on a delicious seafood lunch in Turtle Bay near the Yarrabah Community, and rafted down the rapids of Barron River. But it’s the dive tour out to the reef that is the real showstopper on this trip.
When we learn that 80 per cent of international and domestic tourists don’t engage in any form of Indigenous experience while travelling within Australia, the importance of an Indigenous-lead tourism initiative like this becomes obvious.
As we board the new boat, the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander flags wave on the back deck, while the hull is decorated with the vessel’s logo, a colourful piece of artwork created by a local Gimuy Walubara Yidinji elder and artist, and inspired by the totems of the Traditional Land Owners of the region – the tentacles of a jellyfish, the wings of a sea hawk and the body of a turtle merge together to create the shape of a stingray. The vessel’s crew line our entrance to welcome us, including Indigenous rangers representing local Aboriginal tribes and the Torres Strait Islands. There’s no shortage of dive and snorkel tours in the Great Barrier Reef, but what makes Dreamtime Dive and Snorkel really stand out is its emphasis on Indigenous cultures and storytelling.
As the ship’s engine rumbles and we feel the boat start to push away from the dock and out to sea, Blake Cedar, who goes by his traditional name Rex, opens the tour with an Acknowledgement of Country and introduces the team. It’s just a taste of what’s to come, but an important part of the afternoon as we recognise the culture and history of Sea Country and its people.
We’re heading out to Moore Reef, a cluster of coral outcrops also known as bommies. It’s a one-and-a-half-hour journey, and my motion-sick-prone self wishes teleporting had been invented. I’m a water baby who loves being on the ocean, but my sight, inner ear and sensory processors don’t seem to work in harmony. I’m determined to find my sea legs on this trip though, and I settle in to a spot at the back of the boat, thankful there’s enough distraction on-board to keep my mind occupied. Rangers approach guests with a display of hunting tools, instruments used for ceremonial dances, and a hand drill used to make fire.
“You know that big long spear I showed you before,” says Jai Singleton, a 22-year-old Indigenous ranger who’s part of the Yirrganydji tribe. “Well, the first time I ever went out [hunting] for a turtle with my uncle, we had one of the big spears – they’re big and thick pieces of wood. Uncle hit the turtle but when he threw the spear back he hit the person driving the boat, knocked him out. Next minute, the boat was going around in circles.” It’s a funny memory of one of his earliest hunting experiences, a cultural practice Jai now takes very seriously.
“There are people that go out hunting, they do wrong hunting. They go out and take five turtles, that’s not good. Our people didn’t do that – we take one turtle and we go home and share that with the family and use everything. The only time they went out hunting for turtle was for ceremony. But people who go out every day, it’s ridiculous. That’s why you don’t see as many turtles now.”
Jai’s passion for his culture stirs a pride that’s hard not to rally around. He points to a murky beach we’re passing. “See there, that’s Yarrabah Mission,” he tells me. I later discover this sandy beach, Mission Bay on Gunggandji land, is not far from where we had dined on a champagne seafood picnic lunch just 24 hours ago – a contrasting experience to the one Australia’s Traditional Custodians and South Sea Islanders lived through during the years of the Stolen Generation. It’s this mission where Jai’s great-grandparents met. He tells me the tale of his great-grandmother who was taken from her family and her home in the Wujal Wujal camp and moved to the mission at the age of nine. Here, she met Jai’s great-grandfather, and they were married at the young age of 17-years-old just so they’d be allowed to legally leave the mission.
“For my dad, to see us have a job like this, he’s so proud. For his mother to come from where they came from, and then to see us today, he’s never been so proud.” Jai’s story is just one of many on the boat, and one that will continue to stay with me long after we’ve docked again in Cairns.
At the reef, I’m keen to zip up my stinger suit and dive into the water, but in a bid to get the full experience, I opt to see the reef from the dry deck of a glass-bottom boat. It’s just one of the experiences on offer. Others can take a heli ride over the reef.
The noisy engine roars and bubbles pattern their way across the glass. Rex stands at the rear of the boat, and with permission from the local Elders, he shares the Gimuy Walubara Yidinji tribe’s Great Barrier Reef creation story.
It’s a story of a hunter who spears a sacred black stingray, and his people who protect their land from the stormy aftermath by creating a rocky barrier, which we now know as the Great Barrier Reef. It’s a sacred story full of symbolism and deep significance to the Traditional Land Owners, and one that, out of respect for the people, I won’t share in its entirety.
Rex joins me for lunch and I’m keen to quiz him on the cultures of Sea Country. When I ask what working on this tour means to him, he responds with a similar pride I had previously seen in Jai. “I’m a proud Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander man, and I want to teach people about my culture.
This is my land, and my sea, and I want people to learn about it and respect it. To teach people how to preserve the ocean so that future generations can enjoy and experience it just like I did and the people before me.”
Rex is 21 years old. He was raised by his mother’s family in the Torres Strait before moving to Cairns to attend school.
“When I was a kid, I lived with my grandma and I repeated preschool twice because I didn’t know how to speak English, and for traditional reasons, I wasn’t going to school much.
“Growing up, I was really culturally connected. My grandparents were culturally strong and I was raised traditionally. But once my nan passed away, I moved to Cairns and stayed with my mum, who wasn’t very culturally connected… She put me in school and I learnt English really quickly but I realised, as I grew up, I had drifted away from my culture. Culture’s not taught in schools, which is a really big deal because we have kids going there and they’re learning the right things… But they’re just not learning everything they should be – our culture.”
Rex goes on to explain the concept of a totem, of which his is the hammerhead and tiger shark. I learn the northern islands of the Torres Strait have cultural similarities to Papua New Guinea, while the southern ones are more closely aligned to Australia’s Aboriginal cultures. More than 40 minutes go by and I’m still listening with fascination at the complex trading history of the Torres Strait. I’m perplexed at just how little I know about one of my own country’s Indigenous cultures.
Milln Reef, our second dive spot, is a 1.2 kilometre stretch of coral that’s considered one of the most beautiful in the region. Rex and I stop what’s turned into a passionate discussion about how we can work together to improve the country’s understanding of Indigenous cultures, and he prepares for the introductory scuba dive. His excitement is contagious.
“I love the reef,” he tells me jumping up from his seat. “It excites me every time I come out here and knowing I’m culturally connected to the ocean, it’s beautiful. One of my goals is to study marine biology so I can help the reef.” And with a shoulder shrug and a smile, he disappears to find his wetsuit.
My green gills are urging me to do the same, and I’m desperate to feel the cool water on my ailing face. A looming aeroplane ride stands between me and a scuba dive, but I pull on my stinger suit and mask to spend the rest of the afternoon in the water, safe from impending sea sickness. I start with a snorkel safari with the on-board marine biologist, Amandine Vuylsteke, and reef ranger, Enaz Mye, who goes by the name Sissy. Between watching fish and kicking my fins, Amandine talks us through the state of the reef, its sensitivity to climate change, the impact of humans and points out various fish, coral species and other marine life.
I follow a parrotfish over the reef, and spy a starfish lying on the sea bed below. The reef is a combination of light ripples, colourful coral and bubbles caused by the 20 or so people who are also in the water flapping their fins. Then, before I have time to steer myself in another direction, I’m besieged by a fluther of jellyfish. It’s the season for them in Far North Queensland, and I start to panic. Alongside crocodiles, which I’d so far managed to avoid, irukandji are my worst oceanic nightmare. I thank my lucky starfish that a layer of fabric stands between me and the transparent stingers. When I climb back on the boat out of breath and in an obvious state of trepidation, I realise my suit, as one person on the boat points out, looks more like I’m dressed for the cover of Sports Illustrated than a dive, with the zip sliding its way down to my belly button. Thankfully, the floating bobs were not irukandji and far less deadly.
Distracted by my efforts to try and keep lunch well inside my belly for the journey back to Cairns, my mind wanders back to something Jai had said during our discussion.
