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Spending time with the geladas is fascinating, and the remarkable Simien Mountains in northern Ethiopia is the place to do it. There are around 10,000 of them in this luscious, mountainous region, and although those living inside the national park are wild, they’re habituated enough to the presence of humans that, except for sudden moves or loud noises, I can sit among them as they go about their daily monkey business.
Each morning, as the day warms, troops of monkeys come up from the cliffs where they sleep, moving in chain-like lines to coalesce on the Simiens’ grand plateaus. “You’re very lucky,” wildlife guide Dani Fikru tells me when I pack up the camera for the day. “I never saw so many together. There must be at least 400 out there today.”
I’ve come to Ethiopia to seek out the wildlife in the country’s highlands, including Simien Mountains National Park up north and Bale Mountains National Park in the remote south. Endemic species like the geladas and Ethiopian wolves sit high on my list of hope-to-sees.
From the bustle of the country’s capital, Addis Ababa, a plane carries me to the ancient city of Gondar before I journey north with Ethiopian guide Dawit Teferi to Limalimo Lodge, a new opening located inside Simien Mountains National Park that promises understated luxury.
It doesn’t take long before the first gelada makes an appearance. Drawing back the curtains on the first morning, I spy a big male prowling through the forest below, and a mother passes by the window with her infant riding on her back. Over breakfast, a bearded vulture, known locally as ‘bone breakers’ because they smash bones from carcasses against rocks to get the soft marrow inside, rises up the hillside. Spotting wildlife among the deep gorges, interwoven forests and imposing outcrops of the majestic Simiens isn’t going to be a problem.
With Dawit, Dani and an armed ranger piled into our 4WD, we venture into the mountainous park.
Formally established in 1966 and one of the world’s first natural UNESCO World Heritage Sites, the Simien Mountains National Park spans 412 square kilometres – roughly the size of Barbados – and ranges in altitude from 1900 metres to the 4533-metre peak of Ethiopia’s highest mountain, Ras Dashen.
Before long, we notice geladas munching their way across the hillside. “They eat one kilo of grass each day,” Dani tells me.
Between mouthfuls of grass blades, they huddle together and pick at each other’s fur. “It’s a ‘you-scratch-my-back, I’ll-scratch-yours’ situation,” Dani says. “Thirty to 40 per cent of their day is spent grooming. They’re picking out parasites, but it also has social value, a way to show friendship.”
The geladas gambol across the verdant hills. Infants tumble playfully, while others hitch rides on their mothers’ backs. A male gelada stands on all four paws, keeping watch over his ‘family’, which can include anywhere between seven and 14 wives.
“The male looks after his family,” Dani explains. “Leopards and hyenas are their natural predators. It’s why the Simiens are such a good place to see geladas – they like the big open areas and they have the safety of the cliffs to go to at night. They feel safe here.”
The signature red patch on the chest explains their alternate moniker ‘bleeding heart monkeys’, while the shaggy coats and thick manes of the adult males have earned them the nickname ‘lion monkeys’.
Despite the baboon-like appearance, Dawit explains the geladas are actually part of the monkey family (baboons are their own genus). “Nowadays, scientists say they’re technically gelada monkeys.
“They look like baboons, behave like baboons, but they have different DNA. Genetically, they’re more similar to a monkey that was historically in this area of Africa. The same thing happened with the Ethiopian wolf. It used to be called the Simien fox, but they found out the closest relative was the grey wolf, even though it looks like a fox.”
It’s not just geladas here, though. As we hike out to a ledge, we spot a bushbuck among the trees and small klipspringers on the cliffs below. Dawit and Dani list the exotic names for the impressive procession of birds of prey that soar across the canyon: griffon vulture, augur buzzard, Verreaux’s eagle.
Giant lobelia trees pop up between grasslands and rocky structures indicating we’re reaching the high altitudes we need in search of the endemic ibex. Its distinctive long, curved horns silhouetted against the sky appear in Dani’s binoculars, and we find another two closer to Bwahit Pass. As we try to keep up with the sauntering animal, it’s evident its legs and lungs are far better suited to the 4300-metre altitude we’re currently exploring. That explains my shortness of breath.
Leaving the Simiens behind us, it takes a full day of driving from Addis Ababa through the country’s south-eastern grasslands to reach Bale Mountains National Park. We’ve barely arrived when we spy the curved horns of mountain nyala (an antelope unique to this region), warthogs and Anubis baboons all gathered by a river. Hiding high up in the trees are shy colobus monkeys.
As we drive through plains that stretch to the horizon or climb slowly up to an escarpment, there’s and incredible feeling of space. Only occasionally, through the window, do we see distant figures of local people travelling from village to village.
By evening, we’ve passed through the national park to reach the warmth of the fireside at Bale Mountain Lodge, set within the thick greenery of Harenna Forest. Mist lingers over the treetops that cover the hillsides, and the forest rises up to a high jagged ridge.
On the road to the Sanetti Plateau, we pass by colourfully painted mosques and through several small villages within the national park. Clouds rise up from the valleys and onto the peaks, creating enough moisture to explain why the 4000-metre-high ground of the plateau is so green and fertile – there are more than enough small lakes, rivers and plant life to make this area an attractive home for the wildlife.
It’s in this region that we’re most likely to see the Ethiopian wolves. “There are possibly 200 here, out of a population of 500 in the country,” Dawit tells me. The abundance of giant mole-rats plays a role in the wolves’ attraction to this region; there’s plenty of food for the wolves to consume.
We search with binoculars to see if we can find any of the elegant golden animals, which, according to local guide Kassim Datu, sometimes hide among the cows to get closer to the mole-rats.
We spy two wolves among a cluster of rocks. They’re orange and look like foxes, but larger and more powerful. We see a third wolf down in the valley and, later, three smaller ones on the hillside, most likely hunting.
More emerge the next morning. Our first sighting is a wolf stalking geese down by a stream. Another crosses the road, pausing to nose and paw at holes, in search of food. Further along, we see three down in the valley. “That’s amazing,” says another local guide, Ziyad Kemal. “Five pups in one morning.”
It’s been a lucky day, but the Ethiopian wolf is are the most endangered canid in the world and Africa’s most threatened carnivore, and numbers are declining. “I see less today than I did five years ago,” says Dawit. “There’s a lot more land under cultivation, so they’ve lost habitat. But the main problem is people’s dogs and diseases like rabies and distemper.”
We drive to the summit of Mount Tullu Dimtu, the highest peak in the Bale area, for rewarding views of mist rolling across the mountains before a hike across the spectacular Sanetti Plateau. The warm sun brings out the bright greens of the grasses and spiky leaves of the giant lobelia, and enhances the pinks and yellows of Afro-alpine flowers. The plateau is alive with birdsong. Starck’s hares bolt to safety, disturbed by our presence, while a pair of lammergeier (bearded vultures) circle high up in the cloud.
Augur buzzards glide over the plateau or perch on the trunks of lobelia, scanning the surroundings for an afternoon meal. It shouldn’t take them long here.
That’s just how it is in Ethiopia’s remarkable highlands – wherever you look, there are signs of life or, depending on your perspective, lunch.
I paddle determinedly towards Eon, my guide, who stands like a beacon beside the point of no return. As I near the edge, the air becomes charged with tension and the deepening roar of the approaching waterfall intensifies. But in the last few seconds I sense disaster.
It’s hard to describe the feeling you get when your kayak decides to spin out of control just moments before you launch off the precipice of a waterfall. It’s like old mate Fear waking up in a good mood and deciding to go bungee jumping – hairy, yes, but totally exhilarating at the same time. A little embarrassing, too – especially when your kayaking troupe is in prime position to witness the spectacle.
Thankfully, disaster never comes. Before giving the rear of my kayak a mighty push in the final moments before the drop, Eon straightens me up as I raise my paddle overhead. Seconds later I land under the gushing waterfall and a smile blooms on my drenched face. Paddling towards the edge of the deep green pool, forged by centuries of relentless flowing water, I watch as the rest of my group faces their fears and take the plunge, one by one.
Things weren’t always so dramatic. For the past 48 hours I’ve been kayaking a section of the Zrmanja River through a rugged karst topography of canyons, caves and rock formations inside the Velebit Nature Park in Croatia’s Dalmatia region. I’m travelling with five Brits, and as the only Aussie I’m determined to make my country proud on this three-day adventure of wild camping, raging waterfalls and class II and III rapids. This is Croatia with the adventure factor dialed up to 11, minus the heaving tourist crowds.
Two days earlier we set off from Zadar, a historic town on the eastern shores fringing the Adriatic Sea. Famous for the architecturally designed musical instrument Morske Orgulje (Sea Organ), its myriad Roman, Venetian and Byzantine ruins, and being Croatia’s oldest continuously occupied city (it’s been inhabited as far back as ninth-century BC), Zadar is most memorable to me for having a name that sounds like the punchline of a magic trick. From here, it takes a little over 90 minutes by van to reach our first campsite at Kastel Zegarski, and along the way we pass Croatia’s largest mountain range, Velebit, which separates Dalmatia from the lush interior region of Lika. We also skirt by a raging bush fire edging the main road. Eon explains that this region is unfortunately prone to fires, especially during July and August.
