If you are a monogamous wine lover – and by that we mean in love with just one region – you are truly missing out. Given how easy it is to quickly travel by air between Sydney, a stone’s throw away from the Hunter Valley, and Melbourne, on the doorstep of the Yarra Valley and Mornington Peninsula, you would be crazy to not experience the flavours and possibilities of all three regions in a wine lovers’ mini-getaway exploring the east coast.
WHY EXPLORE BOTH STATES?
Wine not? The Hunter Valley is known for its hot climate, lighter-bodied reds – think shiraz that resembles a light, low-tannin pinot – and tangy semillons. If you believe chardonnay is out of fashion and not worth your time, think again. The Hunter produces surprisingly light, fruit-driven styles and more traditional but subtle oaky styles, like those delicious, vanilla-like French varieties.
The Yarra Valley and Mornington Peninsula, meanwhile, are cool climate regions. Again, pinot noir and chardonnay are signature varieties, but with distinct differences. Reds are lighter again, with a fine tannin structure, and the whites, especially the chardonnay, have a brighter, fresher, acid-driven style to them resembling early harvest stone fruits or apple. Again, it’s a fresh, exciting and modern style that’s sure to please.
HUNTER VALLEY
The Hunter Valley is one of Australia’s best-known wine regions with a fascinating history dating back to the mid-1800s. It will take you around two-and-a-half hours by road if you are leaving from the centre of Sydney (about the same from Sydney airport), but it’s certainly worth it.
While you can get there and back in one day, with enough time for some wine tasting and lunch, most Sydneysiders know the best way to experience the Hunter is at a leisurely pace. Drive there, enjoy all the wine it has to offer, then make the return the next day. With great accommodation options on offer – hostels, caravan parks, country cottages on Airbnb, luxury resorts – there is definitely something for everyone.
The area boasts more than 150 wineries and produces more styles of the good stuff than you could possibly drink in a lifetime. Head to some of the 45-plus cellar doors open to the public, mostly in the Pokolbin area.
With so much to choose from it really makes sense to look into joining a tour with a local guide. The cellar doors and attractions are quite spread out and can be tricky to navigate since phone and GPS reception can be patchy. Whether you are after an experience that focuses on wineries or would prefer a snapshot that also includes craft breweries and distilleries creating vodka and liqueurs, you will find a variety of tour options to tempt.
If you are short on time, here are a few options showcasing the best of the region.
Capercaillie Wines
You won’t find a warmer welcome or more knowledgeable sommeliers than at Scottish-inspired Capercaillie Wines. You’ll find it hard to walk away without a delicious dry rosé with candy-like notes of strawberries and cream or a medium-bodied chardonnay that brings to mind a vanilla custard. Try the Shimmering Chambourcin, a sparkling, slightly sweet red with hints of maraschino cherries and black forest cake.
Ernest Hill Wines
On Pokolbin Hill, you’ll find Ernest Hill Wines, steeped in family tradition and a passion for the grape. Father-and-son team Ross and Jason Wilson make the wine that has captured the hearts and the palates of many a wine fan and visitor to the area. The Chicken Shed Chardonnay – don’t say it too fast after a few wines – has a lightly oaked character with melon hints and, of course, is perfect with chicken. The Cracklin’ Rosé has distinct cherry notes rather than the usual strawberries and cream, but the real treat is the family’s dessert wines. Their Luna Rouge and Luna Spark are distinct from most dessert wines thanks to their only slightly sweet character – neither is thick or syrupy – and slight carbonation. Sometimes you even get a surprise pop when you open the bottle.
Wandin Wines
At the top of one of the most picturesque hills in Lovedale, overlooking the endless rows of vines and a troop of kangaroos, you will find Wandin Wines‘ cellar door and restaurant. One of the most exciting aspects of dining here is you can combine a tasting experience and lunch. The tasting-plates lunch features four chef-selected, mini versions of the mains paired to four of the winery’s drops, with an introduction from a sommelier at the commencement of your meal. Finish off with a glass of gorgeous pink moscato in the cellar door.
YARRA VALLEY
Victoria’s Yarra Valley wine region sits only 51 kilometres from the Melbourne CBD, making it the perfect destination for a wining and dining day trip. The region features some of the country’s most-awarded wineries, distilleries, breweries, dairies and restaurants.
Yileena Park
Carved into a hillside at the base of the Christmas Hills is inviting Yileena Park. With its endless views over the Steels Creek mountain range and one of the warmest welcomes in the valley, you’ll fall in love with the wines and atmosphere of this humble cellar door. You’ll find a premium selection of drops here, most of which are aged for a minimum of four years before release, with the reserve range aged for six years before becoming available at the cellar door. There’s also a delicious assortment of treats available for purchase, including olives, cheese, mustard and olive oil, all of which have been smoked using old oak wine barrels.
Trattoria d’Soumah
Authentic Northern Italian cuisine – that’s what the kitchen at Trattoria d’Soumah creates for its returning guests. With a menu that’s designed to suit every taste – choose from the likes of vegetarian orecchiette, duck ragu tagliatelle, swordfish caponata and slow braised lamb – it’ll be hard to tear yourself away from the table. For something more casual, there’s also a great selection of delicious wood-fired pizza. The captivating views over the vineyard can be enjoyed from every corner of the restaurant, making it an ideal spot to while away an afternoon.
MORNINGTON PENINSULA
Only 70 kilometres from the city of Melbourne, the Mornington Peninsula isn’t as well known to out-of-towners as the Yarra Valley, but it’s just as good. In fact, it’s the place to be for Melbourne-based food and wine enthusiasts. The added bonuses here are the beaches and rugged coastline, so you can take in some of the sights and really make a day of it.
Ocean Eight
Heading down the driveway to the immaculately landscaped property at Ocean Eight, you know you’re in for a treat. The manicured vineyards and perfect English garden are the envy of other wineries on the peninsula. The cellar door, winery and underground barrel room are custom built to produce the best wines and experience. The wines here are equally as amazing with a premium range of the Mornington Peninsula’s staple classics: pinot gris, chardonnay and pinot noir. These are some of the best wines on the Mornington Peninsula, so they aren’t cheap, but it’s so worth taking a souvenir from your day home.
