Get Lost

Capital of Kooky

Tomomi giggles and makes a motion as if taking a photo: “You will be like a movie star. Paparazzi.” In a tiny studio off Asakusa’s market, I am getting ready for my close-up. First the make-up artist and photographer slathers my face with primer that has the density of vaseline. Then comes a thick layer of white powder made into sludge with a little water, followed by a pressing of white powder. My heart skips a beat when Tomomi starts to paint what appears to be bright-red lipstick around my eyes. Then again, she’s the expert.

When she’s happy, she asks me to pick a kimono. From a vast rail, I choose a purple one. She looks at me as if to say ‘really?’, but pulls it off its hanger anyway. For some reason, I thought dressing as a geisha would simply involve slipping a beautiful silk gown over my head. Wrong. First Tomomi straps down my chest. “You have good body, but flatter is better,” she says in halting English. Then she and her assistant Miho begin strapping and binding with sashes, belts and velcro until I can barely breathe. Finally, she walks me towards the mirror and in it I see someone who could not be me. Could it?

Tomomi runs a business called Cocomo, where she adorns ordinary citizens in traditional costume. On her walls there are photos of made-over celebs including Jessica Simpson, Taylor Swift and Betsey Johnson; in her brag book are images of tiny children in beautiful silks, men kitted out as kabuki actors or samurai, and couples posing in traditional garb on their wedding day. The preparation takes about 90 minutes before she takes me to a studio where I pose with parasol and samisen (a Japanese guitar) before heading into the street where I become the tourist attraction.

To say Tokyo is a multifaceted character is a complete understatement. Its public persona is of tea houses, tipsy salarymen, Shibuya intersection shuffling with a cast of thousands, and serene gardens dotted by koi ponds. It is all that and much more too, and if you dig a little deeper you can leave Western tourists snapping pics of kooky kids on Takeshita Street behind and explore another side of the Japanese capital. With just three days to pack it all in though, there’s just a question of when there’ll be time to sleep.

My first stop is Ikebukuro Life Safety Learning Center. Most people call it the Earthquake Museum, but that is a bit of a misnomer. Run by the Tokyo Fire Department, it deals in serious stuff. I’m in a group with a bunch of kids from the Junior Fire Brigade. Average age: 10. First we’re scared stupid by a video that shows skyscrapers swaying ominously, along with the 2011 tsunami ripping through the Japanese countryside and its devastating after effects. Next it’s off to the earthquake simulator, the facility’s newest addition. Basically, you sit around a table on a huge metal plate and it starts to shake, at which point you dive under the table and hold on tight to a leg. The instructor turns the machine up to match the 2011 earthquake, the table moves across the floor and I lose my balance and smack my head on its edge. The rocking and rolling seems to go on forever. When the shaking finally subsides my heart is pounding and I’m completely terrified. Next, the kids and I manage to escape unscathed from a burning building then douse a kitchen fire with extinguishers.

The Japanese certainly seem to have a penchant for vaguely odd museums. If you’ve got the stomach for it, the Meguro Parasitological Museum is worth a visit just for its prize display – an 8.8-metre–long tapeworm. All the signage is in Japanese, which is a little disappointing because I really wanted to know where Tapey lived before finding himself in a giant jar. It takes a couple of photos and a bit of post-visit Googling to work out what the drawings of men carrying their enormously engorged scrotes in slings are all about. Apparently Wuchereria bancrofti is a roundworm spread by mosquitoes that can cause fever, chills, skin infections and, in blokes, orchitis, an extreme and painful inflammation of the testes. If you haven’t made enough ball jokes by about now, head across the street to Ganko Dako, a street stall selling takoyaki, or fried octopus balls. Smothered in mayonnaise and bonito flakes, they’re morsels of absolute goodness.

Food is serious business in Tokyo. There are more restaurants with three Michelin stars here than anywhere else in the world (15 in comparison to Paris’s 10), but you certainly don’t have to spend a fortune to enjoy something a little different. The fish served at Zauo, for instance, is definitely fresh. That’s because you have to catch it yourself. Waiters furnish guests with a rod, a tiny unbarbed hook and a pot of miniscule prawns. Most of the tables are set on a faux boat ‘sailing’ in a pond filled with sea creatures, from small sharks and snapper to lobster and shellfish. “You have the table for two and a half hours,” the waiter tells me as he seats me in the boat’s bow and hands over my equipment. Seriously, I think, how long can a quick sushi dinner take? Well, when it takes 45 minutes to snag a snapper, the answer is two and a half hours.

My shiny, slippery snapper goes off to the kitchen and comes back on a plate. Slices of sashimi are fanned over ice, and the head and frame are artfully twisted and secured with a large skewer. Slightly off-putting is the twitching of the fins as I slurp down the sashimi, a problem that  is completely solved when the remains get whisked away and prepared for the second course of fried bones.

Not nearly so close to nature is Akihabara’s cult food offering. At the front of Don Quijote (a chaotic blend of costume store and $2 shop) you can buy a Black Terra hotdog from Vegas Premium Hot Dogs. “What does it taste like?” my guide Michiko asks, tucking into a reassuringly red dog in a white bun. “Mmmm, hotdog,” is my none-too-startling revelation. It seems the colour comes from tasteless, pulverised bamboo charcoal and, as I lick the mustardy remnants from my fingers, I can’t help but wonder why you’d bother.

Akihabara Electric Town was once the place you’d visit if you were in the market for a computer, camera or other piece of electronic ephemera. These days, you can still get all that, but it’s also become the beating heart of Tokyo’s otaku (geek) culture. Head to multi-level store Super Potato and buy up big on second-hand retro games. Commodore 64 components, Atari games and Donkey Kong handhelds are all there, and there’s an arcade on the fifth floor. There are vending machines on many street corners, but the ultimate mechanised mecca is Gachapon Kaikan, a store lined with toy-vending machines. Pop in 200 or 300 yen (US$2–3), turn the handle and out pops a plastic bubble with, perhaps, a manga (Japanese comic book) character or even a hamster nibbling a carrot (replica, of course) inside.

This is also the home of AKB48, a J-pop group with 89 female members who ‘work’ on a roster performing shows every day. If you thought One Direction was a big deal, check this out – in May last year, the group released a single called ‘Sayonara Crawl’ that sold 1,763,000 copies in the first week. They’ve got a shop and a cafe and their own theatre, natch.

At 11am on a weekday morning, there’s a line-up of mostly young guys outside a huge bookstore called Akiba Culture Zone. Something may have been slightly lost in translation, but it seems they’re waiting for tickets to go on sale at 4pm for a concert that evening. Not any old concert, though – the star of this one is a female hologram who performs Vocaloid songs (basically, it’s a synthesiser that produces a singing voice). The most famous Vocaloid ‘artist’ is Hatsune Miku. In 2010, her debut album Exit Tunes Presents Vocalogenesis feat. Hatsune Miku debuted at number one on the Japanese charts and last year ‘she’ performed at SonicMania alongside bands like The Stone Roses and Pet Shop Boys.

If Tokyo’s young men seem obsessed by virtual girls – you only have to venture into the dungeon that is Mandarake, a huge store selling toys, comics and DVDs, and see them furtively flicking through manga featuring comic girls with pneumatic tatas on the covers to know it’s true – the beautiful young women of the city seem to still be searching for actual love. With real human beings. Tokyo Daijingu is a stunning Shinto shrine thought to help with togetherness. On a Saturday afternoon, a bride dressed in a glorious cream silk kimono is marrying her beau and seemingly hundreds of young women are admiring her as she has her portrait taken. They’re also buying love charms and fortunes (called o-mikuji) from priests – male and female – dressed in pristine white robes. I hand over 200 yen (US$2), shake a numbered stick from a wooden box and a priest hands me the accompanying fortune. “It’s good,” says Michiko, as she begins translating. “It says you should let the person you love go because he is too good for you. Your perfect match is a Scorpio, has AB blood and was born in the Year of the Horse. It also says it’s not time for you to get married yet. You need to be patient.” Since I’m on the wrong side of 40 and wouldn’t even know what type of blood runs through my veins, I’m wondering what she’d consider a bad fortune. These, should you be unfortunate enough to procure one, are tied to a wall, but Michiko urges me to keep mine. I slip it into my pocket along with a belled charm I hope will speed my good love vibes along.

Another major attraction for young women (in many cases, the very young) is Sanrio Puroland, an indoor theme park where you can say “Hello Kitty” to Kitty. Kawaii is the Japanese word for cute and a whole industry – from maid cafes, where the waitresses sing songs of love as they serve your food, to strange police mascots with green hair and dog ears – has grown around it. But Puroland is kawaii on steroids. There are boat rides, a journey with Kiki and Lala, Kitty’s quite amazing house and shows featuring the characters that make up her extended family. That’s not to say there isn’t a sly wink to adults who find themselves here. In a musical based on Alice in Wonderland, the Queen of Hearts has her botulism-infused magic tiara stolen, instantly rendering her an old hag. In the enormous gift shop I buy a pair of socks bearing the words ‘I Love Mushrooms’ and an image of Kitty sitting on and eating mushrooms, and a face cloth of My Melody in a ghost costume printed with the words ‘Meet me in the freaky forest’. I will leave you to make your own interpretations of both.