As our kayaking adventure officially begins the next day, we spend the evening at the campsite getting acquainted over barbecued chicken, rice and beer. The night sky is so clear and dark out here that it’s actually possible to see the soft glow of the Milky Way and make out celestial constellations and asterisms like the Big Dipper. The need for sleep eventually wins out though, and I retire to my tent in preparation for the 11-kilometre paddle downstream that lies ahead.
I wake to the rooster’s resounding crow at 4am, but only feel compelled to get out of bed four hours later by the aroma of coffee and a delicious spread of meaty burek (flaky baked pastry), locally made cheese and fresh fruit. I’m keen to load up on carbs and caffeine for the day ahead, which will involve an eight-kilometre paddle that should take us four to five hours. Having only just completed a 15-day cycling trip through the Balkans, I’m eager to get out on the water to make sure my arms still work.
Soon I’m putting on my canary-yellow life vest, donning my red helmet and stepping into my black neoprene booties after a short safety talk. The six of us are divided into three teams of two and allocated blue rubber double kayaks.
“We don’t use hard kayaks on the river anymore as they can destroy the area’s delicate travertine,” Eon says as we make final preparations. I’m paired with Ros, an accountant from London, and moments later we’re taking our first strokes downstream on the calm, green Zrmanja River under a thick canopy of fig, juniper and hornbeam trees.
It’s evident from the get-go that staying on course is going to be a challenge over the next two days. As captain of the kayak, I’m sitting at the back, and it’s my job to keep us paddling in the right direction. But despite my best efforts, what should be a peaceful paddle down the river erupts into a frantic and frustrating fight to reel the vessel back in line and divert impending doom in the form of crashing into poke-your-eye-out branches or worse, other kayakers.
Thankfully, Ros is a complete pro at detecting even the slightest deviation and is able to synchronise with my strokes to bring the kayak back to its rightful position on the river. This back and forth is a constant theme throughout the trip. The threat of spinning out of control weighs on my shoulders, hanging in the air like a bad smell. One moment of distraction or a little too much muscle in a stroke and the battle to steer the kayak back on track begins.
Crafted by Mother Nature after the last Ice Age when sea levels swelled to more than 120 metres, the Zrmanja River and its estuaries flaunt a rich biodiversity of plant and animal life, including rare species of endemic birds and freshwater fish, such as the Zrmanja dace. The surrounding banks are also prime grazing territory for goats, cattle and sheep. “And snakes,” Eon says with a deadpan expression as we paddle through a flat bucolic section of the river. Whether he’s being serious or just pulling our legs remains a mystery.
Two hours of paddling later and we’re rounding a bend where the confluence of the Zrmanja and Krupa rivers begins and we dock our kayaks at a grassy meadow nearby. From here we’ll hike up to the eight-metre Krupa River waterfall for a splash and swim before returning back to our kayaks to sate our grumbling stomachs. As we clamber up the rocky path towards the falls, sunlight filters through chinks in the canopy and the general chatter slowly dissolves into silence until we reach the top.
It’s at this point that I must confess: I can’t really dive. My attempts almost always result in a red belly (and face to match). The others, however, can and do and it doesn’t take long before our swimming break turns into a faux spectacle reminiscent of the trial stages for the FINA Diving World Series. I’m happy to just bomb away and wallow in the 20-degree pool beneath the roaring waterfall, its contours arranged in a way that almost hints at design, its walls harbouring shadows that cling to the mossy travertine. But, somewhat inevitably, I’m encouraged to demonstrate my diving form – after all, someone has to represent Australia, right? And, just as inevitably, the result of my effort is a resounding slap in the gut and a reverberating crack that provokes pitying laughter from the crowd. Evidently, I still need to work on my technique.
After a tasty lunch of sandwiches, local cheese and fruit we’re back on the water. We paddle through lush corridors of Mediterranean oak and European nettle trees and float past grassy banks smeared with heather and water mint. It’s an incredible tapestry of colours and textures, occasionally lulling us into serene silence amongst the singing birds and the rustling leaves played by a gentle wind.
Further downstream we navigate tumbling sections of class II and III rapids, injecting an addictive dose of adrenalin into our veins. We kayak through rugged canyons sparsely covered in thickets of hardy vegetation, paddle past rock formations that resemble faces and bits of faces – such as the karst monument jutting out from the water known locally as “Grandmothers Tooth” – and spy a trio of cows grazing on an island meadow made accessible by shallow water.
Eventually we reach our second and final campsite, perched on the side of the river just metres away from the roaring 3.5-metre Ogar waterfall. After setting up our tents and donning our swimmers, it’s straight to the falls for the ‘finals’ of the diving championship. We spend the afternoon swimming, chatting and jumping off the waterfall into the refreshing water. There’s no way I’ll be able to rank for a medal in diving this year. But that’s totally fine with me – I don’t mind coming back next year for another crack.
Breakfast is already on the table by 8am the next morning and a couple of the guys are walking back from a morning swim. I fuel up with strong coffee and a selection of pastries, muesli and fruit. We’re only paddling three kilometres today – the final stretch of the trip before reaching the village of Muškovci where we’ll de-kayak and have a celebratory beer – but I can’t help having seconds and thirds of the light, flaky cheese burek.
We still have some fears to face before the beers, though. Launching ourselves off Ogar waterfall – the last major obstacle of the trip – promises one final rush of adrenalin. We jumped and dived off it the day before, but today we’re taking it on with our kayaks. For safety reasons we’ll ride solo on this last major hump and go down one by one, and I’m called in to tackle the waterfall first. It’s true, I may not be able to dive, but I have no problems standing toe-to-toe with fear. Besides, all I need to do is paddle my kayak in a straight line. How hard could it be?
For those who like to get hands on with their beer, the Smithwick’s Experience is an interactive brewery tour that’ll let you get involved in the process while you fall even more in love with Irish beer.
See the kegs roll out of the brewery and straight on to the streets of Hanoi. Enjoying bia hơi (fresh beer) as a breakfast chaser is all part of the fun.
Not only is this Cascade Brewery in Hobart famous for one of the most well known beers, Cascade Brewery is also steeped in history. Started by an ex-con who concocted the idea in his jail cell, the brewery has stood the test of time
We can’t fathom what it would be like to go without beer, but that’s exactly what Iceland did until 1989. Since then they have made up for every lost second of beer-less boredom.
You’d probably expect sake to be the traditional drink of choice when visiting Japan, but Kiuchi Brewery in Naka offer the best of both worlds.
Nothing goes better with a slice of New York pizza that a cold pint. Hop over the bridge to Williamsburg and take a tour of Brooklyn Brewery… tastings of amber goodness included.
Hidden away in the backstreets of Hong Kong, Bar Ozu has all the best tastes of Japan. Confused? Don’t worry, just take a seat on the comfy couches and knock back a brew or two.
Join Germany’s thriving nightlife and hit the town in search of the best place for a nip. Our tip is to head straight to the trendy pews of Twinpigs in Neukölln, one of Berlin’s coolest boroughs.
Loof will see you singing to the heavens when you try their variety of Asian oriented beers. This rooftop bar offers a variety of flavours and a killer view of Singapore’s skyline.
This takes pub crawls to new heights. Jump in a helicopter and soar over Queensland’s expansive landscape stopping off at a variety of Aussie pubs to down a drink or two and watch the passers by.
SIGHT
The experience: Go full Stranger Things and experience the ‘upside down’ in the Scottish Highlands.
Deep within the omnipresent valleys, mountains and moors of Glen Coe in the Scottish Highlands lies a shallow, freshwater lake that tips reality on its head. Loch Achtriochtan, located just off the A82 trunk road that winds through the glen, is protected from the Highlands’ turbulent winds by the surrounding mountains, so much so that, if you’re lucky, you’ll witness one of its moments of utter mirror-like stillness. The splayed strokes of ochre and hunter green that sweep towards the looming summit above are reflected in the loch’s glassy waters, creating a mind-bending optical illusion that would see Will Byers running for the hills. It’s a rare sight – the Highlands experience some of the strongest winds in the UK – but worth waiting for.
SIGHT
The experience: Channel your inner Avatar and set your eyes on the closest thing we have to the glowing world of Pandora.
This natural light show isn’t found on a far distant planet (although, something similar might be), nor is it really magic. In fact, it’s just a bunch of plankton, known as Dinoflagellates (dinos), using a bioluminescent defense – all very sciency really. But a magical sight, all the same. On the southern shores of Isla de Vieques, the illuminated Mosquito Bay has the brightest bioluminescent waters in the world. As you kayak beneath the night sky through the glittering plankton, which float close to the water’s surface, they burst into a glowing greenish-blue and leave a starry trail behind you. The magic happens all year round, but arrive during the phase of the new moon and the dinos will dazzle you with their best show of the month.
vieques.com
SIGHT
The experience: Learn to be more like Marvel’s Daredevil by eliminating sight and enhancing the sensitivity of all your other senses.