Merricks Creek
Driving into this property, beneath the willows draped over the driveway, you come out from the shade and into one of the most beautifully secluded vineyards on the peninsula. The winemakers here are fanatical about their pinot noir and it shows in the range of small batch, single vineyard wines. It’s a real family affair at Merricks Creek, with father and son as the winemakers and front-of-house team, and mum and aunty in the kitchen creating small plates to perfectly match the wines. The food here is an undiscovered gem and one of our favourite spots to dine. There’s a great range starting with cheeses, pates and terrines, moving onto hot dishes like slow-cooked lamb and meatballs, and finishing with some delicious desserts, including a crowd-pleasing deconstructed tiramisu.
These suggestions are just the tip of the iceberg when it comes to the possibilities when you visit the Hunter Valley, Mornington Peninsula or Yarra Valley. So don’t count your future travel bucket list as full until you include an east coast Aussie wine adventure in the mix. Your tastebuds will thank you for it.
WHERE Dominica WHY Dive into blue Caribbean waters and be dwarfed by some of the largest animals in the ocean.
Those teeth, as big as they appear, are harmless, regardless of what you may have read in Moby-Dick. The huge boxy heads hold brains that weigh nine kilograms. Sperm whales are the largest of the toothed whales, but there’s no need to be afraid of them – unless you’re a squid. Unlike in most parts of the world, the approximately 300 sperm whales who live off the West Indies island of Dominica do not migrate. Instead they can be found here year round. To ensure they aren’t troubled by too many people in the water, the Dominican Fisheries Division issues only a handful of licenses to swim with them each year. There are rules, too: don’t touch, don’t splash as you get in, don’t swim at the whales, don’t get in their way. But as you slip into the water, the sound of your heart thundering in your head, you might find yourself frozen in awe.
Natural World Safaris runs seven-day expeditions to find these big, inquisitive mammals. Group sizes are limited to four, and guests are accompanied by specialist guides and renowned underwater photographers, who’ll capture every incredible moment.
WHERE Ashgabat, Turkmenistan WHY It’s not just the Middle East being transformed by oil revenue. The capital of Turkmenistan is spectacularly OTT.
We’re the first to admit you’re probably not heading to Central Asia to check out the club scene, but at some point you’re going to have to come out of the mountains and/or desert and to not hit Ashgabat would be criminal. The whole place is a monument to excess. If Kath and Kim had untold gas and oil riches, they might come up with something similar. Huge boulevards are lined with extravagant marble buildings. Gold-domed palaces stand watch over perfectly manicured gardens. Monuments are lit by neon, and enormous fountains spray water skywards. No one is really sure who all this is for, since the streets seem to be deserted most of the time. And tourists? Fuggedaboudit. Five times more people visit North Korea each year than Turkmenistan. If you happen to find yourself there – you’ll either need to be with a tour group or apply for a five-day transit visa that can take up to six weeks to come through – remember this is a country that is culturally conservative, so expect to spend some of your time with border guards and be careful where you point your camera. Other than that, you’re likely to be greeted with wide-eyed wonder and a shot of vodka by the country’s people.
WHERE Cape Verde WHY Feel as though you’re conquering the high seas on this restored schooner while exploring this group of 10 islands, 600 kilometres off the coast of Senegal.
If you’ve ever wondered what it would be like to hoist the sails and yell, “Aye aye, Captain!” as the wind pushes you past rugged isles and into port, you need to book a berth on the Oosterschelde. This three-mast topsail schooner was built in a Netherlands shipyard in 1917 and for the following seven decades transported cargo in the Baltic Sea. In 1988, she was bought by Captain Dick van Andel, who restored the ship to its former glory. Since 1992, the Oosterschelde has been moving passengers across the world.
Cape Verde is one of its regular destinations, with passengers picking up the vessel in Palmiera on Ilha do Sal before hitting the high seas for 11 days. For each day spent sailing, the next is dedicated to exploring one of the islands with local guides. You’ll get a chance to meet people fighting to maintain their traditional way of life, walk into a volcanic crater, visit shipwrecks on deserted beaches, shop in markets, eat at local cafes and dance to Cape Verdean music. It’s a part of the world visited infrequently by tourists – some islands, like Sāo Nicolau, rarely welcome visitors, while Boa Vista is developing an industry and its attendant infrastructure – so you’ll definitely feel as though you’re seeing the real side of this island nation.
During days on board, everyone is expected to chip in with navigating, steering and trimming the sails. If you’ve got a head for heights, you can even climb the mast to look at the world from the yard. The ship is fitted out comfortably, with plenty of space to gather for games and chats in the evening, and the cook provides three hearty meals a day.
WHERE South of Kwatamang, Guyana WHY You’ve never really got over your fascination with Indiana Jones, and dropping out, even if only for a week or so, seems like the best idea you’ve heard in forever.
In the jungle, the mighty jungle, there’s not a single lion. There’s no wifi or phone signal either. But there is adventure waiting at every turn. Climb into a dug-out canoe and head out on the river or lake looking for giant otters, jaguars, monkeys, giant armadillos, pumas, anacondas and more. Further upstream, where the jungle is uninhabited, the animals have no fear of man. The bird watching is epic (125 species in two days – tick!). You can also hike through the jungle and up nearby mountains for inspiring views of the forest, or hit the river to see if you can hook one of the famed arapaima, a fish that grows to 180 kilograms and is one of the closest living creatures to a dinosaur left on Earth. Of course, if you do, you’re going to release it straight away.
That’s what’s in store at Rewa Eco-lodge, run by a small Amerindian community at the point where two great rivers, the Rewa and Rupununi, meet. The village of 300 people is just next door, and guests can visit to witness life in the jungle.
There are just five self-contained cabins and two benabs (traditional rooms with shared facilities), although guests do sometimes string up a hammock at the main lodge. There’s enough power to charge your camera and run the lights, but not much else – the water for your shower, for example, is heated by the sun. It’s a long way from just about everything, which means you’re going full nature froth.
WHERE Ouidah, Benin WHY To witness the fascinating commemoration of the estimated 60 million people who lost their freedom during the African slave trade.
Ouidah has a devastating past. For 60 years, from the end of the seventeenth century, millions of West African people were captured and traded from its port to Europe and the Middle East. These days the population of about a hundred thousand swells during January when visitors come from as far away as France and the Caribbean to take part in the Ouidah Voodoo Festival, or Fête du Vodoun.