“When you look at someone like me, with fair skin and coloured eyes, I have to try really hard to convince people that I’m an Aboriginal man. Going to school every day, I was called black and white names by both sides. I’m not good enough for anyone – not good enough for the black fellas, not good enough for the white fellas, so I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place,” he tells me.
“But my father, and his dad, we’ve always been a part of the reef, hunting and fishing. So to now get to come out here where this is our office is amazing. It’s an honour to show our guests. There are a lot of untold stories that anybody else can tell until they’re blue in the face, but it has to come from the people themselves. And it’s my pleasure to share it.”
And in that simple reality, the importance of an extraordinary trip to the reef like this one becomes abundantly clear.
The old woman standing beside me dressed in black, grips my arm a little tighter, her glowing grin now replaced with a look of awe as the statue of Santa Marta finally emerges.
“It’s beautiful,” her voice quivers with emotion as the first coffin appears. The animated hum of human activity that seems a permanent feature of daily life in Spain has died to an ominous calm. The only sounds are the birds tweeting behind us and the shuffling of feet on the parched concrete. The coffin draws below us. A woman in her forties lies inside, her bright red trousers dazzling against the perfect white coffin lining. The corpse wriggled a little to get comfortable before adjusting her black sunglasses.
I’m standing among a few thousand spectators to witness one of the more peculiar ceremonies, in a country that has made a name for its oddball rituals. On 29 July each year people gather for the Fiesta de Santa Marta de Ribarteme in a tiny Galician village, surrounded by gentle rolling hills near As Neves. The living, breathing occupants of these seven stout wooden coffins are here to give thanks to Santa Marta for sparing their lives. “A victory of life over death,” local priest Alfonso Besada Paraje explained to me the day before.
The tradition dates back to the medieval ages, maybe even further, and is said to be an example of fervent religious beliefs mixed with the deep superstitions that have survived in the local area to this day.
Galicia is not the Spain most people know from the travel brochures. Forget the arid landscape, paella and bullfighting.
Galicia is a brilliantly green, mountainous corner of the Iberian Peninsula, positioned almost regally above Portugal. A place of stunning but harsh Atlantic-beaten coastline, thick mystical forests and ancient Celtic hill forts.
Outside the church we are immediately befriended by Maria del Carmen, a kind-natured woman of 86 with a gold tooth and hair a deep rust colour. She leans nonchalantly on a metal barrier, a plastic bag swinging from her arm.
“My smart shoes for the church,” she winks at us. I look down at her feet to find a pair of well-worn trainers. I like her immediately.
“My son is buried just around the corner, he’s the one in military uniform,” she gestures to a set of nearby graves and her eyes momentarily mist over, her thoughts deep in the past.
“Life was hard growing up here,” she finally continues. “My husband was a fisherman and he would be away for six to eight months. I brought up the five children alone most of the time.” Spain, in the years after its destructive civil war, was a place of great hardship; a country that had almost obliterated itself and took decades to recover.
“Both of my older sons left the village at 13 to find work – it wasn’t an easy time,” her voice trails off. Yet like some famous Hollywood star she is inundated by a steady stream of friends and family, and her mood remains wonderfully upbeat.
The tiny village is essentially a single road with a small church near the centre, where a large marquee has been erected to accommodate the much larger than normal attendance. Sermons are being held on the hour, every hour, and in truth seem to go on for the better part of the 60 minute intervals.
The fourth coffin is below us when a haunting melody suddenly ruptures the silence. A group close to one of the coffins has burst into an eerie, wailing song. “Virgin Santa Marta, star of the north, we bring you those who have seen death”. It adds a deeply unsettling accompaniment to the slightly macabre visuals.
The procession is led by one of two women choosing to complete the journey on her knees. Two companions each grip a hand to help.
“Seventeen years ago I had a terrible infection in my legs, I nearly lost them,” she had told me before the procession. “I return each year to thank Santa Marta.”
As the crowd moves up the hill they are framed by a stark reminder of the perennial line between life and death. A vivid green hillside stands above, peppered with trees blackened by fires. The previous year, on a catastrophic October weekend, wildfires, fanned by the winds of Hurricane Ophelia, had swept north, decimating much of northern Portugal and huge swathes of Galicia, killing four in the local area and forty-five in Portugal. Though this was unquestionably one of the worst in recent times, wildfires are now almost a yearly occurrence.
Despite the presence of coffins, there is a surprisingly jovial atmosphere – this is Spain after all. They take religion as seriously as they take fiestas – when the two are combined, you’re in for quite an experience.
The procession inches steadily past those choosing to pay their respects safely behind a table groaning with octopus and barbecued meat, and past the children’s trampoline, which provides the unique image of a coffin, juxtaposed with a child flying happily into the air. Two dogs, oblivious to their surroundings, amble casually into the procession to become comically entangled between the legs of the pallbearers.
“Madre mia!” one man hoots loudly while aiming a playful kick at the leading dog, drawing hearty chuckles from those around him.
As the church comes into view again, a young man, gripping one of the Saint’s poles, pulls out his ringing mobile.
“Digame,” (Spanish for ‘tell me’) he exclaims loudly, before chatting nonchalantly for a good minute. Nobody seems to care; he hasn’t caused any offence. Older ladies behind him smirk and playfully shake their heads.
One by one, the coffins arrive back at the church, the pallbearers grunting as they lower their occupants safely back to Earth. A young man in his twenties steps out, straightens his red and black chequered shirt and runs a hand through his casually-styled black hair. He seems unfazed by the whole experience.
“My father and I made a pact that if my grandmother survived her cancer I would come here,” he tells me.
One woman steps out of her coffin, her face already contorting with emotion. She is immediately engulfed by her large family and begins to sob uncontrollably. A year ago her family had attended the service as she lay in a coma after a serious accident. One year later, she is here herself.
The procession wasn’t quite what I was expecting. Moments of real sadness sit alongside those of joy. The people who attend, come not to mimic death but to revel in its defeat – to rejoice in that precious second chance. Those who have faced death, and who have turned away, come to this tiny Galician village surrounded by eucalyptus forests to shout wildly back into the abyss, “Yes, I’m still here.”
As we leave, I spot Maria del Carmen in the distance, sitting comfortably at a table surrounded by her family, one hand clutching a glass of white wine, the other foraging among the mounds of barbecued meat in front of her. There is a look of complete happiness on her deeply wrinkled face.
The world needs more people like Maria del Carmen who will remind you that even though life will beat you down, you should take every chance to sit with your face in the sun, smile, drink great wine, gorge on plentiful ribs and not be afraid to wear comfortable shoes.
It’s two in the morning and I can’t sleep. Considering I have spent the afternoon in the sunshine, kayaking and drinking a couple of beers with dinner, I ought to be in a deep, satisfied slumber. There certainly aren’t any distractions out here in the middle of the Andaman Sea. A few light beams from the half moon shining out on the water and the occasional creak of the boat as it slowly turns with the evening tide are the only interruptions. Maybe that’s the problem. Out here, in one of the last places in the world to offer a complete digital detox, my urban brain just can’t get accustomed to days without internet, cell phone access, or the lack of any metropolitan stimulation
I’m on a liveaboard boat, the MV Sea Gipsy, a restored Burmese junk, along with seven other intrepid travellers who are all out to experience the Mergui Archipelago, Asia’s last unspoilt tropical paradise. With over 800 mostly uninhabited islands, the Mergui features a seemingly endless wealth of empty white-sand beaches, turquoise bays, abundant marine life, and plenty of undiscovered dive spots. It’s a winning combination for aquamarine lovers and escapist travellers.
The Mergui was closed after World War II and didn’t see any outsiders again until Myanmar reopened to tourism in 1996. Still, only a trickle of tourists visit each year. While visas are now easy to obtain, the Myanmar government has kept a tight lid on permits issued for boats and tour operators sailing in the Mergui. Foreign boats have to pay US$1000 to enter the protected waters, as well as US$100 per passenger for a limit of five travel days, meaning that while the resorts of popular Phuket aren’t far away, most of the yachts moored there can’t afford to run charters over for the afternoon.