Eliminate one of your senses and suddenly, the other four become all the more important. That’s what you learn when you take a blind tour of the Netherlands’ oldest city, Nijmegen. MuZIEum recreates the blind experience and offers guided tours in the dark. With virtual reality glasses simulating the different forms of sight loss, a blind or partially sighted tour guide will lead you around the city, where you will navigate your way using sound, smell, touch and taste. It’ll teach you to see the world through different eyes, bringing awareness to the visually impaired, and the value of your senses.
muzieum.nl
SIGHT
The experience: You missed out on the trip to Mars; so instead, you want to watch the clearest skies on the planet to reconnect with life beyond Earth.
A trip to the small town of San Pedro in the Atacama Desert is guaranteed to leave you starstruck. The region offers some of the darkest and clearest skies on the planet, thanks to its high altitude, dry climate and low air pollution. It’s for this reason the Atacama Desert is one of the best stargazing sites in the world, offering a clear view of the southern sky’s starry constellations, nebulas and the Milky Way. Receiving less than 14 inches of rain per year, your astrological experience extends further than just looking through a telescope, with the dry land resembling the red, rocky landscape of Mars. San Pedro de Atacama Celestial Explorations (SPACE) is one of South America’s largest and highest open-air public observatories offering telescope rentals and tours.
spaceobs.com
SIGHT
The experience: The chance to see the world in first class without your feet leaving the ground, or causing too much damage to your wallet.
The world is your oyster – as long as you can handle long-haul flights. If the thought of sitting at 40,000 feet while listening to rumbling engines, creaking cabins and alarming dings causes you to break out in a sweat, then jetting across the globe probably isn’t going to sound appealing, even with a first class ticket. Cue virtual reality travel. With Tokyo-based First Airlines, getting to New York, Paris, Rome or Hawaii takes just two hours. Experience boarding, take-off, landing and a guided sightseeing tour, all simulated through virtual reality and projection mapping. You’ll even get to sample in-flight meals prepared by an ‘onboard’ chef. Of course, you’ll have to get to Tokyo first but for around AU$72 for a first class flight, you could visit all four destinations in a day for less than a domestic flight.
firstairlines.jp
TASTE
The experience: What could be better than drinking a famous rum cocktail from the shack on a beach that made it famous?
Alongside the Caribbean’s turquoise waters, vibrant marine life and colourful cultures, there’s one other ingredient that’s required to finish the pretty picture; sipping a rum cocktail from an al fresco shack. On Jost Van Dyke Island in the British Virgin Isles, nestled in White Bay, is the original home of the Painkiller cocktail. Soggy Dollar Bar created this popular, Caribbean-staple cocktail in the 1970s by mixing premium dark rum, coconut cream, pineapple and orange juice, and a hint of Grenadian nutmeg. Join in the island’s tradition: anchor your boat just off the beach, swim through the crystal waters to shore and pay for your Painkillers with a soggy dollar. Unique name, no?
soggydollar.com
TASTE
The experience: Taste wine that gives new meaning to divine, because the higher the altitude, the more chance it has of being touched by the gods, right?
We’re not saying that higher altitude wines are the best in the world, but it does seem a little coincidental that vineyards that are closer to heaven grow deliciously light and fresh fruits despite the hellish environment. There is some science as to why high-altitude wines taste so good – the exposure to direct sunlight, dramatic changes in the temperature and drainage systems of mountainous landscapes all play a part. The sun exposure produces the lively colour and strong tannins, while the night-time temperature drop means the ripening process of the grapes is slower, halting sugar production and ultimately producing wine with lower alcohol and higher acidity. A visit to Colomé winery will give you firsthand tasting impressions of its famous ‘wines of altitude’. Situated between 2300 and 3111 metres in Argentina’s Calchaquí Valley it’s one of the world’s highest vineyards and its robust wines can be sipped while enjoying the untouched terrain and breathtaking views of the Colomé region from its James Turrell Museum in Molinos, Salta.
bodegacolome.com
TASTE
The experience: Adding a little spice to your life has never been so tasty.
If you can’t get through a meal without adding a little salt and pepper, then you’ll appreciate the fineries of Cambodia’s Kampot. The region’s pepper is regarded as some of the best in the world with a distinctly sweet taste and fruity aroma. Located in ideal growing conditions, between the coast and the mountains, it’s Kampot’s rich quartz soil, rainfall and sunshine that ensures its bountiful growth and production, and savouring a Cambodian dish seasoned with fresh pepper and spices shouldn’t be missed. At La Plantation, you’ll be guided through the history of pepper production in Kampot (plus a little about Fleur de Sel (Flower of Salt), which is collected from the surface of evaporating seawater) and learn to cook Khmer food from a local chef, who will teach you how to use Kampot salt and pepper in your dishes. Alternatively, take a seat at one of the plantations two restaurants: Mahob, serving up Khmer food and La Rotisserie for French cuisine, and enjoy some peppered Lok Lak beef or roasted chicken with Kampot pepper sauce.
kampotpepper.com
TASTE
The experience: Get your lips around Cuba’s most famous export.
Cuba is renowned for its salsa and vintage cars, but its cigars are legendary. From featuring in some of history’s most iconic movies like The Godfather and Scarface to finding their way in the hands of celebs and world leaders, the taste of a Cuban cigar is a coveted flavour. The country’s fertile soil makes it a hinterland for tobacco plantations and you’ll find some of the best in the heart of the UNESCO World Heritage-listed Viñales National Park. Located about four hours west of Havana, the area is home to a number of tobacco growers. The crops are harvested by hand and then hung to dry in barns before being rolled, ready for you to draw in some of the rich flavours of the freshest cigar you’ll ever smoke.
discover-vinales.com
TASTE
The experience: Discover what it means to taste with your eyes.
When you’re transferred to the secret location of Shanghai’s avant-garde restaurant, Ultraviolet, you’re welcomed by a room that’s void of decor. Chairs surrounding a single-lit long table welcome the exclusive 10-person guest list for the 20-course meal. When the first course arrives, diners are treated to a multi-sensory experience that plays into French chef Paul Pairet’s theory of ‘psycho taste’ – the psychology and emotions associated with food and the notion that taste can be altered by external factors. With each course the atmosphere is tailored to the dish and enhanced through lighting, sound and scent. The experimental meals are meant to tantalize more than just your tastebuds, and you’ll be amazed by how many of your senses you can use to taste just one meal.
uvbypp.cc
SOUND
The experience: Hear Mother Nature tell her story loud and clear.
If you were hiking through a forest, surrounded by luscious, dark-barked fir trees, wooden megaphones would be the last thing you’d expect to see. But that’s exactly what sits in the RMK Pähni Nature Centre. The timber megaphones – an art installation created by Estonian interior architecture students – are each three-metres in diameter, and amplify the surrounding sounds, and silence, of nature. The role of the megaphones is to give visitors a chance to sit, sleep, meditate and just listen to the soothing sounds of the fir forest. Sitting inside one of the wooden structures gives two visual perspectives, and acts as a reminder that life is all about how you choose to look at or listen to your surroundings.
ruup.ee
SOUND
The experience: Channel your inner Doctor Dolittle and listen to dolphins speak.
The Hawaiian spinner dolphin, known locally on the island as nai’a (dolphin), might be one of the smallest species of this finned creature, but what it lacks in size it makes up for with its playful acoustic and acrobatic show. Torpedoing up to three metres into the air while serenading in playful whistles, squeaks and clicks, their series of melodic sounds are used to communicate with their pod as they hunt for prey and protect each other from predators. Off the coast of Oahu, the four-hour Best of the West tour by Wild Side Hawaii will get you up to speed on dolphin ‘wet-iquette’, offering a snorkelling experience with these graceful mammals, as well as giant sea turtles and humpback whales, for about AU$250.
sailhawaii.com
SOUND
The experience: Learn how to make construction and sound engineering work in one awe-inspiring package from an ancient civilisation.
There’s more to the Chichén Itzá’s El Castillo (also known as the Temple of Kukulcan) than just it’s impressive structure. The exhibition of Mayan architectural and engineering genius attracts thousands of visitors each year on the spring and autumn equinoxes as a carved serpent dances in what is a trick of light. But it’s the clap-triggered chirping noise that really piques our interest. Standing at the bottom of the stairs, a clap generates a sound which some believe mimics that of a sacred quetzal bird. It all comes down to geometry, but debate still stands as to whether or not this was intentional. Either way, the Mayans have managed to baffle minds and challenge the sound-processing skills of each new generation with this quirky feat of engineering ever since.
visitmexico.com
SOUND
The experience: Share your deepest secrets with the walls of New York City’s underground.
It’s one of New York City’s most-visited sights, filled with architectural wonders and a fascinating history, plus a secret or two. Deep inside Grand Central Station there’s a stealthy little nook where, beneath the ceramic arches adorned with Guastavino tiles, you can whisper into the corner and the sound will travel to the other side. Grab a pal and speak to each other as you stand at opposing diagonal corners. Just don’t confess anything you wouldn’t want a stranger to know. Discover the Whispering Gallery and more on an audio tour of the station for AU$11 or jump on a guided tour for around AU$38.
grandcentralterminal.com
SOUND
The experience: Hear the creaks and cracks of the earth.