All the outward shininess and focus on the cute does tend to hide the fact that Tokyo has a long, dark history. American researcher Lilly Fields has lived in the city for 30 years and, fascinated by its past, has a sideline in Haunted Tokyo Tours. Far from the gimmicky, after-dark schlock fests you sometimes encounter, Field’s walking tours are mostly held in broad daylight, which doesn’t make her stories any less horrifying. Her Blood of Samurai tour is the final stop on my whirlwind itinerary. We walk to the top of a burial mound, and visit a site where, in 1623, 50 Christians, mainly Jesuit priests, were crucified and burned. The methods used to torture them make the Romans seem almost mild by comparison. Then there’s the story of the 47 ronin, who avenged the death of their master Asano. Their 300-year-old graves in Takanawa are still visited by many who come to pray. Lilly is a master storyteller – one of those people who can bring a seemingly innocuous place and its history to life with her vivid words. She takes us up Ghost Hill, where we stop at a temple to visit the magical lipstick Buddha. “One of the ways to pay devotion to this Buddha is to apply make-up to it,” she explains. “Geisha would come here to pray for beauty.” There are pots of baby powder arranged around the Buddha and she encourages us to add our own daubs. I think of the love charm in my pocket and grab a powder puff. Well, you never know your luck, particularly in this big city.

Like a Local in Asakusa Tokyo

Most people think Asakusa in Tokyo’s east is a tourist trap. Hordes of travellers – an estimated 30 million every year – visit to ogle Senso-ji, the city’s oldest temple, dating back to 645. Here, one can experience a piece of traditional Japan, and the Buddhist complex, with its exquisite architecture and painted details, is a sight to behold.

However, away from the crowds who typically browse Nakamise-dori, the pedestrian street leading up to the temple that’s lined with stalls selling traditional sweets and kitschy souvenirs, is a truly charming neighbourhood made up of small lanes dotted with artisanal and multi-generational family-run shops. There is no need for a supermarket selling mass-produced goods, as everything can be bought at stores specialising in just one type of product.

Nakamise-dori leads to Senso-ji.
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Traditional footwear at Tsujiya Honten.
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In the Edo period (1603 to 1868) the neighbourhood was popular with commoners and merchants. At the time Japan was enjoying a period of political stability and, thanks largely to this peaceful climate, cultural endeavours flourished. In opposition to the elegant and refined tastes of upper-class Tokyo, the downtown area developed a bawdy reputation. Ironically, various aspects of Japanese culture that are lauded now – woodblock prints,  kabuki theatre, even tattoos – were, during the time, produced by the commoners for the commoners.

The locals who live here now have a fierce parochial pride and a brash sense of humour. The spirit of the community is evident during the many matsuri (festivals) that take place during the year. The most incredible of these are the Sanja Festival, which takes place on the third weekend each May and resembles one big street party, and the Sumida River Fireworks Festival in July.

Increasingly, the area has become a hotbed for members of the creative class, who find the rent in trendy west Tokyo areas prohibitively expensive. Their arrival has helped create a unique neighbourhood, where old-school craftsmen and new-wave designers exist side by side.

A model during a fashion shoot at Taito Ryokan.
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For visitors, there are a number of hotels in Asakusa, but Taito Ryokan – a small Japanese inn, built in 1950 – is a good choice. For Tokyo, it’s very cheap (about US$25 per person), with atmospheric tatami-style (straw mat) rooms and a friendly owner who makes the whole experience more like a homestay.

Asakusa has a plethora of artisan food stores – some sell only one kind of dried fish, for example, while others specialise in tofu. Kintaro-ame is a style of classic Japanese sweet and the most famous shop making it  is the fifth-generation Kintaro-ame Honten. Long sugary ropes are assembled together, stretched then cut to reveal a pattern – most often a character’s face – within.

Stop for a break at Gallery éf. This Edo-era warehouse, built in 1868, is one of the few buildings that survived the fire-bombings of World War II. The space retains its architectural charm, but now serves as a cultural hub cafe, bar and gallery – with a cosmopolitan clientele. Exhibitions range from Yutaka Kamimura’s photography of cats and dogs living in the Fukushima nuclear evacuation zone to NYC shooter Paule Saviano’s burlesque images.

While Senso-ji is the most famous temple in the area, you can find numerous shrines nestled inconspicuously between buildings. The small Yoshiwara Benzaiten Shrine is surrounded by cherry blossoms that bloom gloriously during spring. Although legal reforms saw courtesans disappear from Tokyo life during the mid-50s, they used to come here, once part of the city’s biggest red-light district, to pray for protection.

One of the most atmospheric sentos (public baths) in Tokyo is Onsen Jakotsu-yu, nestled in Asakusa’s laneways. Sentos were common in the region post-war, as many houses did not have their own bathrooms, but locals still attend them – yes, in their birthday suits – for the community atmosphere and sense of ritual. The water that flows in Jakotsu-yu comes from deep in the ground and is rich in minerals, leaving skin smooth and soft. This is also one of the few bathhouses in Japan where people with tattoos can bathe.

One recent transplant to the district is yukata (kimono) maker Rumi Shibasaki, who works out of her atelier, Rumix Design Studio. She makes cotton kimonos infused with a rock ’n’ roll sensibility – the dramatic motifs include images referencing all aspects of pop culture from Alfred Hitchcock films to novels by Yukio Mishima. She does, however, use traditional dyeing methods that utilise meticulously detailed, hand-cut stencils. Each yukata is stitched to order, so you can go in, get measured up and have a kimono made especially for you.

What to wear with your Rumix yukata? The answer is footwear from Tsujiya Honten, a traditional footwear store that makes geta, zori and setta, which are similar in shape to flip-flops but have the sturdiness of clogs or sandals. Each pair is custom-made by an in-house creator who fits them to your foot. They are beautiful, comfortable and, as an added bonus, go really well with jeans. A visit to the store is always great for people watching, as customers, from elegant gentlemen in their finest kimonos to first-time fashionistas, wait to have their sandals tailored to them.

The first time I went to Miyoshi, a small restaurant in the heart of Asakusa, it was by invitation of a local tattoo artist who goes there every second day to eat. It has unassuming interiors and a low-key atmosphere, but excellent fugu. While the taste of this famous pufferfish (poisonous if prepared incorrectly) is subtle, the presentation – delicate slices fanned out on a plate – and the texture of the sashimi is what makes fugu such a speciality in Japanese cuisine.

One of the best nightspots in Asakusa is Oiwake. The food served is typical of an izakaya – drink-friendly yakitori (meat grilled on skewers), edamame (soybeans still in their pods), house-made tofu and the like – and is downed with plenty of beer and sake. The real attraction here is the entertainment. At this bar young musicians play folk songs from north Japan with shamisens, a lute-like instrument that is strummed vigorously to produce a melancholic sound. The playing is so fervent and energetic it has been likened to that of Jimi Hendrix. Afterwards, when they’ve finished their set, the musos mingle with the crowd. That’s just the kind of place Asakusa is.

After Dark in Galway

Galway is a town that takes ‘city centre’ to the extreme. Everything in the busy town happens within a one-square-kilometre radius, packing in small galleries, teeny-tiny tourist shops rammed with stuffed leprechauns, cobblestone car-free streets hosting brilliant (and not so brilliant) buskers and, of course, pub after pub after pub. Hit Galway in the summer months (July to September are the warmest) and you might even get some sun to go with your oysters and Guinness.

People gathering near the Spanish Arch. Image: Phalin Ooi
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6.00pm
Absorb some late-afternoon rays on the grass in front of the town’s Spanish Arch, which was originally constructed in the late 1500s, but not by the Spanish. Actually, it seems to have not much to do with Spain at all. Built as part of a wall to protect the city’s quays, the most Spanish thing about it is it was almost destroyed by a tsunami in 1755 following an earthquake near Spain. It’s not even a particularly good-looking attraction, but the green, green grass in front of it is a popular spot for students, backpackers, hobos and locals to gather for a drink and a sing-a-long on the River Corrib.

6.30pm
Enter the dining and drinking zone at Sheridans Cheesemongers. The downstairs provedore is an introduction to Galway’s classy, self-assured side, and that feeling continues upstairs at the wine shop and bar. Match your cheese and salumi platter to a glass or two of Italian or French wines, and enjoy the outlook over St Nicholas Church, which dates from 1320 and is Ireland’s largest medieval parish church.
Sheridans Cheesemongers
14 Church Yard Street
sheridanscheesemongers.com

Ready to pour a glass at Sheridans. Image: Reg Gordon
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7.30pm
Dinner can be tricky in Galway. Definitely avoid the tourist traps, most of which dot Quay Street. If greasy chips and fresh fried fish are to your taste, head to McDonagh’s. It’s worth a look if only for the slightly creepy maritime-themed decorations reminiscent of the conch-headed Hadras in Pirates of the Caribbean. It’s been in the same family for four generations, so they know what they’re doing. Eat in or line up with the rest of Galway for your takeaway. For something a little more refined, try the Quay Street Kitchen across the road.
McDonagh’s
22 Quay Street
mcdonaghs.net

The Quay Street Kitchen
21–25 Quay Street
facebook.com/TheQuayStreetKitchen

8.00pm
By now you’ve covered much of the main tourist area, so it’s time to venture further afield. Quay Street turns into Main Street, which turns into Shop Street. Somewhere along here you’re sure to be caught up in a jam of people watching a busker. Remember The Commitments? Remember Once? Busking is big in this part of the world. Even Bono was spotted singing for a few bob in Dublin this Christmas Eve past. Good, bad or indifferent, an entertainment fix can be found by simply strolling down this street. Finish at the lovely Eyre Square.