Bjorn Burchard, who is the face behind our Burmese junk journey, is the owner of Island Safari Mergui and Moby Dick Tours, one of the few companies in Yangon licensed to run trips out here. He is no stranger to beautiful and remote places. An expat Norwegian, Burchard was the first foreigner to open up a backpacker bungalow on Koh Samui in the 1980s, back when nobody had heard of the island other than a select few nomads who’d gotten wind of an untouched island nirvana in the Gulf of Thailand. Since then, Burchard has seen his fair share of Southeast Asian beaches and isles fall prey to the wrath of the developer’s sword, but he thinks that the Mergui has a chance to get things right, and sees the pristine marine archipelago as one of Asia’s last bastions for sustainable tourism.
“You’ve got some of the best dive spots in the world here, and the recent attention to the environment here by groups like Project Manaia (an ocean awareness project that is operating an advanced sonar system in the Mergui to map and monitor water quality, marine life, and coral regeneration) may get the word out that the Mergui stands for eco-friendly and alternative tourism, offering a pristine travel experience that you can’t get in too many other places,” Burchard says.
As dawn breaks, the photographers among us rise silently. With tripods and an array of lenses in hand, we traipse up to the deck to watch the sun make its way to the horizon to create a living artist’s palette of reds, oranges, and every shade in between. Several others make use of the sea kayaks that the MV Sea Gipsy tows along, paddling out to embrace the morning light.
As it begins to warm, Jerome, a tall Frenchman who appears to be the reincarnation of one of the aqua-loving Cousteau family, dives from the upper deck into the deep blue, swimming out to Island 115, a circular swathe of blinding white sand surrounded by water the colour of emeralds.
On all of the islands that we drop anchor at during the day, from Shark Island (named for its fin-like rock and not circling predators) to massive Swinton Island, full of dense jungle and root-choked mangroves, there is one recurring theme. All of the beaches are empty. Every time our boat stops in the bay and we navigate the tides by dinghy, kayak, or swimming, we feel like explorers finding land for the first time. Having spent my last decade in Thailand and seeing the changes that have transpired there, I remark to one of my companions that I can’t envision this type of untouched paradise lasting, and as we step onto each new beach I tell him that in ten years we will remember that we sunk our footprints into these powdery sands without another soul around.
Yet the Mergui is not completely devoid of human life. Sailing into a large bay at Jar Lann Island, we are greeted by a fleet of rustic wooden dugout canoes paddling out to meet us, all manned by young Moken girls. The Moken, known as ‘Salone’ in Myanmar, are a group of sea nomads who are famed for their prowess at deep sea free diving without the use of oxygen. Leading a nomadic existence, the Moken have lived for hundreds of years on traditional boats known as kabang, made from large logs and pandanus leaves, and only come ashore during the monsoon.
These days, international borders, the Boxing Day tsunami and politics have forced the Moken to stray from many of their traditional ways. The majority have been settled in government villages in the Surin Islands in Thailand and in a few spots here in the Mergui where they try to keep their connection to the sea by getting jobs on pearl farms or selling seafood to the fish traders from Phuket. It hasn’t been easy – the Mokens are traditionally stateless and nomadic, and feel that if they cannot roam freely, then their culture will disappear. There are few kabang left (national park service rules have stopped the Moken from cutting tree trunks to create them), and ‘integration’ into regular settled society has brought with it ills like drinking, gambling, and theft.
Yet despite the rather ramshackle and impoverished appearance of their village on Jar Lann, the Moken retain their easygoing nature. We watch families sitting around laughing, men tending to boats and fishing nets, and women smoking Burmese cheroots while washing clothing. I fall into conversation with a young man named Jao who has worked in Thailand and speaks as much Thai as I do. He tells me these days, village life has improved with several of the locals earning a decent living working on squid boats and selling locally caught fish, but he laments the fact that he has less time to spend with his kids who, he says, can’t dive as well as his generation could and worries about their future.
The Moken villages, as well as attempts to build tourist resorts in the Mergui, are limited by the lack of access to fresh drinking water. This is perhaps the simplest explanation as to why the archipelago hasn’t seen a more rapid tourism development. Only a handful of islands have freshwater streams, and liveaboard charters have to carry large barrels of water to survive one-week outings. Halfway through our sail in the Mergui, we call in at Nga Khin Nyo Gyee, better known as Boulder Island, aptly named for its large photogenic boulders that guard the entrance to one of the Andaman’s nicest bays. Boulder does have a water source, and is home to the rustic Boulder Bay Eco Resort. Here, simple wood and bamboo bungalows aesthetically blend in with the jungle just steps from hiking trails created by the resort, which lead to hidden jungle-overlooks, dazzling serene beaches and azure bays. You won’t find Jacuzzi tubs or spa treatments here, but the communal dining area features fresh barracuda and shrimp barbecues, documentary films about the Moken are shown at night and there’s even a sporadic Internet connection.
The resort is busy supporting a reef restoration project, using old fishing cages to grow new coral. Snorkelling here reveals an incredible array of anemones, blue-lined surgeonfish and striped coral fish, their long dorsal fins wiggling to and fro as they dart through the water.
On the trail out to Moken Bay, the island’s most beautiful beach, I spot several brahminy kites flying overhead, and my solitude is broken only by a group of white-rumped shama, small thrushes with overpoweringly loud and melodious voices, seemingly singing directions to me as I navigate through the forest.
Back aboard the MV Sea Gipsy, I marvel at the effects of living without a phone. A week without coverage, living in close proximity to strangers, forces us to reconnect and makes for great friendships. We share candlelit dinners where we bask in long conversations on the open-air deck; we enjoy diving into fictional worlds as we recline in teak chairs to read; and we spend endless time gazing out to sea in what seems to be a forced meditation. Initially, I wondered whether a week trapped in the confines of a small boat would drive a landlubber batty after a few days, but I find the longer I am out here, the more I want to stay.
David Van Driessche, a Belgian photographer based in Bangkok, leads photo tours to the Mergui and is on our trip, scouting out new locations. He’s been out here half a dozen times and says that despite the simple comforts, he never gets bored. “Where else in Asia can you find this many empty islands? Where else can you swim and kayak in the open sea without fear of longtails or speed boats running you down?” he laughs.
“I probably lose a bit of business due to being out of cell phone range when I come out here, but for the natural wonders and peace of mind, it’s well worth it.”
Before me is an endless horizon, with a storm in the distance and the red hues of the starting sunset signifying the end of another day. I take one last look at the exquisite blinding white sandbars that make up the nearest islet to our boat, and I couldn’t agree more. It’s more than worth it.
Falling in love was the last thing I had expected to happen on an expedition to the remote parts of Costa Rica’s Caribbean Coast. It’s the middle of my final night on Pacuare beach and darkness blankets the otherwise vibrant landscape I’ve come to know so well, interrupted only by the stars casting a fading spotlight over the waves violently crashing against the sandy shore. I’m out here wearing just Crocs and my underwear, thankful for the lack of light pollution in this remote haven.
The moon’s silver light outlines the curves of the body lying before me and I barely notice the bugs attacking my legs or the grains of sand flying through the air. Goosebumps creep across my skin as jolts of electric euphoria cause my mind to blank. It’s a moment so magical that despite my weary, sweaty body,
I almost hope it never ends.
When I arrived at Pacuare seven days ago, this was not the tale I thought I’d be weaving, but we have little say in the hand of fate.
I’m travelling with Biosphere Expeditions to a small beach-fronted research station in the province of Limon where I’ll be working with a team of scientists, research assistants and volunteers from conservation organisation, Latin American Sea Turtles (LAST).