Imagine standing near the precipice of an almighty wall of ice. All is still. Suddenly, a cacophony of sound breaks out: a deafening crack cuts through the air, then a groan, both which reverberate off the mountains blanketed with green above, followed by an booming splash into the turquoise waters below. You’ve just experienced the sound of Perito Moreno Glacier as it crumbles into the deep blue. A whopping 30 kilometres in length, five kilometres in width and 60 metres high, this hunk of glacial ice is consistently advancing up to two metres each day – a stark contrast to some of the other world’s glaciers which are receding at an alarming rate. The result of this constant growth is fractures in the ice, which send immense blocks of ‘berg down into the blue waters. Like the gaping yawn of the earth opening up – both awe-inspiring and scary – it’s a sound that will move you to your core.
argentina.travel
TOUCH
The experience: Finally satisfy your curiosity and party with jellyfish, minus the stinger hangover.
Nothing can prepare you for the ethereal experience of floating in clear water surrounded by a fluther of jellyfish. There are only a few places in the world that offer the experience to swim with stringless jellies. Jellyfish Lake on Kakaban Island in East Kalimantan, part of the Indonesian Archipelago, is one destination, alongside the more popular lake of the same name in Palau. Unfortunately, because of changing weather conditions, the jellyfish population on Palau has diminished and over the last few years, the lake has seen periods of shutdown. The lesser-known mangrove-fringed lake on Kakaban is home to four varieties of jellyfish (compared to Palau’s two), which thrive in diluted seawater alongside white anemone, sea cucumbers, crabs, snakes and clams. Years of living in this closed system without natural predators has forced these jellies to evolve into harmless, soft, gelatinous umbrellas, so it’s only natural we want to join the party.
TOUCH
The experience: Build a sand castle masterpiece with the world’s softest sands.
There’s nothing quite like the feeling of soft sand between your toes, a balmy breeze bringing with it salty smells and the sound of the sea gently rolling on the shore. The sugary-white, powder-fine sands of Siesta Beach at Siesta Key in Florida are some of the softest going around. The sand here is said to consist of 99 per cent pure crushed quartz from the Appalachian Mountains, which gives it the glorious whiteness and also means the sand stays relatively cool – even on the hottest of days. Siesta Beach’s shallow, calm waters are ideal for splashing about and the quartz sand lends itself perfectly to building castles, so you can unleash your inner creative while basking on this beautiful beach.
visitsarasota.com
TOUCH
The experience: Feel the true power of water with a waterfall massage.
Nestle among the rocks and let the warm water caress your skin as it cascades down terraced pools of the palest blue at this natural hot spring. Cascate del Mulino is a southern Tuscan gem where you can plonk yourself in a pool and feel any stress or tension instantly melt away. Steam rises from the mineral pools and the smell of sulphur tinges the air while you settle back to enjoy the spectacular scenery as the warm waterfalls work their magic. Naturally heated at 37.5°C year-round, the mineral content of the water is perfect for relaxing tired muscles.
cascate-del-mulino.info
TOUCH
The experience: Forego the confined space of a traditional ice bath with a plunge into the Southern Ocean.
For a truly bone-chilling and spine-tingling rush of adrenalin, you can’t go past a plunge into the freezing waters of Antarctica. It’s certainly not for the faint hearted but it’s a swim you won’t be forgetting any time soon. Thankfully, this voluntary ice bath is followed by a luxuriously hot sauna back onboard the boat to allow you to defrost. Aurora Expeditions offers the Polar Plunge excursion as part of its Antarctica expeditions, so as well as the opportunity to bathe in what is normally the domain of penguins and seals, brave swimmers will also experience a unique holiday adventure.
auroraexpeditions.com.au
TOUCH
The experience: A chance to test your mettle and prove your strength in the coldest inhabited place on Earth.
Visiting a remote, far eastern corner of Siberia in the middle of winter is a sure-fire way to put your senses to the test. And while this land of extremes is renowned for its chilly Arctic weather, you can take it to the next level at Oymyakon – the coldest permanently inhabited place on earth with an average low of a bone-chilling -50°C. Oymyakon is home to a just few hundred hardy souls and can be visited from Yakutsk, which holds the well-deserved reputation as the world’s coldest city. It’s a 930-kilometre drive across ice, including a stretch over the Lena River, which doesn’t need a bridge thanks to the sub-zero temperatures. Just make sure you rug up before you go!
visityakutia.com
SMELL
The experience: Lose your breath at a boiling gloopfest.
One small step for man. One giant leap for… a bucket? Take a walk among the lunar-like landscapes of Mount Námafjall, Hverir and Myvatn in Iceland’s north and you’ll be rewarded with plumes of marshmallow clouds billowing from fumaroles and pots and pools of thick, glooping mud – the result of the geothermal activity from the isle’s boiling reservoirs. But it’s the lingering scent that will leave you breathless. The steam and gas emitted from the boiling pits has a sulphurous stench likened to rotten eggs. To prove your iron stomach, make for Gunnuhver, the country’s largest mud pool. At 20 metres wide, the belly of this beast regularly erupts with boiling water and bubbling mud, which can be viewed from a ramp at a close but safe (and very stinky) distance.
visitreykjanes.is
SMELL
The experience: Get a hearty whiff of one of the best scents in the world: chocolate.
Scientists say that the smell of chocolate has the power to reduce stress and improve one’s mood, and one of the best places to inhale its invigorating scent is Ecuador. Thanks to the country’s proximity to the equator, cacao plantations have a variety of distinct floral, nutty and fruity aromas. Dive in to the full chocolate experience at Finca Sarita, a small farm just outside of Calceta, and learn about the processing and fermentation of the rare Arriba cacao that is transformed into To’ak, the most expensive chocolate in the world (a single vintage bar costs about AU$495). Or, if you’re in Quito, indulge in To’ak’s new two-hour comprehensive tasting tour, Chocolate and Art. Whether you choose the former or the latter, it’ll be an experience to savour.
toakchocolate.com
SMELL
The experience: Inhale some of the world’s best and worst smelling oxygen, and breathe in the earth’s life force.
It’s a well-known fact that Amazon is the greatest life force on our planet. More than 40,000 exotic plants thrive, producing more than 20 per cent of the world’s oxygen. Make the 10-kilometre journey by boat from Manaus, the only city within the forest, to arrive at the stunning confluence of the jet-black Rio Negro and the coffee-coloured Rio Silomões, which form the Amazon River. The pungent bouquet of latex oozes from the rubber museum down river, and is married to the rich soil, fragrant flowers and the warm, sweet moisture that clings to the air from the rainfall. It’s a sensory experience that will leave a lifelong imprint on you.
SMELL
The experience: To find one of the sweetest towns of all, in more ways than one.
Perched on a sunny hilltop, the medieval village of Flavigny-sur-Ozerain is infused with a unique olfactory history: it’s aniseed country. The sweet, liquorice-like scent of the anise plant permeates the town’s cobbled streets, so naturally it makes sense that it’s also the home of Les Anis de Flavigny, an anise candy shop. These tasty treats are crafted from a 1200-year-old recipe in a former Benedictine abbey, where they were once created by the monks who lived there. Each seed is carefully selected, then coated in sugar syrup and repeatedly rotated in a pan, transforming the original kernel, weighing a tiny two milligrams, into a one-gram candy. There’s also an anise museum, cafe and boutique, perfect for collecting a variety of anise scents and flavours to gather as keepsakes to fill your home.
SMELL
The experience: Challenge your sense of smell with obnoxious, fishy odour but delicious tasting meals.
It’s often difficult to reconcile a bad smell with something tasty, but Vietnam’s famous pungent-yet-palatable fish sauce, crafted off the southwest coast on the small isle of Phu Quoc, is an affirming reminder that opposites indeed attract. Crafted from anchovies fished from the island, plus salt and water, the odorous sauce is fermented in vats made from beech wood and then stewed for a year before the amber-coloured liquid is bottled straight from the barrel. This simple process ensures the sauce is fresh (no preservatives) and high quality. If you can stomach the fishy scent, see the process in action and sample it at the local factories. All the best Vietnamese dishes are laced with its heady flavour, albeit with a far more innocuous smell.
SENSORY OVERLOAD
The experience: Grab Wilson and indulge in your most dreamy Castaway fantasy on this tiny Indonesian isle.