Eighty per cent of the population of Benin practises the traditional religion, which has an intricate system of beliefs involving folk medicine, songs and stories, spirits called loa who are responsible for different parts of life and, most importantly, the existence of a universal spirit.
Each year the voodoo festival begins on 10 January, with crowds dressed mainly in white arriving on the beach near the Door of No Return to pay tribute to the most powerful wizards. The different communities beat drums, sing and dance, some of them reaching a trance state. People wearing masks created from skins and fabric and decorated with shells roam the streets. The Zangbeto dress in huge colourful straw skirts that cover their entire body. Unsurprisingly, there are also sacrifices of goats and chickens to the spirits, which can be confronting, but when it comes to fascinating celebrations it’s hard to beat.
WHERE Taiwan’s east coast WHY There’s no better way to see this spectacular landscape than by taking your time on a bike.
Imagine cycling down from the Toroko Gorge towards the Pacific Ocean. The wind is in your hair, the bike is coasting and you haven’t a worry in the world. On this six-day ride that begins in Taipei and finishes in Taitung, you’ll cruise through the rice paddies and orchards of the East Rift Valley, stop at villages for seafood feasts and relax with a swim at Sanxiantai Island’s almost deserted beaches after crossing the eight-arch Dragon Bridge.
The best part is you don’t have to do anything on this trip except book your flights and start pedalling, because a new addition to the line-up at Grasshopper Adventures is its self-guided cycling tours. They supply the bikes, including an e-bike if you’re worried about stamina, and organise accommodation. You’ll be linked to an app that highlights points of interest and places to eat along the way, offers podcasts on regions you’ll pass through, and provides spoken glossaries of commonly used words and phrases. The crew will even transfer your bags from one hotel to the next, so all you need carry is the essentials.
All up, you’ll cover 270 kilometres on sealed roads, some with designated bicycle lanes, during your stay.
WHERE Zakouma National Park, Chad WHY It’s time to take your big five obsession to Africa’s central north.
In many of the continent’s most popular national parks you’ll see as many safari vehicles as leopards. Not if you head to Zakouma, which was declared a national park in 1963 but then ransacked by poachers in the 2000s. In the past decade, however, it has been a huge conservation success story. Elephants were nearly extinct here, but now there’s a thriving population of almost 600, and the park is home to a huge number of buffalo and more than 50 per cent of Africa’s Kordofan giraffe population. Twitchers will be beside themselves: tens of thousands of birds, particularly black-crowned cranes, flock around the pans. It’s a huge tract of land covering more than 3,000 square kilometres, which means you possibly won’t see the resident pride of lions, but there are plenty of leopards, cheetahs and hyenas to make up for it. The trick is to time your visit right: aim for March or April when wildlife tends to congregate around waterholes. There are only two small camps here, but that is sure to change as more travellers become aware of this wildlife wonderland.
WHERE Whistler, Canada WHY Freedom is the key to any great adventure, and this bit of kit takes it to the next level.
The trouble with trying to find ski trails that aren’t populated with other folks whizzing by is that your boundaries are set by where you have to be at the end of the day – ie, the resort. Not any more. Doug Washer of Head-line Mountain Holidays has overcome those restrictions by taking a truck camper and fixing it to a snowcat. It allows guests, film crews and researchers to head out on the Pemberton ice cap – at 325 square kilometres, the largest southernmost ice field – for multiday adventures. “You can’t imagine the views you get from inside the camper looking out the skylight and big windows,” Washer told Truck Camper magazine when he launched the snowcat truck in 2019. “We have watched meteor showers and the stars. It’s one thing to have accommodations somewhere, but there’s nothing like having that kind of luxury along with the ability to travel on the mountains and ice.”
Guides on snowmobiles accompany the snowcat, as do chefs. There’s use of a helicopter, and you can choose to explore ice caves, head off on snowshoes or board down untouched slopes. Of course, this kind of adventure doesn’t come cheap, but when you’re out on the ice, with no one else for miles around, the feeling of solitude can’t be equalled.
WHERE Alaska, USA WHY Because there’s no better way to conquer the Last Frontier than on an old school bus.
The wheels on the bus go round and round and round and round… For an entire 20 days, as you and your new besties explore the northwest state from top to bottom on Infinite Adventures’ Alaska Salmon Run Trip. Cruise Seaward looking for orcas and humpbacks. Watch for bears in Hope. Explore Anchorage by bike. Sleep beneath the stars at Maclaren River Lodge. Kayak past icebergs in Valdez.
In between you’ll chill out in a cool old bus that’s been completely retrofitted for comfort – individual seats rather than benches, overhead lockers for your stuff, tables for playing cards or writing in your journal, big windows, overhead lights and a platform on top that’s perfect for when you’re on grizzly watch. Sometimes you’ll stay in hostels or at campsites, and there are even a couple of nights spent glamping.
WHERE Los Llanos Orientales, Colombia WHY You wanna be a cowboy, but Texas doesn’t cut it any more.
While distance can equal tyranny, in the case of Colombia’s eastern plains it – well, distance and a little problem with cartels – has preserved not just pristine wilderness but also a way of life that may have been lost had tourism not come to a standstill in the 1990s.
Llaneros are Colombian cowboys, and they move the 12 million or so cattle that live on the plains from place to place throughout the year to avoid the floodwaters that turn much of the landscape into a huge lake. They’re not just horsemen either. They’ve got a rep for being incredibly tough – due to the part they played in a surprise attack led by Simón Bolivar and José Antonio Paez when they defeated the Spanish in 1819 – but they have unique customs too, including eating chiguire (capybara), competing in rodeos called coleo, and dancing the joropo to music played on a harp, the maracas and a cuatro (small guitar).
If this all sounds like a fairly rarefied existence, now imagine this lifestyle but surrounded by incredible wildlife. Because of the varied terrain – rivers, wetlands, savannas, forests – the region is home to giant anteaters, capybaras, howler monkeys, pink dolphins and more than 350 species of birds, from jabirus to red-bellied macaws.
At Corocora Camp, located in a remote private reserve, you’ll spend time with the llaneros learning how to lasso, drive cattle and communicate with your horse. There’s also the chance to explore the plains on horseback, join conservationists working with pumas, ocelots and jaguars, safari in a 4WD or canoe, and take part in a traditional mamona barbecue complete with singing and dancing.
WHERE Mentawai Islands, Indonesia WHY Lack of crowds, amazing snorkelling, local villages to explore and epic waves. We’ll be off then.