A few hours drive from the country’s capital, San Jose, brings us to the canals of Tortuguero where we travel an hour by dinghy through the winding waterways. With every corner of the bend, the lush, green rainforest unfolds, and we play ‘I spy’ in the hope the tropical trees will uncover spider, howler and capuchin monkeys, geladas, caiman, green macaws, sloths and jaguars.
The engine of the boat hums to the chorus of cicadas and birds chime in for their solo, while white-faced geladas occasionally grunt their tenor parts like schoolboys whose parents have forced them onto the stage.
When we arrive at the station, we’re welcomed by the thunderous sound of the Caribbean Sea, and the delicate growl of Shakira, a deaf Rottweiler whose bark is as tough as her bite, but her nature as placid as a wise old owl.
“She is a guard dog,” our expedition leader Ida Vincent warns.
“She tends to go about her business, but we advise you avoid patting her because she does have a tendency to snap.” She points to Fabián Carrasco, LAST’s resident biologist, who reveals a nasty scar across his thumb and hand.
Teaming up with the volunteers from La Tortuga Feliz, a neighbouring program, we will walk a seven-kilometre stretch of beach each night in four-hour shifts between 7pm and 5am in search of leatherback, green and hawksbill turtles. We have one main goal – to find the turtles and collect the nests before poachers do.
Sea turtle eggs are hunted and sold on the black market, and for some species, like the green and hawksbill, they’re also traded for meat and shells. It’s long been a belief that the eggs are an aphrodisiac, which Fabián explains comes from an old sea tale.
“Fishermen were spending weeks or months out at sea. When sea turtles mate, they join tails and the male drops his sperm into the female. The process can take 30 to 40 minutes, but because the males want to stop others from mating with her, he hugs her for hours, or sometimes even days. The fishermen would see this and think they were mating the whole time.” I blush. The story is comical, but one that sadly results in a diminishing population, with almost all species appearing on the endangered list. Climate change, habitat damage, pollution, sand erosion, light pollution and fishing also play a part.
It takes us a while to adjust to our new surroundings. Our accommodation at the LAST station is rustic, dormitory-style bunk beds, some with a private bathroom, and others sharing the doorless washrooms, all fed by solar power. While the rest of our group search for phone service hotspots, I decide to make the most of this opportunity to completely detach from the outside world. It may be basic, but it doesn’t forgo comfort – there’s no need for hair dryers out here, and after a few hours in the sticky humidity, I welcome the pipe-style cold showers.
Our first day, like most days, is spent lounging in hammocks, attending lectures on sea turtles and getting to know our fellow volunteers. Sunlight hours are quiet and relaxing in preparation for our night shifts, but there’s still plenty to do and between chapters of books and dips in the sea, we help with beach clean ups, hatchery duty, fixing and cleaning equipment, and learning Spanish.
Fabián, a Mexican-born biologist who has worked with LAST for the past three years, runs the show and along with our leader, Ida, they make us feel welcomed and at home.
“In the beginning, I dreamed of working with big cats,” Fabián tells me, but an introduction to the world of turtles had him hooked. “It was something I wanted because I liked working on the beach, seeing the turtles and really enjoyed my time in the lab studying microbiology.
“Turtles are animals that cannot fend for themselves so when they come to the beach, they’re very vulnerable … They don’t do any damage when they come here, and we, humans, are their biggest predators.
I’m not here to be a hero, but I do want to protect them.”
Ida, who is also a marine biologist, agrees. “We could be really lucky on this trip,” she tells our group. “There’s a nest of turtles almost ready to hatch so we might get some babies.” Her smile and enthusiasm is infectious and despite our apprehension of what’s ahead of us on our walk tonight, we can’t help but embrace the energy.
After an early dinner of beans and vegetables (our meals are plant-based and organic, and alcohol is forbidden on the station) we are broken up into groups and head to bed to rest before our first shift.
My guide for the night is Hernan, a local who tells me he’s been looking for turtles for almost 10 years. Many of the guides are ex-poachers, now employed by LAST to lead teams during the season, which runs from May to November. For the most part of the four-hour walk, our group stays silent, chatting only between breathless puffs and during short breaks.
By the time we’re on our way back, my feet are covered in blisters, my body aches and I’m excreting so much sweat I can no longer tell if it’s been raining. A broken-English and broken-Spanish conversation with Hernan distracts me from the exhaustion, and while there are no turtles to be sighted tonight, it already starts to dawn on me that this trip is offering up more than just an opportunity to bond with my favourite oceanic reptiles. I was about to learn as much from the people as I was from the turtles.
Alongside the conservation work, LAST also invests in educating the locals, employs poachers and runs activities for the children who live nearby. “We want them to see us as a part of the community, rather than enemies,” Fabián explains as we scoff down our breakfast empanadas.
It’s only our second day here at the station, and our overnight introduction to saving the turtles is a reality check, but the hope of hatchlings keeps our spirits high.
The hatchery sits a few hundred metres away from the station and is a small, fenced-in section of sterilised beach that’s guarded 24/7 to protect the
re-nested eggs against predators – poachers, dogs, cats and crabs among them. Hatchery duty falls under our job description on this trip, but first, we need to learn how to recreate a nest.
Turtle nests, we learn, are circular holes with a lip pocket for air. As I dig my arms deep into the sand, my inner school student is desperate for praise. It turns out digging a near-perfect circle is harder than expected and with each “it’s too wide”, “it’s not straight enough” and “dig a little deeper” my overachiever persona is kicked to the curb.
I spend the afternoon soaking my feet in a makeshift saltwater footbath until the sun starts to lower its position in the sky. “It’s babies time,” Ida says, as we all walk over to the hidden nest Fabián buried earlier in the season.
The path there is as fascinating as the exhumation we’re about to witness. Geladas make frightening grunting noises from their thrones high in the trees, while leafcutter ants carry small squares of green on their back in a hi-ho fashion. Toucans squawk, desperate to steal the spotlight with their kaleidoscope beaks, and dogs follow us, baffled that on this rare occasion, no one is interested in playing.
A few kilometres up the beach, in an area covered in vines and overgrowth, we gather around Fabián who lies belly down. We’re given instructions for the hatchling release – never walk in front of a turtle, don’t interfere with their path to the sea, and above all else, watch where you step. As he scoops sand out of the nest by the handful, the occasional wriggling flipper is caught and gently placed in a polystyrene foam box to protect it from the sun. It’s important the hatchlings are released in the shade to avoid the hot sand frying their delicate bodies.
A leatherback nest houses an average of 80 eggs, and the exhumation takes a little over an hour, revealing a number of unsuccessful ones plagued by fungus, bacteria, or foetuses that died before hatching. As if the 1 in 1000 survival odds for hatchlings to reach sexual maturity isn’t enough, only seven are released from this single nest. Before Biosphere Expeditions and LAST arrived in Pacuare, poaching at this site was nearly 100 per cent, and has since been halved. I take comfort knowing that despite the small number, our release saved these hatchlings from a sure sale on the black market.
I stand in awe as they drag their tiny bodies across the sand toward the sea. One little guy lags in the back, trying to figure out whether he should follow his siblings to be engulfed in the ocean’s waves, or whether he’d much prefer to stay in the comfort of the box he’d just been released from, awoken from a tranced state. He’s my favourite, I decide, and with each simultaneous push of the flippers, it’s hard not to be moved by his conviction. Human footprints build mountainous obstacles, and while the lagging hatchling is not quick, nor graceful, his determination is unwavering. As a group of 20-odd humans standby rooting him on, my love affair with these chelonians strengthens.
Witnessing this has turned hatchery duty into a coveted role – everyone wants a break from the night walks and to be the first to see the near-ready nest in the hatchery emerge. I draw the lucky straw, along with my roommates, Scarlett and Talar, and sit on the 3am to 6am guard shift.
In 15-minute intervals, we inspect each nest, which are protected from predators by some netting, hoping to witness some bubbling sand indicating the exciting arrivals. The sun puts on a spectacular show, and a new day is dawning, but still no turtles.