While engaging the senses can be wonderful, sensory overload is a very real thing, and the urge to disappear to a deserted island can be strong. Enter Run Island, one of the smallest isles in Indonesia’s Banda archipelago. At just three kilometres long and one kilometre wide, this forgotten blip of limestone and tangled jungle is a diamond in the rough, complete with one of the most fascinating territorial swaps in history. In 1667, the Treaty of Breda determined that the Dutch would exchange the small trading village of Manhattan to the English for Run Island and its valuable monopoly of nutmeg trees. They could not have fathomed the metropolis Manhattan would become. These days the island is as isolated as ever. The journey to Run is long and there are just a handful of guesthouses, but once you’re there, you’ll find an idyllic escape to unwind. Of course, it’ll still be somewhat of a sensory experience with the pristine white sand scrunching between your toes and the sounds of waves crashing on the shore. But given you’ll have most of this tiny island all to yourself, you’ll quickly forget that stress was ever a thing.
Agata Bogusz discovered she could freedive “by accident” in 2009 after joining a friend training in Egypt. Months later, the urban planner had broken four polish records and spends her days now travelling the globe in search of deep waters. The warm bays of Amed, three hours north of Denpasar in Bali, are the perfect base for freedive training, with a 40-meter drop off ten meters from the shore.
Students learn the basics by first mastering holding their breath in the pool, or in freedive speak, “static apnea”. Initially, I come up gasping for air, feeling slightly exasperated. The urge to breathe is overwhelming. I wonder how I am going to make the two-minute-45 mark, which is a requirement of my course. “What happened?”, Agata asks kindly. “I just wanted to breathe” I reply, feeling somewhat guilty. It’s fighting this instinct that is essential to freediving success. Panic and it’s all over. A few days later, we are high fiving each other in the pool. I can’t believe I made it.
In the next part of our course, we head to the calm waters of Jemeluk Bay, to practice pulling down a rope, learning the technique of ‘free immersion’ (using a rope to descend). It’s quite a lot to think about, but, it’s possible to master. Most of the students completing a beginner’s course will reach 20 meters, and we are no exception.
On the last day, we are taken for a ‘fun’ freedive session to Tulamben, home to the USAT Liberty shipwreck. The Liberty appears out of the blue like a ghost, covered in corals and fish. The US cargo ship was torpedoed to the beach in 1942 then moved back into the water 20 years later by a volcanic eruption. The spectacular site attracts divers, snorkelers and freedivers from across the globe.
Where is Agata gone?” I ask my diving buddy. “Down there, looking at a turtle”, he replies, pointing under the water to Agata, some 15 meters under. “I might go and join her”, I say with a grin.
I take a deep breath, equalise and dive. No longer floating on the surface, I can finally go deep, with just one breath.
He’s been run out of Romania, and he’s escaped from the sudden hell of late-2006 Beirut, only to get nominated for an Emmy award for the resultant episode of No Reservations, his genre-redefining travel series that’s just hit its hundredth episode and won an Emmy in 2009. He travels ten months a year and keeps notes all the while, scribbling his thoughts at the end of each day. Between shooting in Spain and holidaying with his wife and daughter in northern Italy, he took time out to chat one evening, from his Manhattan apartment.He’s been run out of Romania, and he’s escaped from the sudden hell of late-2006 Beirut, only to get nominated for an Emmy award for the resultant episode of No Reservations, his genre-redefining travel series that’s just hit its hundredth episode and won an Emmy in 2009. He travels ten months a year and keeps notes all the while, scribbling his thoughts at the end of each day. Between shooting in Spain and holidaying with his wife and daughter in northern Italy, he took time out to chat one evening, from his Manhattan apartment.
Q: You were pretty sick in Liberia recently – what managed to affect your iron-clad stomach?
A: Honestly, I don’t really know…my suspect is a large snail, but then I’d just been out in the bush and the hygiene was not so great. I was eating bushmeat – it really could have been anything. You spin the wheel enough times and eventually you lose. And I was really, really ill.
Q: From reading your blog, it seems it was a moving trip for you. How would you describe it?
A: It was hard for me. I was very aware
of the fact that there have been a lot of westerners there, working for 15, 25 years, for whom my complaining would sound pretty ridiculous. I just found it a very confusing place. I don’t know – it was impossible for me to come to any comfortable conclusions, I guess. I’m always trying to come to terms with a place. And this time, now, I really came away just thrown and confused by the place. And not, not…and very shaken, as far as trying to figure out…there were no moral absolutes, there was no comfortable sort of angle or hook, just a lot of things that made me feel inspired, and a lot of things that really, sort of broke my heart. And I didn’t know how to feel about any of them. I felt inadequate to the task of making television in Liberia.
Q: How do you feel about Beirut?
A: Fantastic. The first time I went, I arrived at the airport, and I felt very comfortable there, right away. I don’t know what it is. It’s just a place I really care about. And for all the problems there – and there are many – and for all of the complications; it’s also for me a very hopeful one, and a very beautiful one, and one that makes me feel good about the world.
Q: What does Lebanese cuisine say about Lebanon?
A: Well, it’s a very international cuisine. They eat everything. Everyone’s been through, and left their mark. And they take a lot of pleasure in their food. I mean there’s Armenian, Iraqi, Palestinian, Yemeni, from the Gulf state, Indian influences, Ottoman, French – so it’s always been a very international city and it had stayed true to its Arab roots, but at the same time, picked up a lot of influences along the way.
Q: What’s your favourite Lebanese dish?
A: Oh, I’ll tell you, I had a kibbe there recently. It was absolutely out of sight. Absolutely incredible; delicate; the bulghur wheat, and just you know, a little bit of seasoning, it was just, so great.
Q: Do you have any foodie tips for travellers to Beirut?
A: Certainly, the green market is very good; it’s a good place to start, it’s called Souk el Tayeb [www.soukeltayeb.com]. It’s a relatively new thing, a green market serving seasonal produce and products from all over Lebanon. Artisanal produces have been specifically chosen and recruited because they come from different areas and different backgrounds and there’s a restaurant associated with the green market that’s really quite interesting, serving very, very high-quality stuff. Serving different regional cooks, from a different area, each day. And that’s quite wonderful. And then, of course, there’s a very famous restaurant, a casual eatery called Le Chef [Gouraud Street, Gemayze, Beirut, +961 1 446769] that everyone in town knows.
Q: You had a rough time filming in Romania and your honesty offended a lot of people. What happened?
A: I’m public enemy number one there, after my show. It really was front-page news in Romania for a while. I received quite a lot of threatening emails after that show. A lot of the Romanian press were accusing me of being either KGB or Mossad on a mission to bring dishonour to Romania; to foment war with their historic enemies, the Magyars. We had Romanian security and tourism forces all over us [while filming] – making sure we didn’t shoot any dogs, or Gypsies.
Q: Or Gypsies?
A: Oh, no, they didn’t want us shooting any Roma people at all. They were adamant about that. They didn’t want them seen.
Q: New York’s your stomping ground – what are your top tips for travellers?
A: Before you come to New York, ask yourself, what do we do better here than anyone else in the world? And the answer is quite simple – deli. So the first thing you’d want to do, is go to Katz’s deli [www.katzdeli.com] for a pastrami sandwich. And then go to Russ and Daughters [www.russanddaughters.com] just down the street and order a bagel with smoked Nova Scotia salmon and some cream cheese. Beautiful thing.
Q: When are you coming back to Australia?
A: Next year. There’s either a food and wine festival, or a Sydney book fair. I know I’ve cleared some time in June to come out. Hopefully I’ll have some time to do my business, and also see some friends.
Q: So do you travel to live, or live to travel?
A: It’s what I do. I know that if I go on too long without doing it, I start to feel unsatisfied. It’s just – life is short, keep moving.
Having been herded into a spluttering Tata bus and driven to the ‘terminal’, we are shepherded through a process that involves the weighing of our bodies as well as our bags. Red-faced, we board our plane – a twin-engine Antonov AN-32 military aircraft – only to be coastalcoastwelcomed by boxes of stinking Jaffna prawns sweating it out in the searing 35°C heat of the unpressurised cabin.
Back when we’d been planning our trip to the Jaffna Peninsular, we were looking to experience exactly this sort of extraordinary. We wanted to travel, and to taste an adventure of the flavour you don’t usually find in Sri Lanka.
We hoped that by visiting the north – untouched by tourism and branded by 26 years of civil war – we would experience Sri Lanka at her most raw. Since the conflict’s dramatic climax in May 2009, thousands of locals have made the bone-crunching pilgrimage to the north, but few foreign travellers have followed suit. I was keen to be amongst the first to visit Sri Lanka’s final frontier, a region deemed to have more cultural similarities with India’s Tamil Nadu than with Sri Lanka’s Buddhist-dominated south.
So, after enlisting a group of like-minded friends and renting a van and driver, we finalised our route: we would head up the seldom-visited north-west coast to the island of Mannar, then voyage east to Vavuniya and north again along the A9 highway to Jaffna, via Elephant Pass. Instead of repeating our outbound journey, we’d fly back to Colombo.
Setting off from the lush capital at dawn, we drive up the A3, passing by the fishing town of Chilaw and pushing into the dry zone. Just eight kilometres shy of Puttalam, curiosity sends us hurtling up the Kalpitiya Peninsula – a crescent-shaped landmass arching around the Puttalam Lagoon. The epic panorama of this arid, windswept landscape assaults our senses. The murky mangrove-pocked salt flats fringing the expansive grey-white lagoon have a raw, eerie beauty, whilst the pointed leaves of palmyrah palms crackle menacingly overhead. Kites dot the azure skies, and a line of wind turbines spin silently on the lagoon’s far eastern shore.