Looking across the Corrib towards the Galway Arts Festival’s Big Top. Image: Barnacles Budget Accommodation / flickr
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9.00pm
With the summer sun still doing its thing, there’s plenty of time to keep the musical vibe going. During the annual Galway Arts Festival you’ll see throngs of people walking to University Road and crossing the Corrib to the Big Top Stage, where international and local acts play. It’s a friendly, boozy event held right next to the humungous and atmospheric Galway Cathedral. Peer over the River Corrib on your way back to see a most unusual sight: men in full-body waders, standing in the rushing waters while quietly fishing for salmon. They fish down the river, step by step until they reach the bridge, before going back upriver and starting again.
galwayartsfestival.com

10.00pm
It’s definitely time for a session at one of Galway’s traditional music pubs. You can pretty much trust your ears and eyes with this one – if the Irish jigs are happening, there will usually be a big crowd jostling to get in, no room at the bar to order a Guinness, and people taking up every available space to get as close to the sweaty musicians as they can. Want to secure a snug (a booth of sorts, popular in Irish pubs)? You’ll need to be there way before the bow hits the fiddle. On a good night, as the tempo increases, so does the excitement, and you’ll be left wondering how a few people sitting down with instruments can cause such a fury. Want a tip? There’s always something happening at the Crane in the West End.
The Crane Bar
2 Sea Road
thecranebar.com

A traditional pub music session. Image: Brian Morrison
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11.00pm
Since 1993 the Róisín Dubh has played host to Ireland’s best musos and some pretty cool international acts, including Dinosaur Jr and the Violent Femmes. Check the listings before you hit Galway and book tickets so you’re not disappointed. Even if nothing appeals, there’s always the weekly silent disco, an open mic or comedians yukking it up in one of its bars, to be sure, to be sure.
Róisín Dubh
Lower Dominic Street
roisindubh.net

12.00am
If the disco touts haven’t got you yet, wind your way back through Galway’s streets, past the touristy shops, now with their shutters down, and on to fast-food joint Supermac’s on Eyre Square. For a taste of late-night Ireland, try the curry chips – an ‘Irish delicacy’ according to the website. It doesn’t close until 3.30am (4.30am on Saturdays). Alcohol soaked up, head back towards the water and land yourself at the House Hotel, near to where you started your night. This place is late-night fancy, with a cocktail bar, plenty of shrieking voices and DJs on weekends.
The House Hotel
Lower Merchants Road
thehousehotel.ie

No Further South

Some time during the fourth day of waiting I begin to lose my mind. Malarial mosquitoes gather in numbers for their insidious evening raids, and my daydreams of perfect waves and swaying palm trees are interrupted by the rhythmic clang of a rusted ceiling fan. Outside, a dusty potholed mess plays host to a constant procession of hotted-up bemos blaring garish Indonesian pop. With little company other than my own swirling thoughts I reach a low point I never thought my travels would take me. Anyhow, any way, I want off this island. I pace and I swat, while the buzzing in my ears sends me quietly off the deep end.

I am in Kupang, West Timor’s grim capital and the first stop on a journey in search of the fabled “Bali of 20 years ago”. Depending on whom you ask, it still exists in far-flung isles around the Indonesian archipelago, and I’d heard whispers of a small island called Rote. Depending on the whims of the local weather, it’s a three-hour ferry ride from Kupang.

Fishing on a tidal lagoon near the village of Boa, Rote Island.
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An overnight stop in Kupang is required for anyone travelling to Rote. All going well, the morning after your arrival, a ferry will take you across the Pukuafu channel. The dramatic confluence of the Indian Ocean and Timor Sea, Pukuafu is a stretch of water where strange currents, whirlpools and walls of chop bounce off jagged islands lined with volcanic stone, ensuring a harrowing journey. It is renowned as one of the deadliest stretches of water in Asia, even by Indonesia’s dodgy public transport standards. In recent years the crossing has seen more than its share of sinking vessels and lives lost. My arrival in Kupang has coincided with a not-uncommon run of strong winds with the potential to cause even more perilous conditions for the former European River Cat that is ill-designed for its use here. Mornings quickly turn into a routine of loading luggage onto the ferry, fighting for space, then sitting as the wind swells before heading back to town to do it all again the following day.

Kupang is a busy port with few redeeming features other than an impressive night market, serving the freshest catch of the day and regional specialities for next to nothing. The town was occupied by Japanese troops during World War II, which in turn saw it battered by numerous Allied bombing campaigns. Walking along the waterfront today, it’s not hard to imagine the place in the days after the raids. The buildings are a mix of the decrepit and crumbling, with no hint of charm and a thick layer of dust.

Captain William Bligh found his way here after the mutiny on the Bounty, and small reminders of his sojourn can be found around town, most notably in the one decent drinking hole on the waterfront, which has great old maps and memorabilia on display. The open-sided bar is a gathering place for a smattering of travellers and expatriates, many of whom are pickled from the early hours of the day. At best, they make for awkward company. The clang of the saloon-style bar doors is often the only break from their war stories of love and fortunes won and lost. After a little time in Indonesia one can recognise these characters pretty quickly, their downtrodden tales echoing through dusty bars from Timor to Sumatra. After my own recent break-up, I vow never to join them, although it dawns on me I am in much the same position. At least I’m keen to keep moving.

Thankfully, a change in the weather brings my bout of fear and loathing in Kupang to an end. Finally the ferry sets sail and I find myself in the small town of Nemberala on the spectacular palm-lined north-east coast of Rote. Rote sits just off the edge of the Australian continental shelf, a mere 170 kilometres west of Australian territory at Ashmore Reef. It’s so close to the lucky country the dry-season trade winds sweep up dust from the Red Centre – combined with the tropical sunshine, it conjures some of the more spectacular sunsets you can imagine.

Far from the nearest PlayStation, kids run wild all over the island.
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Seaweed is the island’s biggest export. The reef at Nemberala is one of the main collection sites.
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Facilities are still basic in Nemberala. Water is drawn from wells prone to typhoid contamination. Generators produce power only in the evenings and on Sundays, and there’s patchy to no internet. Malaria is also a real threat, with little in the way of treatment should you succumb. The distinct possibility of being stuck on the island for extended periods only adds to the risk of travel here.

Surfers make up the majority of tourists on Rote. In the late 1960s a Peruvian world surfing champion, Felipe Pomar, set up a small homestay and has lived here since. The main wave is called T-Land, in recognition of a similar wave in Java, although some refer to it as Old Man’s Left, since the expats who surf it are generally of advanced years. It’s a long, left-breaking wave in relatively deep water compared with many headline Indonesian breaks. Other travellers, however, are slowly catching on to what Rote has to offer: friendly locals, truly stunning beaches and the simplicity of a life far off the grid.

Around the time Pomar crossed Pukuafu, surfboard in hand, James J Fox, a US-born, Australia-raised anthropologist, also made the journey over the channel. His motivation was not the search for perfect waves but to document the rich culture of the Rotinese people. Fox brought with him a small tape recorder, which the locals quickly dubbed “the voice catcher”. Catcher in hand, Fox set about recording the oral histories of the Rotinese. The picture painted through his work is of a proud Christian tradition woven with local legend as well as a fierce independence from outside rule. The Western religious influences are quickly evident as you traverse the island’s patchy and often dangerous roads. Whitewashed churches dot the island, surrounded by swaying lontar palms, picket fences and mobs of cheeky kids yelling “bulle” (Indonesian for foreigner).

The most impressive-looking horse ridden casually for extra style points.
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Alongside stray animals and hordes of kids, Rote dishes up surprises around every corner. Dirt tracks often lead to small fishing villages, home to groups of Muslim fishermen famous across the archipelago for their seafaring skills. On Rote these groups still eke out a simple living subsisting on the daily catch, while practising Indonesia’s majority religion as the minority on this distant outpost. A highlight of my time on Rote is a few afternoons spent with one of these groups, watching them fish in their small bay and photographing faces that say more than I could ever pick up with my average Bahasa.

A few times a year you might be lucky enough to catch the local horse races. The method of determining the winner of these events seems a mystery to almost everybody. As far as I can tell, important factors include a combination of the best-dressed horse, its speed around the track and the rider’s dexterity in smoking a lung-busting Gudang Garam clove cigarette with one hand while controlling the reins in the other.

Another entertaining feature of life in Nemberala is the village pigs. They rule the streets here, ambling around town, hanging out under trees, sniffing the vast reef at low tide for a feed of crabs, and playing chicken with speeding mopeds. These pigs are as free-range as it gets, enjoying the benefits of their sty-free existence while awaiting their day of reckoning, which may come in the form of a wedding or Christmas feast.

The Rotinese have the distinction of being the first group to expel the Dutch, years before formal independence for Indonesia was achieved. As it was for the Dutch, some visitors find their time on Rote is not all carefree days swinging in a hammock waiting for the right tide and winds before going surfing under blood-red skies. Being the closest port to Australia, this is a stopping point for boats carrying refugees further south. Overloaded decks are stuffed with people seeking the sort of comfort and security most travellers  on Rote are escaping, at least temporarily. Local stories abound of boats landing here or on small neighbouring islands, their passengers informed they’ve arrived in Australia then left to their own devices.