It’s hard to believe this cluster of palm-fringed islands off the coast of Sumatra hasn’t been absolutely overrun by the holiday hordes. Or maybe it’s not so difficult to understand when you check out the route to get there. The closest airport is Padang and, unless you fork out for an exxy private speedboat charter, there’s a ferry crossing that leaves early in the morning but only on certain days. Depending on the weather, it takes about four hours to arrive.
But you know what they say about the journey, and it’s well worth it when you get to the other end. Nearly everywhere in the Mentawais is geared to surfers, who seem to be the only folks on the planet clued into this magical setting. And they’ve certainly got it good. Places like Kingfisher Resort on Sipora Island have a maximum of 10 guests at a time in traditional ‘uma’-style bungalows fitted out with everything you need, including air-conditioning, nice bathrooms and a big balcony with hammock, chairs and ocean views. Even if you’re a beginner surfer, you should be able to jump on Lance’s Left (named after Australian surfer Lance Wright, who found it), and there are another nine breaks all within easy reach of the resort. If surf isn’t as important to you, you’ll find March to mid-April and November less crowded, so you can concentrate on the island’s other adventures. You’re never very far from a white sand beach and a reef teeming with hard and soft coral, fish, clams and turtles. Borrow a bike and ride around the island, discovering beaches as you go, or trek into Sipora’s jungle interior and visit local villages. The resort staff can also organise yoga classes, massages or the chance to spend some time with a local woodcarver learning a bit about the craft and having a crack yourself.
You can either organise a trip yourself and book direct with the resort or try an operator like World Surfaris, based in Queensland, who can do all your travel arrangements for you.
Those contemplating a longer visit and searching for something out of the ordinary can stay with a family of Mentawai tribespeople, who live a traditional semi-nomadic hunter-gatherer existence on the largest of the islands, Siberut. One guide, Eru Mamak, comes highly recommended and offers tours that run from five days to 11. Head off on a river canoe then trek to reach the uma (tribal house). For the rest of your time, you’ll be part of the community, helping to cook, learning to make tools and joining the shaman as he collects plants and herbs and hunts for wild pigs and monkeys. This is one island experience you won’t ever forget.
WHERE The Caucasus, Georgia and Armenia WHY This is one of the newest hiking trails in the world, and it’s already attracting the attention of trekkers everywhere.
If trekking some of the most remote and beautiful regions of Europe is an appealing proposition, it’s time to get out a map and start planning. Very few feet have trampled the already-completed paths of the Transcaucasian Trail, which, when finished, will connect for 3,000 kilometres through Georgia, Armenia and eventually Azerbaijan. The trails, which have been constructed by volunteers, are still a bit rough, but it’s well worth muddying your boots to experience. The landscape is compelling – Dilijan in Armenia is referred to as Little Switzerland – but it’s the people you meet along the way, most of whom aren’t used to seeing travellers, who’ll make this a hike to remember. At the moment, you’ll likely choose to explore one of three areas in Armenia – South Syunik, Dilijan National Park or Vayots Dzor – or Upper Svaneti in Georgia. The organisation that has been creating the trail offers the chance to hike with those who’ve been hard at work. You’ll get the chance to hear their stories, learn about the land you’re passing though, give feedback on the trail and contribute to its ongoing development. There are other options, too. You can choose to hike independently, wild camping along the way, or check out the offerings from tour companies like World Expeditions, who provide everything you’ll need, including meals and accommodation in comfortable guesthouses. Guides will take you to the best local sights and fast-track spots that aren’t quite as special. One thing’s for sure… Unless you start making plans for the northern hemisphere summer soon, you might find everyone else arrives before you do.
WHERE Tiwi Islands, Australia WHY With a new lodge on the scene, it’s now much easier to stay on the lands of the Traditional Owners.
They’re only 80 kilometres from Darwin, but they’ve never been as high as, say, Kakadu on most people’s must-visit lists. Which is a shame, because the Tiwis – there are 11 islands of which two, Bathurst and Melville, are inhabited – offer a genuine Indigenous experience for all who visit. Now, with the opening of Outback Wrangler Matt Wright’s Tiwi Island Retreat, there’s a place where you can kick back on the beach and spend some time with the Tiwi people who have lived on the islands for thousands of years.
For an epic getaway, book early to visit on the weekend of the Grand Final and Art Fair, when visitors come to browse the stunning arts and artefacts in the morning then gather at the footy ground for the main event. If you can’t arrive then, be sure to organise one of the Indigenous arts and culture tours during your trip to Tiwi Island Retreat. You’ll chopper to Wurrumiyanga, take a guided tour of Tiwi Designs, make your own screen-printed T-shirt and visit the old church and museum. Otherwise, there’s plenty of fishing and crabbing to be done, wildlife to be spotted (crocs, turtles, stingrays, dolphins, sharks and birds are all plentiful) and remote waterholes to be swum in.
So you’re in Auckland and up for a big night. Or maybe a big night has snuck up on you. Either way, you have decisions to make: where should you go in New Zealand’s biggest city? And the simple answer to that is anywhere but Queen Street.
Once the epicentre of Auckland’s sophisticated nightlife, the past 10 years have not been kind to Queen Street, and it’s now a hollowed-out husk of a place, home to seedy backpacker hostels, souvenir stalls and a lingering sense of unpleasantness. Set your sights elsewhere for the evening – somewhere like K’ Road, perhaps – where you can kick off things with a cheeky sundowner.
K’ Road – or Karangahape Road, to give it its full name – was a once a ridgetop thoroughfare for the original Maori inhabitants of Auckland, which was then known as Tamaki Makaurau, or the place of a thousand lovers.
In the 1970s, however, most of those thousand lovers found their way on to K’ Road, turning it into a notorious red-light district. It wasn’t until bars like Madame George and nearby Coco’s Cantina came to the street that it began to slowly lose the hookers-and-drugs reputation and replace it with some serious fine-dining options.
Madame George is a classy little joint with just the right amount of street smarts to sit comfortably in this edgy district on the fringe of the CBD. The footpath seats are a great place to watch the sun set on the relics of Auckland’s seedier past, while the owner, Pablo, plies you with platters from the seriously eclectic menu and liquor from his latest foray back to his birthplace, Peru. Sample exquisite little dishes like burnt potato and broccoli – much better than it sounds – or ceviche with radishes, then ask Pablo to make you a pisco sour and watch his face light up with joy.