Kalpitiya’s beaches prove every inch as arresting. Given their relative proximity to the airport (just a couple of hours), we are surprised to see only a sprinkling of eco-resorts set back from Alankuda’s fir-fringed, near-deserted beach. Wandering along the sand, we encounter a gang of sarong-clad fishermen dragging a huge net onto shore, watched by a growing gaggle of villagers. Nearby, an earlier catch of fish lies shrinking and drying under the hot tropical sun. Kattawa (dried fish), a rather pungent delicacy used to flavour curries and sambals, is a particular speciality of the northern coastal regions, and we are to see many more of these hardened leathery hides dangling from the beams of shops.
Beyond Kalpitiya and Puttalam, the rust-red road pierces Wilpattu National Park and continues to Mannar, where we spend the night in a simple guesthouse eight kilometres east of town.
Mannar sits at the eastern end of a thin island attached to the mainland by a two-kilometre bridge. The island boasts a Portuguese fort and baobab bottle trees introduced by Arab traders from Africa 700 years ago, but the most interesting feature lies just beyond the far western tip. Adam’s Bridge is a chain of limestone shoals that extends to India, some 30 kilometre distant. Thought to be the route by which the earliest human settlers reached Sri Lanka 250,000 to 300,000 years ago, this was also the perilous pathway many displaced Sri Lankan Tamils used to flee the country during the war.
After a delicious breakfast of curries laid on by our generous hosts, we jump into the van and travel east towards Vavuniya. The journey is punctuated with stops at the serene Ketheeswaram Kovil, ringed by an iconic red-and-white–striped wall, and the huge, late nineteenth century Portuguese-style Madhu church, home to a 300-year-old statue of Virgin Mary.
Beyond Vavuniya, snaking along the infamous A9 through the sparsely populated northern landmass that is the Vanni, we are soon confronted with remnants of the war: desolate bullet-ridden houses, ghost towns, the headless trunks of palms severed by shelling, and yellow tape depicting the presence of mines.
The mood lightens as we reach the town of Kilinochchi. As the de facto capital of the rebel Tamil Tigers, this town was shelled repeatedly during the war, yet the scars of its casualties are harder to decipher, as buildings have been patched up or rebuilt, or lie hidden behind new, vibrant coats of paint.
A bombed water tower lying where it fell is the exception, and this is the first of a handful of war memorials we encounter on our 16-kilometre journey up towards Elephant Pass, the isthmus of the Jaffna Peninsula. Others include a grenade-charred armoured bulldozer, a bullet-scarred open-top jeep and, at Elephant Pass itself, a huge mounted map of Sri Lanka supported by four hands and topped with a blooming a lotus flower.
Here we begin chatting to local tourists. They’re interested to know our reasons for visiting a region with few obvious charms, and we are keen to know theirs. Thirty-six-year-old Dilhan Liyanage, a Sinhalese pharmacist from Dondra, in the southern district of Matara, echoes the majority sentiment: “I wanted to revisit a part of my country that was off limits for years,” he says. “Now we can safely travel here, I’ve brought my wife and children to see it for the first time.”
Others have come to visit the land where their loved ones fought and fell, and a few are paying visits to relatives and friends.
After finally crossing Elephant Pass, we arrive on the Jaffna Peninsula and travel towards town. On its quiet eastern fringes, we notice colourful bougainvillea and the fruit of karthacolomban (mango) trees draped across the spacious front yards of elegant Dutch period homes, gracefully adorned with pillared verandahs, carved roundels and engraved teak shutters. We encounter many more houses like this across town, although sadly most of them are abandoned, their owners having fled overseas at the advent of the war.
Driving straight into town, we pass the dome-crowned public library and stop off at the pentagonal Jaffna Fort, built by the Portuguese and extended by the Dutch. From its thick ramparts, we scour the views across to Kayts, an island connected to the Jaffna mainland by a narrow causeway topped by buses and bikes. Later, we pluck fruit from the vibrant yellow market stalls, pose beside a fleet of evocative Austin Cambridge taxis and stray up side streets in search of midi vedi, an explosively hot samosa whose name translates as ‘land mine’.
A visit to the Nallur Kovil, Jaffna’s biggest Hindu shrine, is a priority and our trip happens to coincide with Lord Skanda’s birthday. Leaving our sandals at the entrance, we keenly follow the rapt throngs of barefooted devotees as they offer prayers, flowers, incense and fire to their chosen gods. The frantic beating of the drums combined with the acoustics of the nadaswaram are atmospheric and strangely affecting. Afterwards, we devour toe-curlingly sweet sundaes from nearby Rio’s, one of Jaffna’s best loved ice cream parlours, as the rhythmic beats of Hindi music blare from the radio and the rapid dialogue of young Tamil families erupts excitedly around us.
We explore the peninsula by bicycle, an iconic form of local transport, pedalling through farmland up to Point Pedro where a white flag on the beach marks the island’s northernmost point. The narrow, dusty streets of this sleepy backwater are lined with stalls selling live chickens, basketry and spices, and its lighthouse-fronted beach is prettified by a litter of jewel-hued fishing boats. Heading east, we visit Manalkadu’s sand dunes and the partial remains of St Anthony’s church, before returning to Expo Pavilion’s serene Margosa hotel. A dinner of succulent sweet Jaffna crab curry follows and sends us quickly to sleep.
On our final day, we set out to explore Jaffna’s islands. Choppy seas prevent us from visiting Delft, the peninsula’s furthest flung islet, but simply driving across such hauntingly beautiful open terrain feels escapist enough. Being a weekend, the popular golden-sand beaches of Casuarina and Chatty are busy with local families and groups bashing cymbals and drums, so we grab some deep-fried crab legs and head for the temples of Nainativu Island, a claustrophobia-inducing 15-minute ferry ride from Kurikadduwan dock.
In a region scarred by years of racial tension, it’s awe-inspiring to see a Buddhist temple and a Hindu kovil situated just 500 metres apart – two utterly different religions sharing such a small landmass. We watch as throngs of pilgrims from all over Sri Lanka pad barefoot between the two in apparent unity, and as they pay their respects to each temple, they stock up on the same goods (palm leaf-wrapped sweets, shells and toys) to take back home.
As we too head home – aboard our twin-engine bug basher of a plane, with its precious cargo of pungent prawns – I contemplate our trip. While, at times, Jaffna feels like an outpost of India – or certainly a very different place to the rest of the island – the curiosity, warmth and smiles of the resilient people we meet confirm it is part of the intoxicating story of Sri Lanka.
The Thrums is a cosy public house that takes its name from the works of one of Kirriemuir’s famous former residents, JM Barrie. You can imagine that, for most of the year, locals sit at the bar and chat about the Scottish premier league or whatever’s made the news. Today, however, the place is heaving. People are four deep waiting for their pint and crammed into the pub’s every corner. Bizarrely, the television is tuned to the game between North Melbourne and the Western Bulldogs. I strike up a small-talk conversation with an Australian couple also watching. It isn’t until they’re ushered away that I make the connection – the man is Mark Evans, former bass player with AC/DC.
We’re in Kirrie, as everyone calls it, for the tenth annual Bonfest, a celebration of the village’s favourite son, Ronald Belford Scott. The three-day party offers free music in the town’s pubs and nightly gigs by rock bands and AC/DC tribute shows, as well as talks, signings and a market day. It was all due to kick off at 1.45 on this Friday afternoon with a re-creation of the famous film clip for ‘It’s a Long Way to the Top’ – well, as closely as you can re-create something shot on Melbourne’s Swanston Street in a tiny town in the Highlands. The fully loaded vintage lorry was all ready to go when the storm came. Stupid storm.
Still, you can’t keep a good rocker down, and the equipment has been hastily moved into the Thrums where the atmosphere is building. There are folks here dressed in kilts, denim jackets covered in AC/DC cloth patches and Bonfest ‘Crew’ t-shirts; then there are others who just look like your average beer drinker out searching for a quiet shandy. Are those guys going to be surprised. Finally, the band hits the stage and the weekend is officially on like Donkey Kong. If anyone was in any doubt they merely needed to check the number of empty glasses rapidly accumulating on the tables edging the room.
This year Bonfest is an especially big deal for organisers John Crawford and Graham Galloway. Not only is it the tenth year they’ve run the gathering, but this is also going to be the biggest one ever. The nighttime activities have moved from Kirriemuir Town Hall to a big top on a field at the bottom of the hill. They’ve assembled a huge cast of Bon’s band mates and friends – along with Mark Evans, there’s the rocker’s longtime confidante and sometime girlfriend Mary Renshaw, Tony Currenti, who drummed on AC/DC’s debut High Voltage, and Bob Richards, who filled in for drummer Phil Rudd when he was having some trouble with the law. Then there’s Saturday’s big event, but that’s getting ahead of ourselves because today things are just getting warmed up.