It takes two more nights of braving the humid, rainy conditions before I come face-to-tail with an adult leatherback. It’s around 9pm and I’m getting some sleep when Ida comes knocking on our dorm’s door. “Ladies, come quick! There’s a turtle right out front!”
we hear her say in a tone somewhere between a shout and a whisper as to not wake the nearby sleepers.
Suddenly, body aches and wounded feet dissipate and I sprint to the station’s gate and out to the beach. This is the moment where exhaustion, relief and emotion collide and as I stand in the moonlight in my underwear, I feel my eyes well up with tears.
The mamma leatherback gracefully goes about her duty, sprinkling sand with a delicacy and calculation I’d been unable to match when digging days earlier. This is the only opportunity she’ll get to protect her babies, and once she’s satisfied with her masterpiece, she heavily turns her body back toward the sea. Her presence on land is far more laborious than her ability to glide through water, and just before she hits the wet sand, she takes a moment to rest and then, with a few more heaves of her flippers, she disappears, unknowingly leaving her babies in the safe hands of Carlos, an ex-poacher turned guide.
In that moment, my skin crawling with fervour, every step of the week becomes entirely worth it.
As I sit in the kitchen on my final day listening to paradise’s soundtrack, Fabián lies in the hammock somewhere between sueños (dreaming) and consciousness, and Shakira sits calmly by his feet. I stare out into the canal where Carlita, our cook, rests at the end of the dock, and I movie-roll my way through the last week. I’ve run out of clean clothes and my body is desperate for a hot bath, and yet, right here in this special part of Costa Rica, I feel totally and utterly at home. My heart is full.
The midnight sun and the chance to experience everlasting daylight are what brought us this far north. We are in search of adventure and craving somewhere remote, beautiful, mystic and challenging. We have hopes our journey across the open ocean on stand-up paddleboards will allow us to witness the spectacular dance of horizon and sun.
Finding the perfect destination wasn’t easy. We’d considered the Faroe Islands, Greenland and Svalbard, but it was the Norwegian islands north of Tromsø that captured our attention. We knew a 15-day, self-supported SUP journey around the islands of Rebbenesøya, Grøtøya and Nordkvaløyac wasn’t going to be easy, but we never could have imagined just how rewarding it would be.
The water is cold in the 70th Parallel, far into the Arctic Circle, the days are never-ending and the adventure is pumped up to max. Our SUP experience so far is limited to the lakes of Switzerland, but Norway takes it up a notch. To paddle the open ocean, standing on our own inflatable island of just three metres by one, with our gear strapped to the board, raises several unknowns. Are we going to sink or get blown away? Will paddling be so difficult that we can’t make progress?
As our SUPs hit the near-freezing water on day one, a feeling of unease runs our nerves a little ragged. The weather plays a critical role, but thankfully we’re blessed with calm seas, a gentle breeze and warming sunshine. It’s a chance to get a feel for the boards loaded with food, camping gear, clothes and photography equipment.
In the beginning, we monitor the weather closely, using apps that are updated hourly and pinpoint our exact location. Our days are filled with riding the ocean swell as it rises and falls. Hours pass as we stare at the blue-hued mountains approaching in the distance and the physical challenge becomes draining, but there is no chance to stop. We are surrounded by water, which holds no mercy for surrender. We have no choice but to paddle on.
Occasionally, we check our phones for reception. If the weather is going to change we need to be vigilant, otherwise we could be in danger of getting blown out to sea. SUPs don’t handle wind very well and it doesn’t take much of a headwind to stop progress. If it really turns nasty and starts blowing offshore, our closest landmass is Greenland, 1500 kilometres away – if we’re lucky.
It’s not all weather-watching, though. On a trip as long as this, we have many hours to immerse ourselves in the surrounding nature. The commotion of the city fades behind us and it’s replaced by the sounds of Mother Nature. Even when the waves aren’t lapping against the board and stillness takes over, there is always a far-off cry of a bird or gentle splash. When the seas grow rough, nature amps up the volume as if to tell us it’s time to be aware.
The midnight sun is elusive. As evening falls, the clouds stretch their way across the horizon, creating an impenetrable wall for the ball of light. Sure, our evening is clear, but the shy sun disappointingly hides behind the clouds. We still have 15 days ahead of us, and nature heeds no call to a wish.
Surrounding us is the rugged Norwegian landscape, shaped by the winter winds. The cliffs are dark and powerful, and their jagged edges drop vertically to the sea. It’s as intimidating as it is mesmerising. We realise, at this moment, we are weak in the face of such power and so small in these surroundings. This landscape is certainly delivering the adventure we sought.
Although we’re paddling around three main islands, there are hundreds of smaller ones, too tiny to earn a mention on our maps, scattered like shells on a beach. They seem to huddle together as if seeking protection and draw us nearer as we seek the same. Most of the islands are low-lying, free of trees and surrounded by rocks with the odd sandy cove to entice the weary traveller. The flowers on the islands know this is their chance too. They have been dormant, covered in a blanket of snow so thick and suffocating it seemed almost unlikely they would ever see light again. But their blues, yellows and purples now cluster low, escaping the fierce winds of the Norwegian Sea. Waking each morning to a field of beautiful colour heightens our senses and excites our spirit.
Camping reveals the beautiful coves, islands and rocky outcrops, and there’s not a person in sight. Being on SUPs allows us to move close to the shore to find the best spots to pitch a tent for the night. Once we tie down our boards together to ensure they aren’t blown away in our sleep, we turn to dinner. Norway is famous for its fishing and marine life, but unfortunately for us, fish swim in abundance during winter, while at this time of year, in the summer months, there’s just the occasional small cod to be caught. We feast on mussels at low tide and eat fish most nights, supplemented by our dehydrated packaged food.
As we approach the end of our first week, the weather ups its intensity and slows our progress. The calm seas and blue skies pass, but we are racing a deadline and need to keep pushing – hunkering down in our tents for a week while we wait for the winds to pass would create a problem down the track. They are so strong it feels as if we are barely moving and, at one point, we end up kilometres away from our destination. Doubts start to creep into our minds and while we are comfortable on the boards, we start to see the wind as the enemy. Our arms begin to tire and our minds are just as exhausted, constantly reminding us to beware of ending up in Greenland.
The weather is unforgiving, and as the days pass, it grows more and more dangerous, forcing us into a two-day layover. We make the most of the opportunity and explore the inner islands, swapping our paddles for hiking boots. As we reach the top of cliffs, we’re rewarded with the most spectacular view of Norway. The wind whips the grass, as if trying to pull its roots from the soil and our breath is almost entirely stolen, due to a combination of the hike, the wind’s ferocity and the view before us. As we maintain a healthy distance from the edge of the cliff for fear of the wind toppling us over, deep menacing clouds present themselves on the horizon, threatening to dump their freezing water within minutes. We watch on as the sun pokes its way through, shining its hopefulness, before being suffocated by the next grey mass in what seemed like a never-ending game of peek-a-boo.
Of all the land masses that cross our paths, it is the small island of Sørfugløya that really inspires. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in grandeur. It is dark and powerful, and has us spellbound with its vertical walls rising from watery depths. The sun’s rays expose the cliff’s scars from years of heavy winter winds. Its pyramid silhouette shimmers against the backdrop of the evening sky like a mirage. As it’s a bird sanctuary, camping is prohibited on the island and it seems almost lost in the space between the waves. We have made it to the westernmost point of our trip and, as we continue, Sørfugløya becomes the backdrop of many of our photos and keeps us company in our tiresome paddles.
When calm finally sets in again after days of storms, we have to make up for the lost time. We paddle hard, our bodies yearning for rest and our food supplies running short. Often our thoughts drift with the Arctic terns as they skim the swells synchronised to the ocean’s peaks and troughs. One could watch these amazing birds for days. They are the ultimate travellers, covering more than 64,000 kilometres each year as they travel from pole to pole.