I also hear of boats sinking just offshore. Quite possibly at least some of these may go undocumented – another part of the often faceless toll of humans lost while seeking a better life in Australia. Reflecting on my earlier stresses – barely a minor inconvenience in comparison – I can only thank my lucky stars I get to travel to a place like this, enjoy the best of what it has to offer before returning to my privileged existence at home.

Rote is a spectacular place, and while I never got to visit that famed Bali of 20 years ago I’d hazard a guess this is every bit the joyful escape those early travellers found on the paradise island. Just hope for the winds to be in your favour, and save a thought for those heading further south.

Go with the flow

With one meaty arm resting on a plastic paddle and a lifejacket puffed out over the barrel-like bulk of his chest, Captain Lukose Francis stands like a rooster on the river bank, his chin jutting imperiously at the crowd of local boys who’ve poured down to the shore to gawk. He looks every inch the rugged adventurer, fresh from some death-defying feat of exploration. A crossing of the Arabian Sea by canoe perhaps, or maybe a solo circumnavigation of the Antarctic ice sheets.

Not quite. But he has valiantly steered a vessel made from nine sticks of bamboo and three inner tubes through the rain-swollen rapids of the Thuthapuzha River. And he’s done it while manhandling the weight of a mutinous crew, who’ve spent the first half of the trip figuring out which way round to hold our oh-so-rustic bamboo oars, and the rest of it filling them up with water to tip over each others’ heads.

Welcome to the not-so-extreme sport of monsoon rafting, Kerala style. The Thuthapuzha may be the wildest tributary of one of South India’s most storied rivers – the much-mythologised Nila – but in a proper rubber raft its rapids would struggle to rate Grade One. Yet when your feet are braced against bamboo struts lest they get crunched by submerged rocks, and when even the gentlest riffle can slosh up through the inner tubes to give your nether regions a complete soaking, this most primeval form of river travel gives you a joyous sense of not just floating along on top of a river, but actually flowing along in it.

The credit for rejuvenating the formula of wood plus rope plus something buoyant equals a sodden good time belongs to Gopi Parayil, a native of the banks of the Nila. Gopi experienced an epiphany when he returned from London to tend his ailing father, and found his beloved river to be faring no better herself.

The Bamboo Pearl sets sail.
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Surviving the bridge at Thootha.
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“We believe that bathing in the Nila frees the soul of its liabilities,” he explains, as we gaze out across a sluggish, sandbank-lined reach of the river. It’s the third week of July, supposedly the peak of India’s southwest monsoon, and still the river barely manages to cover its sandy bed. “It broke my heart that there was hardly enough water in the river for my dad to take a dip.”

Its modest 290-kilometre length utterly belies the place the Nila holds in Kerala’s spiritual and cultural life. Many of the state’s signature performing arts have been fostered along its banks, from the outlandishly costumed solo dance spectacle of Thullal to the cacophonous classical music that soundtracks lavish temple festivals like Thrissur’s Pooram.

In the village of Cheruthuruthy, Gopi leads me through the leafy grounds of the Kerala Kalamandalam, a university for the performing arts, where the drummers, temple dancers and Kathakali artists of tomorrow study their art in open-sided classrooms. It all feels very industrious and idyllic. Yet just as the river has come under assault from sand miners, dams and deforestation, the Nila’s culture is fighting its own battle for survival. Youngsters, lured to the city by the chance of a lucrative IT or call-centre career, are no longer willing to accept the often impoverished life their parents may have endured in the name of art.

“Kids need modern education, but that doesn’t mean you need to say no to what you know,” Gopi tells me. “Once you lose what you’ve inherited, you can’t make it again on a day-to-day basis.” Hence his mission: to rebuild pride in traditional culture and prove to local families that the old ways, activated by the participation of interested travellers, can still carry an economic imperative. That’s why the next morning, rather than loading into a standard-issue imported rubber raft, I find myself sawing and chopping and lashing together lengths of bamboo – bought from local growers at rates that make them sit up and take notice – while Captain Lukose carves away at a pair of elegant, organic oars. Once the inner tubes are made fast to the frame, and with a bag of jackfruit chips lashed on for sustenance, the Bamboo Pearl is ready to set sail. Grabbing a corner each, we heave her into the shallows then paddle hard for the middle of the river, where the current sweeps us up.

To call the Thuthapuzha a raging torrent would be to somewhat stretch the point. For the most part it bubbles along merrily, occasionally breaking into a canter where the river runs over submerged rocks, at other times slowing to an ooze and offering the chance to flop over the side for a swim. At one point the sky goes black and a moist monsoonal wind whips up white horses, forcing us to paddle madly into the teeth of a majestically intense downpour that stings our cheeks and makes the water around us fizz like acid.

It soon becomes evident the Bamboo Pearl has the potential to be a perfect raiding vessel. Several times we drift out from behind a boulder or a clump of trees to startle a half-undressed woman standing in the shallows beating the stuffing out of her sari. One elder casts an unimpressed eye over our vessel; she’s seen our like before, when real-life pirates swooped in on a similar bamboo raft and stole all her ducks.

The Pearl enters a tunnel of dark forest, and a group of children run to the riverbank and begin singing to us. Lukose sings back, leading them down the river like a waterborne Pied Piper. The rest of us are so absorbed in the lilting melody and the beauty of the scene that we momentarily let our oars drag in the water. Our leader turns around to sternly admonish us: “I sing. You paddle!” A stocky, bronzed water buffalo that’s mooched down to the shore for a quiet drink shoots us an offended look.

Just when the trip is in danger of becoming too languid for its own good, the stone bridge at Thootha lumbers into view, accompanied by the ominous roar of what sounds like a mini Niagara. Lukose, shoulders tensing, motions that we need to shoot for the middle arch. But we’re hopelessly off course to the right, the current quickening with every second, and a crowd of onlookers begins to gather on the bridge, eagerly waiting to see us get smashed to pieces against the piers.

Suddenly the crew of the Bamboo Pearl meshes together. Spearing our oars into the rollercoaster waves we pull desperately towards the centre channel, groaning and swearing like a team of navvies digging a ditch, as the stone pillars loom menacingly close. With seconds to spare the boat catches the current funnelling under the main span, and our howls of triumph echo off the walls of the Gates of Deliverance, dampened not at all by the tidal waves of muddy brown water erupting from under the floor. The crowd on the bridge stays mute; it’s not every day you get to see a raftload of foreigners chomped to bits, and we’ve cruelly denied them.

Sore and blistered but triumphant, we row the brave Bamboo Pearl to the left bank and haul her out of the water, to be greeted by a volley of questions from the lungi-bedecked welcoming committee. Where have we come from? What are we doing here? Have we, perchance, any ducks for sale?

As for the boat, like a bamboo Titanic, her maiden voyage is also to be her last. As Gopi and Lukose squash the air out of the inner tubes, a couple of local guys shoulder the bamboo frame off down the street – perhaps to be turned into scaffolding or firewood, or maybe, just maybe, to be treasured as an heirloom and displayed to the wondering eyes of grandchildren for generations to come.

That evening we’re invited to a feast of spicy dal and flaky flatbreads in the grounds of an old Keralite mansion outside Arangottukara. The house belongs to a member of the Vayali folklore group, who got together in 2003 to revive the songs and dances native to their rice-growing villages.

As the purple clouds of a monsoon dusk slowly fade to black, Vayali’s singers – porters and labourers during the day, gods and goddesses of the paddy field by night – unleash a sequence of rustic and hypnotic campfire songs, each one delivered by a choir of soaring voices to the accompaniment of the staccato boom-tap of the chenda (drum). Then, as raindrops spit into the dust, the ferocious demon Dharika, dressed for battle with a serrated brass moustache, squares off against the goddess Kali, herself resplendent in a crown of palm fibre arrows, frilly shoulder pom-poms and a metre-long beak fashioned from coconut palm.

Bare-chested drummers strike up a rhythm as the combatants begin to circle; Dharika’s blackened eyes wear an expression that verges on psychotic, as though his eyeballs have flipped inside out to gaze inward at some unseen horizon. As the drumming rises to a crescendo, the dancers lunge at each other, the homemade swords in their hands flashing wildly, forcing those of us in the ring of spectators to lurch backwards to save our skins. It’s a raw and wild spectacle, and a far cry from the predigested tourist-friendly product that passes for cultural performance in more travelled parts of Kerala.

Back at my hotel I sit out on the veranda into the early hours, watching vibrations of yellow lightning in the distance and listening as rainclouds sweep across the coconut palms like stealth bombers: approaching with the whoosh of an express train, unleashing pandemonium for a minute or two, then ceasing just as abruptly to leave a loud chorus of frogs in their wake.

It rains all night and through the next day. The Nila bursts out of her sandy chains and, for the first time in years, fills her channel to the brim. Gopi walks around grinning under a broad umbrella and calls all his friends. His river has returned, at least for now, and I can’t help sharing his joy. Having given myself up to the Nila’s flow and song, it’s become my river, too.