There’s not so much a stage at the Thrums as a part of the floor marked out by foldback wedges, speakers and equipment. The first band due to appear, a local trio called Ganked, has been bumped to accommodate the changing situation. Two fully decked-out pipers stand at either edge of the room, the members of Bon The AC/DC Show file in, Mark Evans grabs the bass, and they finally get to let rip with ‘Long Way to the Top’. ‘The Jack’, ‘TNT’ and lots of back-slapping and cheersing later, and we’re back on schedule.
The guys from Ganked finally get to take their spot. It soon becomes obvious Bonfest isn’t all about AC/DC, as much as the crowd would, perhaps, prefer it. This is more acoustic than metal, and Ganked plays a fistful of hits from the likes of the Police, Feargal Sharkey and Dexys Midnight Runners.
“When are you going to play some real fookin’ rock,” yells a red-cheeked bloke wearing a patched vest. Not to be intimidated, the band launches into ‘Video Killed the Radio Star’. Eventually, they give the crowd what they’ve been waiting for and play a lesser-known AC/DC track, ‘Big Balls’.
It could never have been the organisers’ intention, but AC/DC is definitely in the news this weekend. Long-time singer Brian Johnson had announced he’d be leaving the band due to hearing issues, and in the days before the gathering in Kirriemuir the group’s tour dates had been rescheduled with Guns N’ Roses’ Axl Rose as the replacement front man. No one, it seems, is happy.
“I’d rather do this than go and see AC/DC with Axl Rose,” a man in a kilt says to his mate in another of the local pubs, the Roods. “It’s all over now,” his friend replies, mournfully. “The drummer’s in prison, the singer’s deaf and the guitarist is gone.” He takes a long swig of his pint.
It’s a common conversation over the weekend. People who have tickets to see the band in Portugal, London and other cities in the weeks to come are trying to offload them to no avail. No one is sure how Rose, who is known to have a precarious relationship with time management, would go playing with the hardest working band in show business. There is talk that Angus, the only remaining original member, should simply call it quits. (Everyone’s fears were for nothing: Rose won acclaim for his gigs with the band. Johnson, meanwhile, has been testing a new in-ear monitor that should allow him to get back out on the road.)
As the afternoon draws on, fans begin slipping out of the pubs to form a tiny procession down the Kirriemuir hill to the field where the evening’s entertainment will begin. There’s the huge big top, where the bands will play, two smaller ones selling merch and drinks, and a burger van. A small huddle of tents with a backdrop of hills doused in snow is pitched a small distance away. This is the sanctuary of the crazy-brave types who have booked the £20 weekend camping tickets.
Each evening, three bands are going to strut their stuff in the big top in front of about a thousand fans, some of whom have strung up AC/DC signs announcing their own home towns. There are a lot of Germans in attendance, but also guys (they’re invariably guys) who’ve travelled in from Spain and other parts of Europe. Mainly, though, there are a lot of Scots, many of them from Kirriemuir – every shop in the town has a Bonfest display in its window and the local sweet shop has Let There Be Rock candy canes for sale – and nearby villages, as well as cities further afield. Despite the huge number of people who’ve filled Kirrie to almost breaking point, there’s still the atmosphere of a village fete. It appears as though everyone knows everyone else, but, as the weekend wears on, it becomes apparent it’s more that everyone is quite happy to meet everyone else.
First up this evening is Reddog, a power trio from Crieff, about 75 kilometres away. The sound is certainly AC/DC-esque, but, thankfully – since how many times can you really listen to ‘Highway to Hell’ in one weekend? – they mix originals in with covers like ‘Cold Hard Bitch’ by Australian band Jet, who were once described by NME as a mix of the Rolling Stones and Acca Dacca. They’re followed by guitar rock band, the Ruckus, from Aberdeen.
The crowd has grown as the sun has set, the beer tent has been doing a roaring trade and everyone is primed and ready for that night’s main event, Back:N:Black. Go to the band’s website and you’ll see this modest claim: “We’re just five girls who dig playing AC/DC more than anything.” Yes, girls. They’re based in Switzerland, tour the world, have played Montreux Jazz Festival and, from the second they step on stage, they’ve got the Bonfest crowd in the palms of their hands. It doesn’t hurt that they are smoking hot, but they certainly have the tribute band thing nailed. They are pure rock, from their torn tights to the note-perfect re-creation of AC/DC’s hits, starting with ‘High Voltage’ and leaving no fan favourite from their sprawling set list. No one, least of all them, it seems, is keen for the night to be over.
The next morning, there’s a collective sigh of relief. Today is the Big Day, and the sun has burst through the cloud. In the Kirriemuir car park, a substantial crowd begins to gather as the morning draws on. Stalls are set up selling coffee and baked goods, artwork and AC/DC memorabilia. There’s a truck (this one covered) set up with gear for an afternoon set by Spanish tribute band Chaman, and people are gathering around a tall iron fence. Within it there’s a large, blanket-covered form. For the past two years, the Bonfest crew and AC/DC fans have raised £45,000 to have a statue of Bon Scott made and erected in the town of his birth. As the time for its unveiling draws ever nearer the crowd swells. They’re banked up the hill and perched in trees and on fences – anything that’s a bit higher and gives them a view of proceedings. By the time Mark and Mary tear off the coverings to reveal sculptor John McKenna’s work – bagpipes, tatts and all – an estimated 2500 people are watching. It’s an emotional moment, particularly for those who knew the singer. “I always liked Bon, and now I know why,” says Mark to the assembled masses. “He was from here.”
“Amberley Air Force Base is active today. So if we muck up, they’ll shoot us down,” warns Captain Mike, kicking the engine to life. Hopefully the Royal Australian Air Force doesn’t consider three people in a chopper heading to the pub a national threat, but we’re prepared to take our chances. Blades above us grind as though the machine’s out of gear before they twirl into a purr, and we spin off above the bunya pines surrounding the Woodlands of Marburg.
Minutes later we’re clutching amber pots of Tooheys Extra Dry and Hahn Pale Ale and watching 22-wheelers rolling from Brisbane to Toowoomba along the Warrego Highway. It’s quiet inside the saloon, with just a few day drinkers clustered at the bar. Our Robinson R44 helicopter is stationed out back behind the trade utes and oil tankers.
A bloke called Choppa, with tatts on his knuckles and grey hair frothing from his shirt, wanders over to join us on the porch. “Whenever you come here I like to sit out the back and watch,” he informs Captain Mike, grinning as he takes another slurp. “Last time you flew off with the nose down,” he continues. “You know why I do that?” asks Captain Mike. “Just because I can!” Seems a good enough reason for Choppa, who settles back in to consuming his beer in solitude.
Choppa’s recall for detail might be top-notch, but I’m beginning to feel pleasantly fuzzy. Perhaps it’s because midday just trickled by and my beer seems to be evaporating, or maybe it’s because I was up before sunrise, taking in Ipswich from the comfort of an enormous wicker basket. The sky was bruised deep purple as we unfurled the hot air balloon onto dewy grass in a park in town and pumped it full of the same gas you pick up at a petrol station. Fumes crept through the air as raging heat propelled us above the treetops.
“Everyone brought their parachute?” joked Graham, our balloon master. “We’ve all got the same one, it’s attached to the basket,” my partner Lachie chuckled back. Bovines marching in single file below us broke rank, no doubt spooked by the groans that emerged from my fellow passengers.
“Over there’s the little knoll where Pauline Hanson lived,” Graham pointed out, shortly after we sailed over the rail yard where Queensland’s first train departed back in 1865. More than 200 steam locomotives were constructed here, and during WWII it was the state’s largest employer. Catching a ride on a breeze, we swept in the direction of the Scenic Rim Region, while the rising sun burnt the sky behind Brisbane and our shadow raced to catch up. Wisps of cloud gathered on trees like cotton wool and dams transformed into metallic pools. By the time we bounced down into a field of grasses, leaving behind a smear of rusted earth and toppling a termite mound, I found myself convinced that dad jokes or not, balloon travel’s a superb way to explore the sights of Queensland’s oldest provincial city.
Doors open onto a wide verandah at the Cottage Restaurant, allowing a breeze to brush through former bedrooms of the National Trust-listed home turned fine-dining establishment. As we sup on plump gnocchi accompanied by a glass of French rosé, Captain Mike tells us about Pterodactyl Helicopters’ popular pub crawl, which takes in some of the region’s favourite drinking establishments. “The trip gives you a feel for what real Australia is like,” he explains. “We know the bar guys who are always there.” Perhaps our newfound pub-pal Choppa is actually on a retainer.
“Mike X-Ray Romeo… requesting clearance to become airborne,” Captain Mike radios in before we take off. By now more than one streak of bug blood graces the windscreen – the markings of a true rural Aussie trip. As it’s been at least a good half-hour since we’ve had our last drink, we’re destined for a vineyard where chardonnay and a cheese platter await on the porch of the 1920s miner’s cottage turned cellar door.