Throughout history, the Norwegian Arctic region has played a special part in polar expeditions. Amundsen, like the Arctic terns above, also undertook a famous journey from the northern Arctic to be the first to the South Pole. His travels are admired, documented and made legend.
We came to the Arctic with less ambition, but a similar fascination about experiencing life under the midnight sun and feeling 24-hour daylight. It isn’t until our last day that the weather decides to take our side. As our aching bodies paddle towards our final destination, aching for relief, the blue sky pushes through the clouds as if drawing a curtain to make way for the sun. Nature was finally granting us our wish.
As a kid, one of my favourite stories was about how my grandfather came to New York City. Travelling from Panama at the age of 12, he stowed away on a cargo ship, tucked among ropes and crates as a hidden human package. Each time he told me the tale, I hung on every word with the same wide-eyed grip as the first time I heard it.
It’s this story that piqued my interest in Aranui 5, a ship with a beautiful identity crisis. It carries cargo, but it is also a luxury liner. The difference to my grandfather’s story, however, is I’m trading the Manhattan metropolis for the tropical Marquesas Islands, a handful of extremely remote, pristine islands within French Polynesia. And I certainly don’t have to hide behind any crates.
If the concept of Aranui 5 sounds a little unorthodox, it’s because it is. Sure, it’s a cargo ship that transports much needed supplies to these remote outposts, but it doubles as a cruise ship where I’ll be sleeping in a delightfully appointed room and spending my days sipping a cold Hinano beer next to the pool.
When I first spot the ship, my jaw drops. It’s as if some mad scientist has Frankensteined commerce and tourism into some half-baked, late-night metal explosion. From the front, Aranui 5 doesn’t offer the grandeur I expected. The bow masks its deep belly, which stores everything from cars to livestock, while two spindly cranes breach its sharp hull like a floating praying mantis. When I look to the stern, however, the scenery changes to a number of suites surrounding a beautiful open-air deck and pool, and balconies that are decorated with colourful chairs.
It’s this melee of sophistication and rustic culture that captures the intrepid spirit for any traveller willing to make the journey.
Once onboard, all sense of the ship’s identity crisis dissipates and I’m surrounded by welcoming hospitality and luscious comfort. The rooms are large, each with its own bathroom. Some suites even have a living room and balcony. There’s cable TV, internet, a gym, pool and lively bar – enough to keep even the most restless cruiser occupied.
Dining on the Aranui 5 is an experience in itself. Breakfast is a lavish buffet of fresh eggs, breads, fruits and cereals, but by the time dinner rolls around, I’m well and truly impressed. As the grand hall fills with travellers, each anticipating the unfolding beauty ahead of us, new friends meet for the first time and discussions about future possibilities unfold. A three-course meal paired with a selection of French wines follows, carefully crafted by the chef who mixes local island flavours with global flair.
What strikes me as interesting is that almost everyone here has either been on the cruise before or has discovered it through a personal recommendation. It’s a testament to the quality of this unique experience and ensures plenty of diversity in the chatter about expectations as the ships horn sounds and it starts gliding through the salty blue mass towards paradise.
Nothing can prepare us for our destination, though, and despite the Aranui 5’s obvious attraction as a cargo ship, it’s the remote Marquesas that really steals the spotlight. That’s why we’re here after all; the ship is merely our vessel to get to the otherwise difficult to reach and wholly untapped islands.
You will not find the usual gift shops or tacky t-shirts to welcome travellers, and there are certainly no Starbucks or McDonald’s, let alone mobile-phone service. The archipelago is wild, sparsely inhabited and fiercely traditional. Here life is simple and far less diluted by the common global consciousness of the internet age. The people are friendly and curious, and the islands are pure and rugged, with dramatic coastlines and devastatingly lush interiors.
Over the next two weeks we visit more than half a dozen islands, each equally as beautiful as the last, but with its own hint of individuality. Wood-carved cathedrals dot the sandy beaches of Nuku Hiva, while Fatu Hiva’s rugged landscape is decorated with waterfalls that cascade between emerald-covered peaks. Some islands are known for amazing woodwork, and others have spent centuries mastering bone carving.
As I watch a young craftsman on Nuku Hiva practise the skills that have been passed down through generations, I marvel at the kindness and warmth of the local people, willing to show their talents with those visiting the island.
There is no established tourism here, but that’s exactly what makes these islands so special and the experience even richer. Predominantly locals, the staff onboard bring the adventure to life, sharing their knowledge, experience and culture. We may be guests, but we are welcomed to the islands as if we are family.
These islands are raw and functional, with a rustic charm that only a real adventurer and authenticity seeker will enjoy. It’s unrefined and, at times, unorganised, but in a world of prepackaged, Instagram-saturated travel, this unconventional experience is a welcome breath of fresh air.
We trek into the island’s inner caverns, joining a traditional feast of wild pig and breadfruit, and explore ancient sites that are yet to be documented by archeologists.
As we wander the pristine shores of Nuku Hiva, we discover a bay near Taipivai village, where azure waters crash against pristine white sands. We’re told it’s here Herman Melville wrote his first book, Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life. It’s a small reminder of the remote destination’s rich, connected history.
We find it again a couple of days later on Hiva Oa, which enticed French painter Paul Gauguin, who made the dangerous journey to the island in 1890. It was a voyage that consequently resulted in his European rise to fame through his artistic interpretation of this unseen world.
The artist is buried on the island and a colourful cannon of his work is on display in the Paul Gauguin Cultural Centre.
In the neighbouring Tuamotus, we visit Rangiroa, where a cycling tour along the sandy coast leads to a pearl farm. A long pier stretches over the sparkling sea where black stingrays dart around below the surface. A local diver disappears into the crystal depths and returns with a fresh oyster plucked from the ocean floor. Shucked open, the grey shell reveals a fleshy interior, garnished with a black pearl. The diver hands it to me, and I’m wonderstruck by this gift of nature. Even when we trade the sand between our toes for the sea breeze through our hair back onboard the Aranui 5, the excitement continues.
From craft and cooking classes to dance lessons and parties, there’s always something to do. When I discover I can get a tattoo from one of the locals, it is an obvious must – I collect ink like passport stamps, and in Polynesia, known for its rich tattoo culture, I had to add to the story on my skin. I met with one of the local staff members who offered to do the work for me below deck in the spa. We talk about my impression of the islands, my background, what ideals I hold dear and what I think is important for a good life. Then, with a modern tattoo gun, he proceeds to etch his impression onto my arm. Not quite an hour later, I have a beautiful new piece of work done in classic Marquesas style and it immediately becomes my favourite.
As I turn into my freshly made bed, we voyage away from the Marquesas and paradise becomes nothing but a memory.
We wake up to the manicured Society Islands, where the Aranui 5 staff ease us back into reality with a farewell party atop a private atoll in Bora Bora.
Along the streak of sandy white beach, everyone trades stories and perspectives, processing the unique culture we’ve learned so much about over the past 13 days. There, walking along the beach, I look back across the blue expanse and a smile creeps across my sun-kissed face knowing that the spirit of discovering untapped culture is still possible, and that sometimes, much like New York City was to my grandfather, the fairytale of a new paradise still exists.
Neville is practising his blue steel pose. He has just landed a part in a frontier action-thriller that’s going to be shot in Kakadu and Arnhem Land with Jack Thompson, Guy Pearce and David Gulpilil, and he’s pretty excited, although he doesn’t yet know what his role will be, or how long he’ll be on screen. “Maybe I’ll be a big star,” he says with a shy smile as we cruise up the road in a flat-bottomed boat.
We’re meant to be driving to Ubirr, one of Kakadu’s most popular rock art sites, but the road is submerged and the monsoon forest has transformed into a vast wetland. It doesn’t faze Neville, though.
Out here during the wet months, on the edge of Arnhem Land where floods are just part of the seasonal cycle, the roads turn into rivers and the locals replace cars with boats. We wave to a passing dinghy doing double duty ferrying kids to school.