Alright, you’re two cocktails in, feeling sated and have a hankering for the sweetest treat you can find. Hail yourself a chariot and skip over a suburb to the Morningside Precinct.
There you’ll find a tucked-away spot frequented by locals. It’s also home to a tiny working chocolate factory, Miann, which just happens to have a dessert cafe squeezed between sacks of cacao beans and centrifuges that spin rich, heady wafts of chocolate scent into the night.
Start with a hot chocolate. Miann offers these in the same way that vineyards offer wine. You choose a brew from a long list complete with tasting notes and details of beans that have been sourced from different countries then roasted in the factory. Sit back and sip as you watch the busy Oompa Loompas – sorry, normal-sized staff – hard at work, knowing you’ll be ruined for hot chocolates for the rest of your life. Then pick a dessert and prepare to have your mind (and taste buds) blown.
But wait? Who’s this? It’s your friend, that hectic travel pal who always arrives late.
Which is fine, of course. Perhaps they were down at the waterfront watching an outdoor movie. Films are shown regularly throughout the summer, projected on the towering concrete silos that are located in the old industrial shipping district. But for now your mate needs to line their stomach. Luckily, Electric Chicken is just around the corner.
This eatery is what Colonel Sanders might have created if he’d started in Auckland, served only free-range chicken and had a penchant for pink and purple neon. To really satisfy your hunger try a double electric sandwich with pineapple, and don’t neglect the homemade natural shakes – the sour lime is a winner. If you want to wet your whistle with something a little more alcoholic, try the cider bar down the lane. Morningcider is the country’s first and only dedicated cidery and you can sample dozens of locally brewed bevs, many of them available on tap.
Well, you’ve indulged in some fine food and drinks, watched on as chocolate is made and looked on the bright cider life. So there are only two things left to do to make this a perfect evening: amazing cocktails and reckless dancing.
To make this happen you need to head to Britomart or Ponsonby Road or both. On the way, definitely stop by Satya Chai Lounge, a hidden gem in Sandringham.
Sandringham is Auckland’s Little India, a buzzing stretch of shops and restaurants that, in true Indian form, really comes alive after sunset. The Satya Chai Lounge is a spin-off of the original Satya restaurant, which was the first establishment to introduce South Indian cuisine to the city. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it spot, so look for the long alleyway entrance, head right down to the back and spend half an hour soaking up the tealight ambience with a dash of Bollywood hipster. If you fancy a drink, there’s a vast range of craft beers and some super-creative cocktails.
Now the serious debauchery begins. Caretaker in Britomart, a revamped portside zone, is your best option for intimate underground cocktails. It’s a New York-style drinking lounge and tends to get busy early on, or at least it feels like it does considering it’s so small. Do yourself a favour here and ignore the drinks list; the best cocktails come from conversations with the bartenders. All you have to say is “I’m really feeling like something with tequila” or “I once had this drink that tasted like a Mars Bar” and they’ll whip you up the tipple of your dreams.
If you’re not getting itchy feet by now, there’s something wrong with you, so wander up Ponsonby Road in search of a boogie. A great venue in this upmarket area is Revelry, an unassuming bar that’s often overlooked in favour of its flashier neighbours. Big mistake. Revelry boasts a frequently packed dancefloor and a welcoming, celebratory vibe that once led musician Pink to declare it “the most perfect place in Auckland”.
Perfection never lasts, of course, and by 3am most of Ponsonby Road is shutting up shop. Your best chance at keeping the good times rolling is to go full circle and head back to K’ Road. Walk down from Revelry, thread your way past the karaoke dregs and street corner traders and take refuge at InkBar, a house and techno joint that’s been spinning tunes for ravers since 2001. You can let loose here until they kick you out at 4am – if you manage to last that long.
“You were looking right at it. It had a winkle on top,” North Harris Trust ranger Daryll Brown calls out to me. I take a deep breath and dive again into the murky, cold water. On my first attempt I’d missed it, but now I see the shape in the sand, six or seven metres below the surface. I take the creamy shell up to the surface to inspect it. It’s heavy, with a scallop inside that would do any restaurant proud.
Minutes later, Daryll returns from a dive clutching a massive red crab. He holds it out to show me, careful to keep his gloved digits away from angry claws. “They could have your finger off,” he grimaces, before releasing the crab back to the deep.
You could eat well off what you can find around the coast of Harris. In fact, local and travelling seafood lovers do. But we’re not here to find dinner. Instead, we’re exploring sites on the North Harris Snorkel Trail.
The trail, created by Daryll, has six sites for locals and tourists to get to know the coast’s unique creatures and underwater landscapes. “We have sea grasses like you’d find in the Caribbean, as well as starfish, urchins and tons of fish,” Daryll had explained before we entered the bracing water. “A lot of people don’t understand why we’d want to snorkel in this water. They think it’s going to be too cold and there’ll be nothing to see. But once they get in, they realise it’s incredible.”
Together the Isle of Harris and the connected larger Isle of Lewis make up one island in the remote Outer Hebrides, off the west coast of Scotland. It’s a paradise for hikers, nature lovers, road-trippers and photographers, with glassy lochs, rugged mountains and some of the world’s most beautiful beaches. There are also strange, lunar-like landscapes, some of them used as locations during the filming of Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey.
Some of Scotland’s most remarkable wildlife lives here, too, including red deer and, with 13 pairs, the UK’s largest population of golden eagles. The surrounding waters are home to basking sharks, all manner of whales (pilot whales and orcas are here year round, while others – minkes and humpbacks – are seasonal), dolphins, seals and more.
Our Outer Hebrides adventure starts in Glasgow. “Welcome to the Highlands” is written across a blue Scotland flag that greets us as we drive beyond the shores of Loch Lomond and through Glencoe to catch the ferry from Mallaig, on the mainland, to Skye, the largest island in the Inner Hebrides.
We stay overnight in Portree, setting out next morning to explore the rocky pinnacles of the Old Man of Storr and the eerie landscapes of the Quiraing (as seen in Prometheus and the latest version of Macbeth), although mist and rain obscure the view.