Great Dane

Imagine you’re a character in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. You’re running through an abandoned metal factory in the middle of the night. Around you shadows jump and your heart beats faster as a sinister figure draws terrifyingly closer. Now imagine the soundtrack for this scene. Hear the screeching, spooky, industrial score as it plucks at the hairs on the back of your neck?

It’s about 9pm, and that haunting soundtrack is echoing across rooftops in the Danish city of Aarhus, as if a train has derailed in the heart of town. I follow the sound as it reverberates through the crowded streets, eventually stumbling upon a huge double-storey pentagonal construction erected in the square next to Aarhus Cathedral.

Made from 10 stacked shipping containers, the contraption is a giant musical instrument, with a 50-strong audience tucked inside its belly. Ten energetic musicians use violin bows, saws and karabiners to play piano strings strung taut between both ends of each container. Lit brightly against the inky night sky, they focus on a conductor standing amid the audience. His nostrils flare and hands fly as he sends the unique psycho symphony vibrating down through the containers, engulfing the crowd sitting spellbound below.

Two girls play with their shadows in front of a house wall during a light show at Aarhus Festival. Image: Lilli Breininger
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Visitors observe the installation *Behind Water* by Nikolaj Lorentz Mentze. Image: Kishor K Sharma
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Some audience members close their eyes, surrendering to the experience. My eyes dart back and forth between each container, mesmerised by the musicians’ movements. With the dips and sways of the music, they climb the container walls to create a sound that is as harmonious as it is discordant. At the end of the 45-minute performance I jump to my feet, swept up in a standing ovation. We’ve experienced the magic of Huey Mecatl, a Mexican instrument-invention that’s a highlight of the Aarhus Festival.

Each year, Copenhagen’s sleepy little sister dusts off her dancing shoes for one of Scandinavia’s largest events, a 10-day music and cultural celebration that grips the city streets. Locals hold the event in high esteem. At least that’s my assumption based on the number of Danes insisting it’s a must-do experience during my six-month visit. I’ve dutifully trawled the program and filled my diary with an ambitious, scribbled itinerary set to take me all over town.

Denmark can be bothersome for the bank balance, but I’m delighted to discover the line-up is full of free entertainment and shows for less than US$10. That said, some of the more expensive ticketed theatre, dance and music events are difficult to turn down. Two excellent international acts – Beth Orton and the Walkmen – are among the many musicians to take to the stage. The food festival also tempts. Here, local growers and chefs gather with gastronomes to celebrate the famed Nordic approach to food in balance with nature.

My first festival foray is far from what I’d envisaged. The concert isn’t my cup of tea, then I get lost on my bike trying to make it to my second show. By the time I return to the town centre for my third calendar entry I’m confronted by huge crowds gathering along the canal ready to party. I abandon the rest of my plans for the night, skip the crowds and wander around the old part of town, disheartened but open to serendipity. Gradually the festival reveals her true self. Like a mischievous friend with a twinkling eye, she knows exactly what I need. She takes me by the hand and shows me what the festival is really about: spontaneity, happenstance and cosiness.

The next afternoon I climb steep stairs to a loft in the cultural precinct of Godsbanen, where, in darkness, I dance with strangers for hours. At sunset on another day I link up with a peloton for the people and cycle through town spreading smiles to onlookers. Between bands, strangers link arms in the main square and swing dance to Benny Goodman tunes that spill from the speakers.

Later in the week, as the evening chill envelops the city, the now-familiar rowdy crowds again gather, attracted to the canal as though it’s filled with free-flowing beer. This time I hightail it to the atmospheric streets of the Latin Quarter. Desktop research couldn’t have helped me find the live music scene popping up curbside in this part of town – there’s simply no program for it. The thrill of the unexpected has me prowling the streets like an explorer in this ancient Viking town. When my feet grow tired at the end of long days and nights, I make a stop at the grassed urban space in front of Cafe Le Coq on Graven or one of the bars in the little streets nearby. Sipping wine and sitting shoulder to shoulder with other festival folk, I soak up the collective warmth. I’ve found my festival groove.

The conductor guides the 10 Huey Mecatl musicians during a festival performance. Image: Lani Holmberg
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A musician entertains passers-by in the Latin Quarter. Image: Lani Holmberg
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Despite the impending grey of winter, I’ve noticed a romantic cosiness in Denmark. There’s actually a special word for it: hygge. It’s tricky to pronounce and it seems everyone has a different translation to offer when I ask. But taking what I can from various explanations, it refers to that comfortable, snuggle-by-the-fire feeling you get with a glass of red and good company. Cosy as a direct translation doesn’t seem to cut the mustard; hygge is also a state of mind and a feeling or intimacy between people.

If I have the translation correct, it seems much of the Aarhus Festival magic is about creating hygge in different ways. At an outdoor concert a stranger smiles and shares a blanket with me to keep warm against the autumn chill. At the Turkish Tent, I sit with friends on carpets sipping sweet tea while young and old swirl and clap around us. There is a commonly held belief that Danes can be rude, but the festival doesn’t reveal this. Many locals strike up a conversation and warmly welcome me to their city. The streets are alive but they are also inclusive. I feel a part of the celebrations rather than a tourist standing on the periphery.

My expat friends, too, return from the festival feeling far more connected with their adopted home. It’s given us an excuse to venture out and discover what really makes Aarhus tick behind the cute, coloured houses. We share stories of treasure hunting, a peculiar light show projected around the grounds of an old mansion, a mobile bike cinema and a flash-mob dance in front of the Aarhus Domkirke, the city’s cathedral. Aarhus has surprised us.

Slow Road Through Cuba

Blue and red lights flash in the rear-view mirror. On closer inspection, it’s apparent they belong to a police motorbike, one that’s pursuing us like we’re driving the getaway car used during some audacious bank heist. With the wail of a siren, we pull over and I’m ordered out of the car.

The cop is dressed in a tight navy-blue uniform let down badly by a sagging paunch. He peppers me with rapid-fire questions.

My Spanish – far from fluent – simply can’t keep pace. If I’d been drinking rum, things might be different. Irrespective of the language being spoken, hard liquor transforms me into a gifted conversationalist. Sadly, however, I’m completely sober.

“Sobornar,” grunts the cop from beneath an immaculately trimmed moustache.

“Havana?” I venture hopefully. We back-and-forth like this for some time, until finally, exasperated, he waves me away in disgust, squeaking back to his bike in knee-high leather boots.

Back on the road I fumble for my dog-eared phrase book. ‘Sobornar’ means bribe.

Two old-timers serenade us from beneath the bandstand in Parque José Martí, Cienfuegos.
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School kids run alongside an old car in a Trinidad side street.
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We’re still laughing as we motor down the highway, swerving past cows, lunar-sized potholes and 1950s station wagons belching plumes of black smoke. Our stay in Cuba is only a few days old, but so far it’s all been a bit like this. Thanks to the legacy of revolutionary socialist politics spearheaded by Ernesto ‘Che’ Guevara some 60 years ago, this is a country caught in a bizarre time warp. There is precious little internet, limited infrastructure and a currency system that rivals Einstein’s theory of general relativity in its complexity. As a result, many travellers opt to be bussed around on mindless package tours, but, along with a close friend, my wife and I have decided to rent a shitbox car and embark on a road trip from Havana to Trinidad. First stop: Cienfuegos.

It’s dusk when we arrive. We’ve booked into a casa particular – the Cuban equivalent of a B&B – but our email confirmation never arrived. This is not an uncommon occurrence in Cuba. Thankfully, owner Lorayne Sánchez, a beaming lady with an impressive afro, has enough connections to ensure sleeping on the street won’t be necessary.

A few blocks away, an elderly lady and her husband run Casa Anita. The front room is deliciously chintzy. Plates decorated with painted horses’ heads adorn a mantelpiece cluttered with ceramic pigs, doilies and creepy-looking clowns. There are rocking chairs, stuffed toys and, propped against the wall, a lime-green bike. It’s like a Stephen King nightmare meets the set of The Golden Girls.

On Sánchez’s recommendation, we dine at Pita Gorla, a family-run restaurant on the outskirts of town. Two men out front chop a shoulder of roasted pork, making ordering refreshingly straightforward. Massive portions are served with beans and rice, shredded cabbage, deep-fried plantain and red wine that is, in fact, port. The restaurant staff – at first clearly anxious we might be foreign prima donnas – seem to relax as we chow down, and frequently hover around our table to chat.

Literally translating to ‘one hundred fires’, Cienfuegos was founded in 1819 by pioneering French immigrants from Bordeaux and Louisiana. Its glory days, however, came in the 1850s with the arrival of a railway and the subsequent boom in the sugarcane trade. Suddenly flush with cash, local merchants pumped money into construction and the resulting neoclassical architecture, which helped gain the city a World Heritage listing in 2005, remains to this day.

Beachside in Trinidad: the perfect spot for a snorkel break.
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We’re here during wet season and the sky has once again turned the colour of ash. Horses pulling carts clop down streets slick with rain. Vintage cars that are slowly being devoured by rust flank footpaths. On a Saturday afternoon, strolling the well-ordered city centre, we notice bars filled with men drinking beer and watching baseball on television.