When Neville’s not auditioning for the silver screen he’s a Guluyambi Cultural Cruise guide, and this special boat trip up the flooded Magela Creek to Ubirr is only available in big wet seasons when water levels are high enough. It’s a magical trip through an ethereal forest of peeling paperbarks full of nesting magpie geese and sentinel storks, a world away from the usual road trip across a dusty landscape of dried yellow grass. As we wind through the trees, Neville tells us stories about living in Kakadu and points out medicine plants and bush tucker, including his favourite, the “tasty magpie goose”. He’s also an artist – his work is sold in the Marrawuddi Gallery at Bowali Cultural Centre in Jabiru – and with a nifty flick of his hand, he transforms a reed into a paintbrush, which he pops into his pocket to use later.
We pull up at the flooded carpark, leaving Neville with his rapidly growing pile of reedy brushes, and head off on foot to the rocky outcrop famous for its galleries of art, which includes imagery of the extinct thylacines, depictions of European buffalo hunters, and ancient creation stories. We’re the only ones here and even the black wallaroos, who obviously weren’t expecting any tourists to turn up today, are surprised to see us. “They’re very rare,” says our tour guide, who usually only visits Ubirr in the dry season. “I’ve never seen them here before, there’s usually too many people around.”
It’s not my first visit to Kakadu but it may as well be because the view from the top of the lookout across the plain is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before: a rippling green sea of two-metre-high spear grass speckled with water glinting in the sun, replacing the vast golden savannah I remembered. It’s also crowd-free. Climb Ubirr on any given afternoon in July and chances are you’ll be sharing your view with hundreds of others, all jostling for the best sunset shot.
Back in the boat, Neville talks about the six distinct seasons in Kakadu: Banggerreng (storm season), Yegge (cool season), Wurrgeng (cold season), Gurrung (hot, dry season) and Gunumeleng (pre-monsoon storm season), but it’s when Gudjewg (monsoon season) arrives in February and March that the landscape completely transforms, although for the Traditional Owners of Kakadu, the seasons are defined by the bush foods that are available rather than just the weather. Neville, like everyone else I talk to on this trip, loves Gudjewg because the nesting magpie geese are easy to catch.
Up until now I had always thought April and November were the best times to visit because the roads and four-wheel drive tracks to campsites are all open. My last trip was in August, when we spent three weeks moving from one campsite to another and hiking through forests to secluded waterholes. We swam in the ink-black waters of the magic Motorcar Falls while turtles nibbled our toes and climbed up to the top of Gunlom Falls, which doesn’t flow in August but has one of the world’s best wet-edged plunge pools at the top. The landscape was blackened and bare after the annual burning that cleans the country of dry grass, and although the smoke haze produced some spectacular sunsets and the wildlife – buffalo, brumbies, wallabies and crocodiles – gathered at shrinking billabongs while migrating flocks of geese and other birds turned the sky dark with a million wings at dusk, it lacked the thundering waterfalls and lily-covered wetlands I see before me now.
It’s February, smack bang in the middle of the wet time, but it’s not actually raining that much on this trip – three of my four days here have been dry and when it does rain it has been at night. The humidity, on the other hand, has ramped up and as I turn in at the end of the days I’m grateful for the comfort of hotel-room air-conditioning and pleased I haven’t opted for canvas walls this time around.
The 4WD tracks to the epic waterfalls are closed – by the time they dry out enough to drive the falls will have all but disappeared – so the only way to see them is a 70-minute chopper flight that skims out along the edge of the escarpment, past Dreaming sites and gorges laced with dozens of ephemeral cascades, to Jim Jim and Twin Falls. We’ve asked for the doors off, and our pilot hovers above the billowing clouds of smoke-like mist, circling the sites so we can capture the shimmering rainbows that arc across the canyons. It’s awe-inspiring, bigger and more powerful than I’d ever imagined, and absolutely worth the splurge.
We fly low across the floodplains and I can see roaming buffalo and brumbies, while rivers fan out over the horizon. From this view, the enormity of Kakadu’s 20,000 square kilometres is enthralling. Devoid of buses, campervans and grey nomads, it seems even more untouched and wilder than it is in the dry.
I’d hiked most of the popular walking trails on previous visits, so we ask local indigenous guide and former ranger, Victor Cooper, to take us off track. He over-delivers, and we find ourselves tramping through the prickly spinifex, scrambling up rocky outcrops and splashing across creeks. We get to a small waterfall and crouch beneath the gushing water to cool down when Victor sheepishly admits that he’s lost the track because it’s so overgrown.
He heads off on a reconnaissance and half an hour later we reluctantly leave our wild spa to follow him clambering up a rocky cliff. I still can’t see the trail but Victor seems pretty confident he knows where he’s going (or he’s a really good bluffer), and all is forgiven when we get to the top and look out over the edge of the escarpment. We haven’t seen another person all day.
An early-morning cruise on the Yellow Water Billabong the following day leads us to the fabled oceans of lilies. The flooded plain is carpeted in pink, purple and white flowers while dainty jacana – nicknamed ‘Jesus birds’ for their ability to walk on water – pick their way from lily pad to lily pad. Sea eagles surf the thermals above, although our boat driver – just like Neville on our cruise to Ubirr on the first day – seems very disappointed that he has to motor past trees full of geese without taking one home.
“Those geese look much better on a plate,” he says with a grin, reminding me that up here, particularly in the wet season when there’s not so many tourists about, traditional hunting and gathering is still very much a way of life. I think back to the paintbrush Neville made in seconds on my first day, and recall his comments that there aren’t any Officeworks out in the bush.
It’s hard to believe that one place can provide so much. It seems that’s the magic of Kakadu; from dry to wet, reed to paintbrush, the changing seasons breathe new life into more than just the surrounding landscape. I leave Kakadu feeling restored, and wondering how Neville is going with his blue steel. I guess I’ll find out when High Ground hits the cinemas.
The red light of sunset hangs in the mist churning out of the thundering rapids. Two tribesmen, the best river runners in their village, steady their motor-dugout for a run upstream into the fury of the monstrous waves. Beyond lies the mystery of the vast, jaguar-haunted Guiana Highlands, but the only way in is on the Kabalebo River, which sits just past these rapids. The Amerindians pick a line and the old outboard screams as the boat shoots into the heart of the rapids. If the canoe happens to turn broadside to the fury of the river, it will be broken up and lost, and we will be left stranded in the Amazon jungle.
Upon my arrival to the capital, Paramaribo, the Minister of Tourism told me “Suriname is very wealthy.” We meet in the shadow of an old Dutch castle with rusting cannons still trained on the Caribbean. Suriname is emerging from a dark era of dictatorship and atrocities, so common in post-colonial nations, but I’ve come here to explore its dramatic potential for adventure. His Excellency, dressed more like a Somali pirate than a diplomat, offers me a glass of rum and smiles, reaffirming that this is an extraordinary country. “In the jungle there is gold and bauxite; many minerals, many opportunities for mining.” The crux of what he is saying is this: Suriname must make its way in the world, either by extraction or appreciation of its only asset, the Amazon jungle.
Old town Paramaribo looks like a film set, and as I walk a dirt road lined with soaring Amazon hardwoods and colonial mansions, I consider my plan. The Minister of Tourism agrees to loan me a Cessna aircraft to explore the country, wanting to prove to the world that Suriname, both a Caribbean and South American nation, is at peace and has much to offer. My journey is taking me deep into the Northern Amazon to stand upon the banks of the storied river, Kabalebo.
“Ready to fly?” my pilot asks early the next morning as I board a small single-prop bush plane. Before I have time to answer, he quickly gets the shuddering craft airborne, and we’re tracing the Caribbean coast toward the mouth of the Kabalebo River, where we will land and refuel. From the air I can see silt dark water lapping at dense mangrove forests, a visual indication why Suriname has never caught on as a beach destination, despite a long Caribbean coastline. I was encouraged though; I wanted jungle adventure, not white sand.