While Skye is famous and popular – even during the rain its hot spots are overrun – the Island of Harris and Lewis is sometimes referred to as Scotland’s best-kept secret. We take an afternoon ferry across from Uig to Tarbert, Harris’s tiny capital. As we drive down the east coast of South Harris on the Golden Road, there are noticeably fewer cars and people; the landscape is wilder and more peaceful. There’s natural beauty around every turn, with yellow heather on peaty moorland, inland lochs and small fishing boats resting along the coast. Greylag geese and sheep roam freely along the single-lane road. The remains of abandoned crofts crumble slowly on the hills.
We circle the island’s south tip, stopping at Rodel to climb the spooky tower of fifteenth-century St Clement’s Church then make our way up the west coast, which looks like a different island altogether. Here, the rocky landscapes are replaced by vast white beaches. On famously beautiful Luskentyre we take a walk along the sand as waves crash in off the Atlantic, before driving down the west coast to the Sound of Harris, a luxurious, self-catering house overlooking the wild channel.
At Tarbert the following day, we call in at Harris Distillery, one of the most remote distilleries in Scotland. Having opened in 2015, its first batch of whisky is still a few years off, but its distillers produce a tasty, if pricey, gin using an interesting ingredient: sugar kelp is a kind of seaweed harvested in the local waters. We splash out on a bottle to take with us around the island.
Next morning, we drive to Hushinish Beach on the west coast of North Harris, passing shaggy highland cows, their long golden hair blowing in the wind, along the way. Lambs bleat nervously, clinging to their mothers for protection, as we hike across the grassland, known here as machair, and climb a steep trail up the cliffs. The colour of the sand and the vivid blue ocean from high above makes an incredible picture. Clouds roll by, throwing dramatic shadows onto Scarp, a small island with just a few houses and dilapidated old crofts. The ocean is so clear I can see the rocks deep below the surface.
It’s here we meet Daryll to explore the first site on the snorkel trail. It’s cold, so we pull on six-millimetre wetsuits and hoods to guard against water that’s around 12ºC. In the summer months, Daryll assures me, the ocean around Harris can be bathwater warm, but it’s far from that today – the cold knocks the air from my lungs when I first sink into it. A few minutes later, my body begins to adjust and I enjoy the refreshing swim around the bay. Golden kelp forests and what look like giant ponytails, but are in fact bootlace seaweed, dance below us in the ocean. Huge crabs sidestep along the sand. “It’s a magical landscape,” says Daryll when we surface.
At Seilamol Bay, a short drive away, the water is cooler still, but filled with life. “We’ve got everything here,” says Daryll as he brings a bright purple starfish to the surface to study. “There’s so much to see.” There are more scallops below us, as well as pollock and schools of tiny silver sand eels.
On the drive back to Tarbert, Daryll takes out his binoculars to track a bird gliding along the coast. “That’s a goldie,” he says, pointing out the golden eagle. “Two-point-two-metre wingspan. An adult. A beauty.”
Slightly drier and warmer next morning, we drive from Harris to Scalpay, a tiny island connected by a bridge, for a kayak trip with the Scaladale Centre’s Sean Ziehm-Stephen. “I love living on a little Hebridean island,” Sean tells us, as we paddle out across the open ocean. “The access to the great outdoors is unsurpassed.”
We make our way past rocks and islands filled with nesting gulls and chicks, orange-beaked oystercatchers and Arctic terns. “They’re amazing,” he says of terns. “They have the longest migration of any creature on the planet – from the Arctic to Antarctica and back every year. They stop here to rest.”
On the return leg, we ‘surf’ waves, allowing them to drive us forward, before coming around a corner to find a group of chubby seals on the rocks. Seeing us approach, they roll off their perches and flop one by one into the safety of the ocean. As we quietly float by in the kayaks, their heads start to bob above the surface of the water behind us and to our sides, keeping watch from a safe distance. Curious creatures, they swim with us for half an hour, popping up in inlets and harbours, as we return to shore. It’s good to have their company.
In the afternoon, we drive north through Harris and into Lewis, bright sunlight bringing out the vivid colours of the hills, grasslands and lochs of the epic island.
We head west to the famous Callanish Stones, Neolithic standing stones that are thought to be around 5,000 years old. Their purpose is unknown, but some archaeologists speculate they could be part of an ancient pagan burial site; others believe the design corresponds to an astrological phenomenon.
At Stornoway, the capital of Lewis and far larger than Tarbert, we head to the harbour in the morning to meet Gordy Maclean, skipper with Stornoway Seafari. Snug inside thick flotation suits, we climb on board his RIB and motor gently out of the harbour. Destination? The Shiant Islands.
“The Shiants are a very important place for nesting seabirds,” wildlife guide Sheena Anderson informs us. “Ten per cent, or around 135 nesting pairs, of the UK’s Atlantic puffin population are here. It gets very noisy in the summer. It’s insane.”
Cormorants fly straight as arrows alongside the boat as we skip over the waves at 25 knots. Gordy slows and circles around to watch a pair of harbour porpoises moving through the water. “They’re quite shy and not as playful as dolphins,” Sheena informs us.
Further along, we stop to watch a white-tailed sea eagle, the largest bird of prey in the UK. It lands at its cliff-face nest to rejoin its mate. “We see sea eagles quite often around here,” says Sheena. “They mate for life and use the same nest for generations. They’re incredible birds.”
Reaching the Shiants, we rest at the mouth of a cave at Rough Island. “The Shiant islands are three islands: Rough Island (the largest), House Island and the Island of the Virgin Mary,” Sheena continues. “Rough Island is the highest at 150 metres and it’s all volcanic rock. The formations are very cool.”
Moving slowly, we travel beneath vast dark columns of rock, stained white with guano. The walls are alive and crowded with birds; guillemots, fulmars, kittiwakes, razorbills and cormorants are among them. It’s quite a spectacle.
Further along, seals cover black rocks pounded by waves. We disturb a seal pup sleeping in a sheltered nook. It wakes, blinks a few times and rolls off the rocks into the ocean.
“Now, let’s surf,” Gordy says, as he throttles the engine and speeds around a second island. The sky above us is filled with birds.
A heavy rainstorm batters us as we return to Stornoway Harbour and continues through the afternoon, so we drop plans for a hike on Lewis’ north coast, the UK’s windiest point. Instead, we visit Museum nan Eilean at Lews Castle. Among other relics from Hebridean history, there are several ancient Lewis chessman – detailed little figures carved from walrus tusk by craftsmen in Norway more than 800 years ago – displayed in glass cabinets. The chessmen were found in 1831 in the sand dunes of Uig Bay.