In Parque José Martí, the town’s main square, two old men sit beneath a glorieta (bandstand), taking shelter from the weather. One wears a flat cap and plays guitar, the other clutches a walking cane. Unexpectedly, they serenade us with a song about the revolutionary days of Che Guevara. It’s a moving moment that conjures memories of Buena Vista Social Club.

As a farewell to Cienfuegos, Sánchez invites us to dinner at Hostal Casa Azul. Her brother, known simply as ‘The Pope’, is preparing fresh lobster. Most casa particulares will ask for your dinner request in the morning, but the majority also gladly cook anything you buy from local street vendors or the market.

“I love Cuba,” says Sánchez while we sit at the kitchen table and plough steadily through a bottle of rum. “I would always come back here, but I wish we could travel.”

During the trip, this will become a common conversational theme. Education and health care are free here, but most Cubans only earn an average of between US$15 and $25 a month, essentially making them prisoners on their own island, as beautiful as it may be. The night ends in a haze and laughter as The Pope and I pose for photos with giant cigars. He gives me one to keep as a parting gift.

Back on the road, we trundle sheepishly past ubiquitous hitchhikers, a salsa CD picked up from a bar in Havana providing the soundtrack. Our car, not unlike the one driven by Bob Sala in the film adaptation of The Rum Diary, is barely large enough to accommodate the three of us and our backpacks, never mind any additional passengers.

Lush plantations flank either side of the crater-ridden ‘freeway’. We pass through villages where pensioners sit on porches and pigs are tied to trees in front yards. Farmers in cowboy hats drive tractors with thatched roofs. Men in ragged singlets hold pineapples aloft for sale on the roadside. Vintage Buicks are crammed with entire families sitting on one another’s laps.

Although Trinidad is just 80 kilometres from Cienfuegos, it takes several hours to get there. Built on sugar fortunes and slavery, the Spanish colonial jewel is characterised by undulating cobbled streets bordered by peeling pink, pistachio and other pastel-hued houses.

A man and mule wander the streets of Trinidad in the early morning.
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View of Trinidad and the Museo Histórico Municipal bell tower.
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From the central Museo Histórico Municipal we learn of the town’s history – pirates and unscrupulous sugar kingpins make for an intriguingly dark narrative during the guided tour – before climbing the rickety wooden staircase of the adjoining bell tower for panoramic views. The streets are cluttered with art galleries and hole-in-the-wall restaurants. At night, live bands perform in the cobbled courtyards of back-lane bars.

Trinidad’s dreamy time-warp feel has undoubtedly contributed to its appeal with tourists – far more so than Cienfuegos’s – but so has its location on the southern coastline. Just a 20-minute drive from the city, white sand beaches are punctuated only by the occasional beach shack or leather-faced old-timer renting snorkelling gear to use in the pristine waters.

Rather than retrace our steps, we head back to Havana via Santa Clara, a town known mainly for its bombastic Che Guevara monuments and revolutionary significance. At Monumento a la Toma del Tren Blindado, a smattering of train freight carriages marks the spot where, in 1958, Guevara and a ramshackle band of rifle-toting revolutionaries, using little more than a few homemade Molotov cocktails and a bulldozer, derailed an armoured train. The 90-minute battle was pivotal in Cuba’s history, effectively ending the rule of the Batista dictatorship and installing Fidel Castro, who was the prime minister, then president, for the next five decades. A short drive east, the Che Guevara Mausoleum houses the remains of the executed revolutionary and provides the detailed backstory of Cuba’s often-confusing socialist history.

Back in Havana, wave after wave of seawater smashes against the Malecón, the iconic waterfront esplanade spanning the coastline. As we venture further afield, the crumbling elegance of the city takes on a new perspective. Many of the buildings here are coming apart at the seams, but that really is an inherent part of the charm.

Cuba appears to have remained untouched by the passage of time. Sure there are cheesy Hemingway bars (the writer lived outside Havana for 20 years) and tacky package-deal resorts, but if you venture beyond the tourist traps, the rewards come in the most unexpected forms.

Our final night and another downpour sees us seeking refuge in a packed corner bar somewhere in the Old Town. In the pelting rain, the shutters have been rolled down, forcing what feels like an impromptu lock-in. In the corner, a band strikes up a tune, and with people hopping from bar stools to salsa to the rhythmic beat, the room soon becomes a blur of gyrating limbs. Ordering a generous pour of rum, I raise my glass to the scene. It seems a fitting end to a trip where unforgettable encounters lurked around every corner.

Like a Local in Barrio Brasil, Santiago

Barrio Brasil is the part of Santiago where the Chilean spirit meets a bohemian atmosphere. It may have fallen into decline in the 1950s, but seduced by cheap rent and neighbours who didn’t mind noise or creative endeavour, the 90s saw musicians and artists move in. In the years since, everyone else has followed.

Although its proximity to central Santiago means it’s easy to get to, the fact that it has been almost cut off from the city’s historical centre by the construction of the Norte-Sur Highway means the barrio has retained a certain individuality. It’s the sort of low-key neighbourhood where everyone walks to where they’re going, enjoying the sunshine and the still-standing rococo and gothic-style mansions built by some of Chile’s wealthiest families back in the 1920s. Many of them have now been converted into hotels and apartments.

The main boulevard, Avenida Brasil, runs from north to south, and is where mechanics’ garages and classic architecture create a visual puzzle. Just off it is a small street – and neighbourhood – called Concha y Toro, with cobbled streets and historic buildings. There’s a strong French influence here, but the focal point is a beautiful plaza, with a fountain at its heart. Sit in the window at Tales, order a coffee and watch the passing parade of people.

Concha y Toro plaza.
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Making tacos at El Charro de Oro.
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If you really want to eat something traditional, though, head to Santo Barrio and order chorillana, a plate of french fries topped with sliced beef, egg and fried onion. It goes perfectly with a litre of Torobayo pale ale from the Kuntsmann Brewery in Valdivia, in southern Chile.

For something more substantial, Restaurante Juan y Medio sets the benchmark when it comes to Chilean cuisine. You can order any number of specialties, which range from roasted chicken and spicy pork ribs to brined rabbit, but be aware: this restaurant is known for its huge portions. Nearly everyone who eats here goes home with leftovers.

All of these places – and many more – are located along Avenida Brasil, where the epicentre of the neighbourhood is the Plaza Brasil, the local square at the corner of Calle Huérfanos. Tiny, welcoming cafes surround it and, on hot summer days, you’ll find people sitting around, chatting and drinking beers. There are also a number of colourful sculptures by Federica Matta, where children play and hide from one another.

Cool street art in Barrio Brasil.
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Here is home to Galpón Víctor Jara, a cultural centre covered in vibrant murals honouring Jara’s memory. He was a theatre director, singer-songwriter, poet, political activist and member of the Communist Party of Chile, who was tortured and killed soon after the Chilean coup of 1973. Although most of his recordings were burned by Pinochet’s military dictatorship, his wife Joan managed to smuggle some out of the country and they were later copied and distributed. Joan opened this centre to keep Víctor’s music and artistic legacy alive, both by ensuring his archive is kept safe and continuing his work.

The square is where many nights out begin. Those looking for something sophisticated and modern should head to Baires Sushi Club (its sister establishment Cosmopolitan is almost directly across the road). Grab a seat outside to browse the long cocktail list and take a peek at the attractive locals. But if raw fish is your end game, try Estrella Marina Sushi Fusión, overlooking Plaza Brasil. Combining the flavours of Japan and Peru, it offers some of the best sushi in Santiago.

There are also plenty of other options around here for a meal. You’ll smell Las Vacas Gordas – where huge steaks and racks of ribs sizzle on the grill – before you see it. You can try the Chilean version of a Pisco Sour here – made with Chilean pisco and pica lime – but most locals go for red wine. The service is great, too – not that you’ll go hungry, but the bread on the table never seems to run out.

A fishmonger at the Sunday market.
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Fruit stalls at the market.
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Another of my favorite places, El Charro de Oro, a Mexican taqueria, isn’t too far away either. It’s a small but colourful spot – there’s a large mural representing Aztec culture – serving different types of tacos best consumed with a bottle of Tecate. Further north in the neighbourhood, visit Galpón Persa Balmaceda, a huge warehouse space filled with antiques dealers. Wandering from stall to stall is a bit like time travelling through different eras of Santiago. If you walk here on Sunday (when it’s open until 6pm) you’ll see Barrio Brasil at play. This is our day off, and it’s when families enjoy one another’s company, often touring the barrio on bikes.

Calle Agustinas is a true representation of the neighbourhood. A market pops up here on Sunday where people, mostly immigrants from Peru, Colombia and Ecuador, sell tables of items, from used hardware to handmade clothing. This is where I go for a Sunday breakfast of juices made from mango, passionfruit and pineapple and, at Avenida Libertad, pick up produce for the rest of the week – seafood, purple corn, cassava and potatoes are all on offer. It’s here you witness the true essence – the life and soul – of Barrio Brasil.

Chile’s Robinson Crusoe Island

“If it looks like a duck, smells like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it must be a duck.” That’s what Bernard Keiser tells me as we survey various ‘clues’ etched into a cave on Robinson Crusoe Island, some 667 kilometres off the coast of Chile. I’m looking at a few letters scrawled on the wall and a handful of old square nails. Nothing earthshattering. But this, Keiser reasons in a nasally Chicago accent, is proof that he’s the first person in the world to have connected the dots in a fantastical web of coinciding histories linking pirates, a castaway and buried treasure.