“Ipswich is coming of age,” Captain Mike muses. “There’s this beer culture that it’s really embracing,” he continues as we soar towards a tasting paddle at Tap’d, a craft beer bar considered the largest in the southern hemisphere. “We’re going to have a beer there… just because we can!” he chuckles. And we do. Many. But it’s the far smaller Pumpyard, home to the first brewery to open in Ipswich since 1903, that really takes my fancy. Shining vats of 4 Hearts Brewing fill one side of the industrial-style bar in an ornate brick building on Limestone Street, fermenting preservative-free frothies best consumed on one of the comfy leather couches. Bearing names like Ipswich Challenger light ale and Coal Miners stout, it seems as though head brewer and local bloke Wade Curtis is inviting punters to raise a glass to the historic mining town.
This isn’t the Ipswich I was expecting. And although it still doesn’t feel right referring to this collection of airy Queenslanders as a city, I’m beginning to understand why Captain Mike dropped the words “hidden gem” on more than one occasion. Themed restaurants and cafes serving single-origin espressos are setting up shop between bric-a-brac and clothes stores on Brisbane Street. A heritage-listed former church, now the Ipswich Antique Centre, brims with all manner of treasures. At Rafter & Rose we eye-off Alice in Wonderland-esque cakes by the cafe counter, their meringue mountains culminating in caramelised peaks, and pep up with a three-course flight of coffee.
Once the industrial heart of the city, the redbrick buildings surrounding ‘The Workshops’ sit almost abandoned, giving the old rail yard a Walking Dead kinda vibe. But new life is pouring into the expansive site. A rail museum housing restored steam trains opened in the boiler shop in 2002, and over the past year Museum Twilight Markets have created a space for local craft makers to sell their wares between food trucks and stalls proffering gluten-free doughnuts and gourmet burgers. Hopefully one day the entire hub will transform into an entertainment enclave, with cafes and boutiques filling the cathedral-like powerhouse and old machinery halls.
A day later, I’m flying through the air once more, only this time there’s no pilot to guide me gently back to land. While distracted by a spider web so elaborate it resembles a dreamcatcher, I’ve managed to crash my bike into a berm and catapult into a sandstone boulder. Ankle and ego smarting, I clamber back onto the frame and pedal hard to catch up, an outline of the latticed pedal creeping across my shin. Mountain biking clearly isn’t my forte, but with a 10-course dinner at Homage – Spicers Hidden Vale’s hatted restaurant – on the horizon, I’m determined to work up an appetite. More than a hundred kilometres of bike trails wend through bushland on the property’s sprawling 4800 hectares, about 45 kilometres from Ipswich. Guests staying at the retreat share the paths with hikers and riders from Brisbane and beyond, who fang across the red earth and sandy rivulets, tackling switchbacks in eucalyptus-shaded gullies and even passing an abandoned light plane rusting in a clearing.
Back at Hidden Vale, restored cottages, many with guests’ bikes parked out front, spread out near the old homestead-turned-restaurant. A wide, airy porch overlooks a valley and the distant mountains forming the Scenic Rim. Geese honk for extra feed and piglets rush to the side of their pens, pushing glistening little snouts towards human company. Head chef Ash Martin, who works magic in the restaurant, throws me a bemused look when I ask after their names. Despite the bucolic scenery, luxurious guest cottages, spa and tennis courts on site, Hidden Vale is a fully functioning farm. Fellow city folk take note; naming a creature that will soon become breakfast bacon isn’t exactly kosher.
Sloe gins in hand, we sink into a couch at Homage, with Frank Sinatra crooning above wood crackling in the hearth (it’s actually cold enough to need a jumper when outside). Appreciative gasps punctuate the air as waiters reveal new dishes like magic tricks. Behind us a man slices into a choice cut of meat, a nest of flaming rosemary on top sending scented smoke above his head. A lady cracks open her dessert by dropping it from a height.
For a fine-dining restaurant it’s far from stuffy, which is probably because its fare invites you to eat with your hands. Working our way through the Forage tasting menu, we pluck ‘truffles’ – mushroom pâté encased in choux pastry – from a bed of soft turf and lick gum leaves laced with honey caviar, the sweet nectar collected from hives on the property. Our fingers seek out morsels of cured duck, charred mandarin and spicy nectarine that adorn a gnarled tree root, and we snack on freshwater natives the size of a pinky that sit atop a scrap of hessian, arranged like an Instagram flat lay. Cod is served delicately poached in macadamia milk and a confetti of puffed grains garnishes a dish of kangaroo tail. After an hour and a half we’ve sampled just half of our evening’s meal.
Come morning, my belly’s returned to its normal size and shape, and we sit on our cottage porch, watching king parrots flash scarlet and emerald plumes, willie wagtails flaunting their tail feathers and a wallaby grazing beneath an enormous ficus tree. “Let’s go for a pre-breakfast ride,” suggests Lachie. Taking stock of the bruises decorating my limbs I decide that, for now, my mountain biking days are over. “You go ahead,” I tell him. “I’m going to sit and soak up the sunshine. Just because I can”.
In South Africa, the braai – an Afrikaans word meaning to grill – is the perfect excuse to gather with friends and family. With South Africa’s chequered history, you could say it brings the country together. Even Heritage Day, a public holiday celebrated on 24 September each year, is affectionately known as Braai Day.
The love of meat cooked over an open fire, traditionally fuelled by wood and often charcoal (but never gas) is something all South Africans share. It cuts through ethnicity, race and class. In the 11 official languages spoken in the Rainbow Nation braai is the only word recognised by all. Where Australians have MasterChef, South Africa has Ultimate Braai Master.
The bloodied carcass being thrown around our braai is a sirloin fillet, though cuts of ostrich, bok (antelope) and wildebeest aren’t unheard of, particularly in rural areas up north. Sharing the grill is an unsightly curl of boerewors (farmer’s sausage), similarly flung around with reckless abandon. Each skin has been stuffed with minced beef, pork or lamb and seasoned by a fiery blend of herbs and spices introduced by seventeenth-century Asian slave labourers. It smells great, tastes better and looks truly awful.
I’ve anticipated this meal since I flew into Johannesburg two weeks ago. For seven years I lived in the Middle East, often socialising with South African expats and gorging on barbecued slabs of marinated beef, lamb and chicken. Here in their homeland, though, the opportunity for me to indulge in a braai has, thus far, proved elusive.
The problem is that I’ve been holed up in various five-star establishments. Diddums, you say. But while I’ve certainly enjoyed their indulgent offerings, the buffet dinners served up night after night lack the intimacy of a backyard cookout.
On this particular evening I’m standing on the patio of a friend’s cottage in the Cape Town seaside suburb of Fish Hoek. The sound of ocean breakers can be heard dispersing against the sand two blocks away and the last burning vestiges of sunlight reflect in the clouds, much like the charcoal embers glowing beneath the boerewors. Another Capetonian friend from those years in the Arabian Gulf brandishes a pair of tongs, clasping our meal as a heron might a fish.
Gareth flips the meat and tosses it around the grill, ensuring it’s evenly cooked. Watching his constant jostling drives me nuts – I adhere to a less is best philosophy when it comes to steak – but I dare not challenge him. The man with the tongs wields the power and etiquette dictates that advice can be sought but not forced.
Potatoes baking inside a blanket of foil rest on the coals while appetisers are spread on an adjacent table. Sides of coleslaw, garlic bread and warm butternut pumpkin salad baked with cream and chakalaka, a much-loved local vegetable relish, are brought out to complete the meal. In northern provinces, they might also prepare pap – a maize porridge that can be eaten dry and crumbling or dampened with rich gravy.
Each of us cradles a cold dop, the Afrikaans word for drink. In this instance, the dop is a stubby, but it might just as easily be wine, especially around Cape Town, where bountiful ‘wine farms’ produce decent pinotages and sauvignon blancs for as little as AU$5 a bottle. Brandy is another local drop we forgo this night.
Whenever the Springboks rugby team is playing, or the Proteas cricketers, fans organise braais around them. You’re expected to be able to cheer on a national team with a full stomach here. But tonight the television stays off, and conversation hums around the hearth – what some here call the ‘African TV’.
For now, I’ll just cheer on the process. Their barbecue technique is unfamiliar, but that’s not to say they do it wrong. Far from it. When you can savour the beautiful South African climate with a cold dop in hand and the warm glow of the fire nearby – especially with old friends to keep you company – it’s impossible not to feel that this is how life is meant to be lived.
Serves 8 as a side
INGREDIENTS
1 medium butternut pumpkin
250ml cream
1 tin Hot and Spicy Chakalaka
Chakalaka is a curried tomato, carrot, capsicum and cabbage
sauce available online from South African Products.
saproducts.com.au
METHOD
Peel and dice the butternut pumpkin, discarding the seeds. Place the flesh in a casserole dish and pour the chakalaka and cream over the top. Mix to make sure the pumpkin’s evenly covered. Put the dish in a pre-heated oven set to 180°C for 60 to 90 minutes, or until the pumpkin is tender. Serve warm.
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