Stepping out of the plane at a riverside airstrip, I’m greeted by Evan, the last Peace Corps volunteer working with the Maroon people.
“They were slaves, and when they escaped, they went into total isolation out in the jungle,” he explains as we step into his little wooden pirogue, a narrow canoe made from the trunk of a tree. Following the abolition of slavery in the 19th century, Dutch colonials brought cheap labourers from Indonesia, India and China. Meanwhile, former African slaves formed what amounted to a nation within a nation. Living in the jungle, they were cut off from the changing language and customs of their homelands. “Their culture is like a time capsule, it hasn’t changed for 200 years,” Evan says.
The people we meet in the village are quiet and show no signs of curiosity as to who we are. “The escaped-slave mentality is still strong,” Evan explains as we walk through the village. Shrines to Obeah sit at corners of dirt lanes and A-frame huts are decorated in a style that Evan says was commonplace in West Africa long ago. “Everything is about survival for them,” he adds. Their garden locations are secret and they keep caches of supplies hidden in the jungle, including machetes, cooking pots and pickaxes. “These are their wealth, their bling-bling.”
I check into a riverside lodge nearby called Pikenslaay, where I fall asleep to the calming and mysterious sounds of the jungle, and awaken to the golden sunrise reflecting on the Kabalebo. The view before me is an almost clichéd picture of a jungle river; a dense canopy hangs over dark, slowly roiling water.
Our next destination is a 300-kilometre plane ride away. My pilot is navigating by map and compass as we trace the looping course of the Kabalebo, sometimes crossing the broad stretches of unbroken jungle. From the aerial view, the jungle looks vast with no sign of humans, yet across the border in Brazil, the very same jungle is quickly disappearing. Technically known as the Guianan Moist Forests, the terrain we are venturing into is known as one of the largest intact tropical rainforests in the world, stretching from Venezuela in the west to the Atlantic coast in French Guiana. My thoughts drift back to the tourism official I’d met in Paramaribo and his unconcealed pro-industry attitude. If Suriname is to save its wild places, it will have to be done with tourist dollars.
Suddenly, the pilot pulls back the controls, jams the throttle and the plane shudders as it angles away from the grassy airstrip below, and narrowly clears the jungle canopy. It banks steeply, and as he wipes his forehead and pulls off his radio headset, the pilot says “On the runway… big anaconda.” Our welcoming party to Nature Resort Kabalebo, a rough collection of buildings and grass huts set on a short runway cut out of the jungle. This is the most remote settlement in Suriname.
“Welcome to the jungle!” a bare-chested, barefooted man shouts, happily swinging a machete as he walks towards the plane. “I’m Jerry, your guide,” he says in a strong Dutch accent. He explains that come afternoon, we will be travelling upriver in a boat, into a part of the Amazon that is untouched by man. “No place you can go is more wild.”
Jerry, a zealous fisherman, suggests a walk to the river to cool off. As I glide through the water, he pulls a big silver fish from it. I ask what type of fish he’s catching, to which he emphatically replies, “Piranha.”
“How dangerous are piranhas?” I ask, quickly kicking toward the shore. He takes a moment to think before he responds; “This time of year, if you aren’t already bleeding, they shouldn’t attack you.
“If you go in any of these villages, you’ll find people missing toes or fingers. Just don’t go swimming naked and you’ll be fine.”
On the walk to the resort’s nearby village, I learn that we will be travelling upriver in a motorised dugout with two of Jerry’s best boatmen. We are entering wild territory here with just the slight possibility of running into some small nomadic Indian groups, although unlikely given the remoteness of the area. It seems Jerry is more concerned about the illegal gold miners who have begun to rush in from Brazil and wreak havoc on the environment.
The village of thatch-roofed huts is small and smoky. Amazonian natives lounge around in loincloths and donated clothing, drinking warm cassava beer brewed in clay pots. “The women chew the cassava,” Jerry says, handing me a bowl of beer made from the fermented remains. I try not to think about the information he has just passed on to me as I take a sip.
Once a year, the village men make the trek to the coast to sell cotton, which is their only cash crop. The rest of the year, the village lives on starchy cassava, fish from the river and animals hunted in the forest. Despite understanding the modern world, and valuing manufactured items, they don’t like the city and distrust people from it, and even those who move to the city eventually come back to the village, Jerry explains.
As our vessel’s engine starts and we begin speeding up the river, Jerry yells over the drone of the outboard, “These guys know every rock and every fallen tree under the water.” The settlement is barely out of sight when I see my first caiman, a small alligator half-submerged and poised on a rock. A short ride upriver, we surprise a group of capybara, large rodents which can dive underwater for several minutes. One has long, slashing wounds running down its back. “Jaguar,” Jerry confirms. “There are many animals here because there are no people.”
Our aim is to travel as far into the Amazon as possible, but for tonight we’re staying at Uncle Piet’s Lodge. Our dugout glides onto a sandbar just as the sun is setting, casting its shadow over the raw wooden stilt house on the riverbank. “Welcome to Uncle Piet’s Lodge,” Jerry smiles. “The most peaceful place in the world.”
It takes no time for Jerry to bait his hook with some of the piranha he caught earlier and he begins fishing in the growing darkness. Behind us, a small generator kicks on and the house lights up. Over a fire, cassava bread is warmed and a bottle of rum is passed around as we sit with the locals. It’s the first time I’ve heard them speak and within minutes, Jerry walks out of the gloom with a monstrous fish.
I roll out of my hammock in the darkness. Scarlet macaws are screeching raucously nearby and monkeys forage in the treetops on the far bank. Jerry is already awake and brewing coffee over a small fire. We are leaving early to reach our campsite, water levels permitting.
Our hopes are high and we spend the day poking our canoe into tributary streams, swimming and fishing. Following a set of jaguar tracks from the riverbank into the jungle, I realise why early European explorers lamented the density of the “Green Hell” where a day’s travel is often limited to a single kilometre.
Sharp, spined hanging vines tear at my clothes as thick undergrowth and sucking mud entangle my feet. Cicadas call out as loud as fire alarms and every surface is covered in insects, but it’s Jerry’s snake warning I’m most worried about. He tells me there are species in the jungle with a bite that will kill me.
Despite this fear dwelling inside me, it’s hard not to marvel at the spirit of the Amazon. It’s full of life; monkeys make treetops their endless playground, capybara play their roles as the socialites of the jungle and jaguars stealthily crawl through the thick vegetation, each animal gliding through this hot gloom with a grace and ease I can’t imitate. This corner of the Amazon seems like one of the most deadly places on the planet, and yet, the natives consider this very same jungle home and thrive in its chaos.
I wonder to myself if it’s merely a change in perspective which will allow me to experience the jungle more as a friend than an adversary.
It takes us most of the day to reach the boat-destroying rapids, and after each attempt to make it through, we find ourselves courting disaster. I make my way upstream through the dense jungle to get a better look and realise the water is too low to make it over the rocks and the dugout is too heavy to portage around them. Jerry finally shakes his head and calls the attempt off. “It’s too dangerous, you don’t want to spend the night out here,” he said. He was right, I didn’t.
This is as far upriver as we can go. I am content with what I’ve seen. I take a moment to savour my last moments in the wildest place I have ever visited, and despite the urge to continue deeper into the jungle’s depths, I still have a couple of days to spend at the lodge. I sneak up on hiding caimans, fish for monsters of the river depths, search for glimpses of giant anacondas and jaguars tracks lacing the riverbanks.
As we silently drift back toward the airstrip, watching scarlet macaws browse the canopy, I wonder if more people were to come and experience this untouched aspect of the Amazon, would there be more incentive to preserve it? But for a country still recovering from a troubled past, is the wild expanse of rainforest worth more in tourist dollars than the gold which may lie beneath it? I certainly think so.
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