Historians believe this inconspicuous cave on this little-known island in Chile’s Juan Fernandez Archipelago might have temporarily housed an eighteenth-century Scottish privateer named Alexander Selkirk. Selkirk spent four years and four months marooned in the South Pacific following a dispute with his captain over the seaworthiness of a vessel that, sure enough, would soon founder off the coast of Colombia. His adventures on the uninhabited island, then known as Más a Tierra, inspired Daniel Defoe’s classic novel, Robinson Crusoe.

If the immortalised castaway ever spent a single day in this cave, however, Keiser won’t hear a quack about it. The duck he’s been sniffing for the better part of the past two decades was purportedly buried here five years after Selkirk left. It smells less like a madman dressed in goatskins and more like pure gold. Eight hundred and sixty-four bags of it, to be exact, along with 21 barrels of gems and jewels and a chest full of untold Incan treasures.

The story (according to Keiser) is that this trove, worth an estimated US$10 billion, was buried by Spanish navigator Juan Esteban Ubilla y Echeverria in 1714, disinterred by British sailor Cornelius Webb nearly 50 years later, then reburied by Webb after a storm damaged his ship just off the coast. When a mutiny en route to the Chilean port of Valparaiso for repairs threatened his share of the treasure, Webb set the ship ablaze with all its crew on board, never to see the Juan Fernandez Islands again.

Bernard Keiser explains his search for buried treasure.
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Huasos hitch a ride on a lobster boat to Puerto Ingles.
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It’s an extraordinary tale built on what some might call wild conjecture, but Keiser is used to the scrutiny. “I’m a treasure hunter,”  he smirks behind a grey horseshoe moustache. “Why would anyone take me seriously?” Few people do, but that hasn’t stopped the American millionaire from trawling through historical archives in Spain and Britain for clues, and tirelessly financing six-month-long digging expeditions on Robinson Crusoe Island each year.

There are about 20 islanders excavating with hand tools in a rocky patch next to the cave under what Keiser believes is the prophesised image of a scorpion drawn in yellow stone. Treasure hunting eclipses tourism as the second largest industry on the island, after fishing. I survey all three industries when I hitch over to Keiser’s dig site in Puerto Ingles on a lobster boat. With me are two huasos (Chilean cowboys) and their brother Francisco, my guide. The plan is for me to chat with the island’s only gringo while they climb into the pastoral hinterland to wrangle some wild horses. Together we’ll then trek back over the arid northern hills and drive the horses to the island’s only town, San Juan Bautista, following a route that Selkirk might have taken if he ever lived in this infamous cave.

A trail map for the island lists about a dozen tracks of varying difficulty, but the trek I find myself on is not one of them. The huasos had warned me in advance that I should head back on the boat if I was afraid of heights. I told them I wasn’t. A more appropriate question might have been: “Are you afraid of perilous rock slides and slipping into an abyss?” To which I would have replied: “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

But I declined the tepid warning and the recommended trekking pole and soon find myself crumpled in a ball of fear waiting for Francisco to come to my rescue – a wonderfully emasculating way to kick off my journey in the footsteps of one of the world’s toughest survivalists.

San Juan Bautista is just one knuckle away from Puerto Inglés on this volcanic fist of jagged peaks punched out of the South Pacific, but the journey traverses some of the island’s most barren and unpredictable terrain. It takes two hours of heart-pounding, frenzied move-or-die footwork before I finally spot civilisation from the top of Salsipuedes lookout. The horses have long since disappeared into the greener terrain below, but I catch up with their riders at El Mirador de Selkirk a few hours later for crab empanadas and bottles of Archipelago, a strong local brew.

Puerto Ingles, where Bernard Keiser is searching for buried treasure, is also thought to have housed Scottish castaway Alexander Selkirk.
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“Were you scared back there?” they joke as we throw down beers and lather our deep-fried lunch in a Chilean salsa called pebre.

“Only a little bit,” I lie. “Next time just strap me to the horse.”

If Selkirk trekked over these crumbling mounds on a regular basis and lived to tell the tale, I tip my hat to the man. But I tend to agree with most modern researchers who believe he likely toiled away his days of solitude in the very place the island’s 800 modern-day residents do, along Cumberland Bay. There’s a sliver of flat land, calmer seas and a lookout with views to the southeast where rescue ships rounding Cape Horn were most likely to appear.

The next morning I set out to explore the corner of this boomerang-shaped island neighbouring San Juan Bautista – the area that Selkirk may have roamed. The surroundings can’t be much different than 300 years ago, as this UNESCO Biosphere Reserve is, to this day, 13 times richer in bird life than the Galapagos, with 61 times the plant diversity, including the peculiar pangue, a species that evolved slowly in isolation.

Stepping into a forest of pangue just beyond Plazoleta del Yunque, one hour above town, is like entering Alice’s wonderland. A path from the picnic and camping area disappears into a curtain of leaves as large as a human body, then loops into a dense jungle of endemic flora. Home to both the firecrown hummingbird and short-eared owl, it’s a landscape where frazzled ferns that wouldn’t be out of place in New Zealand’s Fiordland elbow for space next to pencil-thin palms reminiscent of Hawaii.

This serene spot was once the refuge of the German Robinson Crusoe, a man by the name of Hugo Weber Fachinger, who survived the sinking of SMS Dresden just offshore during World War I and eventually settled on the island in isolation from his captors. Fachinger chronicled his adventures for several European magazines of the time (much as Selkirk did upon his return to Scotland) but was forced to leave in 1943 when he was wrongly accused of being a Nazi spy.

The path from Fachinger’s hideout back to San Juan Bautista traverses a different microclimate altogether, where wind-deformed trees cower over a herbaceous steppe, their gnarled branches swept over like a lopsided ponytail. Closer to town the surroundings change once again into a forest of newly planted pine and eucalyptus, resources absent in Selkirk’s day that are now used for construction and heating.

Robinson Crusoe Island is hardly the cut-off-from-the-world backwater it once was. The wood-carved town of San Juan Bautista was virtually rebuilt from the ground up after a devastating 2010 tsunami, and now boasts satellite TVs, wi-fi, sprawling plazas and open-air restaurants with the kind of high-quality, low-fuss seafood found in salty fishing towns. Rock lobster, golden crab, octopus, sea bass – you name it, this island has it, thanks to its location at the confluence of the cool Humboldt Current and warm Pacific Countercurrent.

A more appropriate question might have been: “Are you afraid of perilous rock slides and slipping into an abyss?” To which I would have replied: “Yes. As a matter of fact, I am.”

Chefs will cook up the catch of the day in one of three ways: chopped into a ceviche, wrapped up in an empanada or grilled à la plancha. Of the dozen or so restaurants scattered across town, the breka ceviche at Brisas Del Mar is easily the best deal at 2000 pesos (AU$4), while the steamed lobster at Crusoe Island Lodge is top of the line – with a price to match.

Selkirk would surely roll in his grave if he knew how much a Juan Fernandez rock lobster retails for in Chile, not to mention his native Scotland, where the shellfish is considered a rare delicacy. These lobsters were simply a means of survival for the castaway – a daily dose  of energy for a man locked up in an island prison. Now, they’re red gold.

Long gone are the days when you could pluck lobsters off the pebbled beaches of Cumberland Bay, so I pull on an extra layer of blubber (my wetsuit) and snorkel offshore with Francisco to see if I can find dinner. What I find instead are the island’s notoriously playful and childishly inquisitive fur seals.

Three zip over to check me out the moment I plop into the bay. They have a stealth I didn’t think possible of a clumsy sea mammal  and are absolutely acrobatic under water, darting headfirst through the sea, their whiskers bending into moustaches.

The welcome party scurries in and out of view for about five minutes, performs a few feats of agility, then retreats to a rocky perch to do what seals do best: suntan, bark and waddle around, all in the company of a few hundred friends.

It was the ancestors of these very seals – large in number and menacing in appearance – that eventually drove Selkirk away from the coast, according to historical accounts. He’s thought to have moved further up into the hills, where he built a hut and domesticated goats, introduced by earlier sailors, for food, clothing and companionship.

There are two ways to get from San Juan Bautista to the airport on the far side of the island. One is by boat. The other is by foot, passing Selkirk’s old hut, his namesake lookout, and the side of the island that bears a striking resemblance to the castaway’s homeland, yet likely remained an inaccessible mystery.

I choose the six-hour walk for my last day in the Juan Fernandez. Halfway up the rugged volcanic range that separates San Juan Bautista from the far side of the island, I come across a trail leading to the remains of what Japanese explorer Daisuke Takahashi claims is Selkirk’s main hut. The pile of rocks isn’t much to look at now, but excavations sponsored by the National Geographic Society a decade ago revealed a few tangible links to the Scottish privateer, including a blue tip from a copper navigational device commonly used by sailors of Selkirk’s time.

Ruins of an old radio station lie abandoned on Cerro Centinela.
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San Juan Bautista viewed from the Salsipuedes lookout.
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I hike further along the island’s uppermost mountain pass into a high-altitude rainforest shrouded in clouds. The wind picks up as I approach an overlook Selkirk is said to have used on a daily basis. The historical accuracy of this claim is as cloudy as the view, but, like Keiser’s tale of exploding ships and dazzling treasure, it makes for a good story.