There are large-scale versions of the chessmen around the west of the island, part of the island’s Bealach art project. On a grey afternoon, we drive out to track them down, taking a scenic loop around Valtos, Kneep and Ardroil, beaches that rival Harris’ finest.
It takes us a while to find the King, a tall chess statue on the machair near Ardroil. But once we’ve got our eye in, we tick off art pieces
thick and fast, locating the Berserker outside Uig Community Centre, and the Knight at Abhainn Dearg Distillery in Carnish.
We almost drive past Spring Well, another art piece, by the roadside in Mangersta. It depicts an arm jutting out from the grass bank and pouring spring water from a glass bottle. Across the road, there’s a philosophical road sign pointing in various directions: This Way, That Way, Other Way, Might Have Been, Dead End. The signpost seems a little downbeat and pessimistic to be standing here, because, actually, here on Harris and Lewis, whether it’s an eagle, a highland cow, a mountain, beach or a strange hand reaching out of the ground, you never know what will be around the next corner.
Our van comes to a screeching halt and, for the first time in about three hours, I unclench my jaw. It’s been that way to save my teeth from rattling together. My lower back aches, my nostrils are full of dust and DEET, and my body is jittering with nerves as we leave our vehicle and push through a shroud of dry palms hanging over a makeshift entrance.
A group of villagers is on the other side to greet us, their smiles wide and so full of crimson betel nut it’s difficult to see where their gums start and stop. At least I can tell they’re excited to see us. Secretly, after what I’ve already been told, I’m hoping the experience will be over quickly.
But before we even arrive at Safanaga Village, a remote and isolated settlement just outside Goroka in Papua New Guinea’s Central Highlands, we’ve been told by folks from Papua New Guinea’s Tourism Promotion Authority (PNGTPA) we’re the first group of western journalists to travel this road between the two main highland cities of Goroka and Mount Hagen. While this is significant given it’s considered one of the most treacherous stretches of highway on the planet, this fact almost instantly pales into insignificance. On the village’s riverbank, I sit aghast as waves of human blood and bile disappear downstream.
The Keeya people of Safanaga Village are one of just a few clans in this region still practising a confronting bloodletting initiation ritual. It happens regularly, but the PNGTPA reps say fewer than 20 tourists a year witness the tradition that involves young men removing the dirty or impure blood – they allegedly inherit it from their mothers at birth – in order to aid their transformation into men.
I watch in complete disbelief as three young brothers, Apune, Ansley and Yapo, use a range of makeshift bush apparatus to inflict unspeakable pain on themselves.
Yapo is the first to start the ritual. He rolls leaves into two tight wands, so they’re of a similar length and appearance to a cigar. Once he’s done, he repeatedly and violently pushes them up into his nostrils like two pistons firing rapidly in a car engine. Yapo, along with our group, is visibly distressed.
Ansley then hands a tiny bow and arrow over to his little brother, sticks out his tongue as if it’s a bullseye and, in rapid succession, a glass-tipped arrow is fired into it. After about 20 times it’s obvious the pain is almost unbearable.
“This [is] the most dangerous [part],” one of them says to our group in broken English, just as the remaining brother, Apune, begins to swallow a two-metre length of cane.
In a few seconds, something as thick as but less flexible than a skipping rope miraculously disappears down Apune’s throat and into his body. He calmly gags before it emerges again. I have to look away. Needless to say the entire experience renders me speechless and emotionally broken. It’s in this moment I realise that, despite being only 150 kilometres from mainland Australia, I’m in another world.
In reality, however, what we are watching is just a show. Sure, it’s a complex celebration of tradition, history, storytelling and ritualistic coming of age, but today these types of experiences are a way for these tribes to keep centuries-old traditions alive as well as attract much-needed tourist dollars.
When you look at Papua New Guinea on a map it’s hard to fully grasp the sheer remoteness in which villagers like the Safanaga live. Picture a tablecloth laid flat then pinch it in the middle and bring it to an elevation of 4,509 metres. That’s the height of PNG’s tallest peak, Mt Wilhelm in the Central Highlands. Their home, along with millions of others, is perched precariously in these fog-draped mountains.
And in a region with more than 800 different ethnic groups and tribes, despite the pressures of the western world being firmly wedged against it, the highlands still remain a buffet of sensory tribal traditions where visitors like us are welcomed with open arms.
We’re visiting the region on the eve of the sixtieth anniversary of the famous Hagen Show, an annual sing-sing (the word means gathering) featuring the coming-together of dozens of tribal groups in the town’s central stadium across a single weekend. It’s an opportunity for tourists
to witness a melting pot of cultures all in one place at the same time.
Yet a mere weekend of watching these traditions unfold behind a fence as just another white-faced spectator is far less enjoyable than taking the long road between Goroka and Mount Hagen and crafting a remote experience to visit hidden tribes and witness their traditions along the way. There’s something much more raw and unscripted about seeing these take place in context, as if you’re being invited to peer inside a cultural time capsule with the implicit permission of a village elder.
Like the famous Australian Leahy family, who led the first expeditions into the highlands during the 1930s in search of gold, each new day
feels like another scene from the acclaimed documentary, First Contact.
THE ASARO MUDMEN
We start with the most popular tribal group in the region. They’re so popular, in fact, I’m sitting in the exact same spot as actor Morgan Freeman, who was here a few weeks ago filming his latest Netflix series.
Its notoriety in no way makes our personalised visit any less spine-tingling.
There’s an eerie silence before a horn sounds in the distance. Smoke wafts over the village’s dedicated performance ground and an Asaro Mudman scout, with a young boy in tow, leads out to “check for enemies”. Within just a few seconds dozens of ghostly mudmen wielding clubs and bows break through the smoke in a frenzy, bombarding us from every angle.
Their performance is tantalising, their movements deliberately intimidating. With each drumbeat, I try harder to peer through the holes in their masks – some of them weigh up to 15 kilograms each – to catch a glimpse of their eyes just to make sure I’m still dealing with humans.
GORUMEKA CLAN
“You can help expose my country, my village, my community to the rest of the world to help us keep our traditions,” leader of the Gorumeka clan, Robert Gotokave, tells me as he cradles his machete. We’re on an hour-long hike to the top of Mount Gorupuka.