As I stand on the only vantage point with views of both sides of the island, I’m reminded of something Keiser told me when we first met at Cafe Marenostrum a few days earlier. The wind was howling across Cumberland Bay, the dock was closed to boats, and flights had been suspended for three days. The island was exceptionally broody – just as I’d envisioned it – setting the perfect tone for a lunch of kingfish sandwiches that turned into a four-hour lecture on island legends.

“There are a lot of myths swirling around about the ‘island of Selkirk’,” Keiser warned from our position by a rattling window. “The English version of Selkirk’s rescue describes cats and goats dancing for Christ’s sake. If you take it logically, it just doesn’t make any sense what everyone has said about this man.”

Keiser believes the castaway’s story has been sentimentalised by overly romantic writers and hyperbolised in the name of tourism. He thinks the National Geographic expedition was a hoax, and that Selkirk lived instead on a bushy hill called Centinela, visible from our window.

Perhaps we’ll never truly know where Selkirk lived. Perhaps it doesn’t even matter. Perhaps, however, the castaway and the buried treasure do have more in common than an eventful decade in colonial history.

Each mystery involves a stubborn man pitted against an island. One foresees certain disaster (a ship in peril) and the other good fortune (buried treasure), and both choose to stay in self-imposed exile on this remote outpost because of the strength of their convictions. Whether anyone else believes them or not.

River Deep, Mountain High

Sometimes you can count biodiversity by the roadkill. Within the first hour our bus out of Salvador swerves to avoid hitting the carcass of a small rhea, followed soon by what I guess are the remains of a margay. Discounting a couple of armadillos and a creepy vampire bat that lies dead by the snack bar at Itaberaba where we break up the journey, what raises the biggest roar is the maned wolf lying by the side of the road after Seabrá. At least the black urubu vultures circling above had prepared us for the sight.

It’s six long hours from Salvador to Chapada Diamantina, the Diamond Highlands of Brazil, and roadkill breaks the monotony of the featureless Brazilian sertão (hinterland). Occasionally, we encounter the odd farmhouse with concrete walls and a corrugated roof. Dogs bark while chickens cackle loudly and avoid our bus just in time. They must have clocked what happened to their less-nimble brethren.

I’m heading to Lençóis, the gateway to the Chapada Diamantina National Park, whose remoteness and lack of infrastructure are its biggest assets. Backpackers are slowly discovering this forgotten corner of the world and the adventure operators who have sprung up can’t find enough tour leaders to cope.
When I arrive, I immediately seek out Esmeraldo, a veteran with shoulder-long white hair and one of the most experienced Chapada guides. He shares with me a few beers on my first night out in Lençóis.

“Three days?” he says and shakes his head when he hears how long I plan to stay. “It takes three days to hike to the valley of Capão! You can go trekking, canyoning, climbing, biking, caving, swimming – but you have to stay for a week or so.”

The view from the top of Pai Inácio.
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The short but strenuous climb to the top of Pai Inácio.
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He teams me up with Nils, a sensible, sociable Swede who is snacking on cassava chips a few tables back. He’s here for three days, too.

The next day Nils and I are up early for a jeep ride with Esmeraldo to pick up the trail to Lapa Doce, the third largest cave in Brazil. Not only does the landscape change after every turn, but so, it seems, does the ecosystem. We leave the shadow of the last vestiges of the thick Atlantic rainforest and enter the distinctive woodland savanna of the Cerrado. Here canopy cover is patchy and the sun hits us like a rock.

Esmeraldo points at trees we haven’t heard of before: this one here with the large trunk is a mulungu, whose bark has been used for centuries as a sedative. That one is an aroeira – its resin smells of soap and the essential oil is used in cosmetics. As for the one over yonder whose leaves form a tuft at the top – that’s an amburana honey tree, whose seeds are crushed to give tobacco a sweet perfume.

“As for this one,” Esmeraldo says touching a strong, sturdy tree, “this one is a braúna. The best hardwood you’ll find. Used in construction everywhere in Brazil, ’cos it’s termite-resistant.”

When we finally reach the cave entrance, Esmeraldo dons a dust mask. Why? Because, unlike most caves, Lapa Doce is not wet, slippery and cool, but dry, sandy and warm. Its floor is covered with fine silica particles that float when disturbed.

Swimming at Pratinha.
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Nils is, not unreasonably, worried.

“You’re both OK,” says Esmeraldo. “It’s us guides who come here frequently who need protection. The dust can cause lung problems.”

But he still gives us a form to sign our rights away.

Despite being dry, the cave has stalactites, formed during the wet season that lasts for six months. They are thin and slightly crooked because of a faint yet permanent breeze we can only just perceive on our skin. The dimensions are staggering: you could fit a cruise boat in the first chamber and still have space to turn it around. The soft floor muffles our steps and magnifies the pervading stillness. Deep in the cave’s innards, rusty irrigation water from the farmland above has caused its most memorable sight: a curtain of stalactites white on one side and dark red on the other, like a bleeding wound.

East of Lapa Doce, a new ecosystem merges with the Cerrado: the Caatinga, which brings to mind the chaparral of the American West. The vegetation is arid lowland scrub, while the soil is poor and acidic, giving rise to oases whose waters are as transparent as cellophane. Seven or so kilometres later, we reach Pratinha (Little Silver). It’s not really a lake but the mouth of a submerged river flowing out of a cavern decorated by xique-xique cacti, shaded by lianas and framed by water lilies. The river continues inside the cavern where you can snorkel underground, following a guide boat through a narrow channel. It costs extra, but it would, wouldn’t it?

Nils opts for snorkelling, while I lie in the sun outdoors and refresh myself in the lake. When he emerges, his skin full of goosebumps the size of my nipples, I know I made the correct decision.

Deep in the cave’s innards, rusty irrigation water from the farmland above has caused its most memorable sight: a curtain of stalactites white on one side and dark red on the other, like a bleeding wound.

“The water is icy cold and dark – you can’t see a thing,” he says with a disappointed expression. “But I’ve learned something interesting.” He dives in the lake and emerges with a handful of sediment. “Look closer,” he tells me.

I rub my fingers in the sand. It’s white and brittle.

“It’s dead mollusc shells,” he explains. “They live so far inside that no one has ever found a live one yet. They’re washed out of the depths of the cave when they die.”

The next day’s hike is at the northern tip of the park. Around us are large craggy domes. We are aiming for the peak of Pai Inácio, the picture-postcard of the Chapada.

It’s a short and strenuous near-vertical climb to the top, but the eagle’s-eye view from the summit is worth it. The Sincorá range that forms the backbone of the park ends in solitary wind-eroded outcrops, each one an island with its own ecosystem. Indeed, nature has built a veritable Japanese rock garden at our feet. Each boulder is mottled with multi-coloured lichen, while bromeliads have taken shelter in every crack and depression. Plants here have waxy leaves to reduce evaporation and hardy roots that make the best out of the thinnest topsoil imaginable.

The careful hike down takes longer than the trek up. Sweaty and thirsty, we order juice at a mobile canteen. The trees of the Cerrado are thin and frequently stunted, their leaves slight and plentiful, and their fruit undersized and tart. There are the old supermarket faithfuls: mango, banana, coconut and papaya. But umbú? The size of a kiwi and with the skin of a smooth lime, this fruit has greenish-yellow juice that tastes like a sweeter version of grapefruit. I imagine it mixed with gin and order a second one.

About 25 kilometres of the Lapa Doce cave system has been mapped but only 1500 metres is open to visitors
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Lençóis, Chapada Diamantina’s gateway city, after dark.
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We pick up the trail by Rio Mucugezinho, a river that crosses the park, with water the colour of tea. There is no trail other than the riverbank, necessitating climbing over large boulders, jumping across rocky slabs and negotiating tricky bogs under a gallery forest. We are followed by the screeches of a marmoset family we hear more than see. Every upwards glance is a sign for them to scamper quickly to the canopy. When we reach a bathing spot with a sizeable crowd of swimmers they disappear. But no, it’s not because they’re afraid of people. As Esmeraldo explains, this lucrative location is the home of a rival marmoset clan. These guys are much less circumspect, hanging from the branches of the trees trying to spot discarded biscuits.

Another 20 minutes and we reach Poço do Diabo (Devil’s Pool) where the Rio Mucugezinho forms a small cascade – if 20 metres is small for you. Nils and I jump in feet first, swim to the falls and let the current thump our shoulders for an environmentally friendly hydromassage. The water is cold and works wonders on our aching muscles. We are tired with satisfaction fatigue, for our bodies are responding to exertion with a heavy dose of adrenaline.

That night, exhausted, I drink Nils under the table. Months later, I find out that I made him miss his early bus to Salvador.

I spend my last day in Lençóis walking around the town, taking in its imposing, diamond-baron palaces, many of them now neglected and decomposing under the tropical sun. I end up making the short trek to the Serrano waterholes – shallow rock pools where the constant swirling movement of the Lençóis River turns them into natural jacuzzis. I am the only gringo there, but have visions of a future spa right by that copse of trees on my left. It’s going to call itself an ecolodge because it will be built from local, termite-resistant braúna tree. But make sure you beat the spa there.

WHICH LETTER DOES YOUR DESTINATION START WITH?

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