Gorupuka was once a World War II staging post for Australian artillery and Gotokave’s grandfather was a Fuzzy Wuzzy Angel who ran supplies up the mountain to fuel wveary soldiers.
“I’m one of the sons of soldier men, too,” he says with a smile, and for a moment we share a special bond as I tell him my grandfather was stationed not far from Port Moresby at the same time.
But the mountain is so much more to Gotokave than simply a relic of a long-ago war. It’s a sacred place where his elders have held pre-battle sacrifices for generations. The summit is accessed only by a secret cave and I must leave the branch of a local fern at the ‘door’ before I’m allowed to enter or risk never being allowed to leave.
As Gotokave finally takes us back to his village, the other men are already dressed in their post-war celebration garb. Yet this dance, known as the mokomoko, is overtly sexual and phallic.
There’s thrusting, grunting and suggestive woven devices worn around waists which are, we’re told, designed to arouse the interest
of any female onlookers.
THE SKELETON DANCERS
A few hours up the road in Mindima Village you hear the shrieking before anything else. While the sound is horrific enough, it’s when you see the skeleton performers the real fear sets in.
Their faces are intricately decorated for our arrival and, in terrifying detail, they re-create the story of a monster who lives in the mountains above their village and who is famed for stealing and eating Mindima children.
KORUL VILLAGE
Before arriving in Mount Hagen you first pass through the breathtaking Chimbu province, which rises steeply out of the Asaro Valley.
In Korul Village I meet Batman, his name an indicator of both his size and stature. He’s huge, like most Highlanders I’ve met so far, and as he leads me over the crest of the hill where his village sits I understand why – you need to either grow wings or build muscle just to live here.
My journey through Korul is like visiting a modern history museum. Village life fans out in front of me and I look out across the valley. Batman says there’s as many as 3,000 to 4,000 people living here, yet I remain focussed on just four people at the end of a small clearing.
I’m introduced to village chief Bomal and his three wives. He sits proudly on a log, munching on a piece of fruit and surrounded by his concubines. Polygamy is still widely practised in the highlands, as too are ‘bride prices’, with pigs used as the most common form of currency.
The chief shouts angrily for water and wife number two hastily scurries off to appease him. Once again, as I felt in Safanaga a few days earlier, I’m uncomfortable and can’t help but look away.
In the space of just a few days I’ve witnessed bloodletting, phallic sex dances, polygamy and skeleton spirit rituals, but on the road to Mount Hagen in Papua New Guinea’s highlands that excruciating feeling of unease at every corner is all just part of the experience.
The silence is deafening. With eyes fixed firmly on the dense jungle canopy above us, nobody dares move a muscle. We sit, we watch and we wait, cameras at the ready, for what feels like an eternity.
Then, a crack. The sound of snapping branches pierces the air like a starter gun at an athletics carnival, announcing the imminent arrival of a visitor. There’s a sharp, collective intake of breath and everyone’s frame straightens in anticipation. Eyes are turned skywards, desperately scanning the trees for that telltale flash of orange.
Suddenly, a gibbon crashes clumsily onto the feeding platform in front of us, scrawny arms quickly grabbing at a pile of bananas like there’s never going to be more. It’s a cheeky reminder to expect the unexpected out here in a remote corner of Indonesia, and enough to send a quiet ripple of laughter through the small crowd that has assembled. With an awkward hop, skip and a jump the furry gatecrasher is gone, disappearing back into the trees with its prized fruit bounty.
And just like that, the leaves stop rustling, a silence descends on the tropics once more and people shift back into their holding positions. The long, hopeful wait for an orangutan sighting recommences.
My journey to Tanjung Puting National Park in search of endangered orangutans actually began back in the Northern Territory, on a 16-night Darwin to Bali cruise with Silversea. The voyage kicked off, as all good adventures do, with a hint of drama and impending doom thanks to a magnitude 7.2 earthquake that struck in the Banda Sea. Although no tsunami alerts were issued, buildings in the Darwin CBD were evacuated and departure was delayed until the following morning.
Not that any extra time spent on board the mighty Silver Discoverer, which is on its final tour for Silversea, is a bad thing. This 103-metre-long vessel is home to a gym, pool, beauty and massage centre, multiple lounge areas and a 24-hour personal butler service. Then there are the staff members, including an insanely knowledgeable and dedicated team of expedition leaders, who outnumber the guests.
To say myself and the other passengers are well looked after would be an enormous understatement. After all, this is the type of cruise where the crew behind the bar knows my drink order by day two (soda with lime in the afternoon, Aperol spritz come evening), high tea is served daily at 4pm sharp and dinner is a five-course feast.
Joining us for the entirety of the trip is Dr Birute Mary Galdikas, widely considered the world’s leading authority on orangutans. She founded the non-profit Orangutan Foundation International (OFI), which manages Camp Leakey, a base for researchers, scientists and students to study these majestic animals in Tanjung Puting National Park, the largest protected area of swamp forest in Southeast Asia.
The gateway to Tanjung Puting is the port of Kumai, in the Indonesian province of Central Kalimantan, which is where the Silver Discoverer docks upon our arrival in the region. Rather than head straight into the jungle we first travel to the nearby village of Pasir Panjang, where the Orangutan Care Centre and Quarantine Facility is located. Established in 1998 by the OFI, this wonderful centre looks after injured, orphaned, ex-captive and rescued orangutans, raising and rehabilitating them in the hope they can be released back into the wild.
Normally closed to the public, with Dr Birute as our guide we are granted special access to the centre. After a briefing and thorough scrub-down (everyone is required to wear surgical masks so as not to pass any germs to the infants) we are lead to the enrichment area, which resembles a children’s playground complete with tyre swings, monkey bars and rope bridges. Dr Birute offers a final piece of advice: “Hold on to your hats.”
A troop of young orangutans aged between one and three years old soon emerges. Each ape is holding the hand of its carer. Expecting a docile, gentle experience with these orphaned cuties (yes, my lack of time spent with actual toddlers meant I had no idea what I was in for), I was instead immediately set upon by two handsy youngsters determined to climb me like their favourite tree. I look around for support with a half-nervous, half-thrilled grin plastered to my face, only to realise that everyone else is in exactly the same predicament.
Arms are being yanked, t-shirts tugged and all those not holding on to their hats have them promptly stolen. It is half an hour of total chaos and hilarity, and yet it is completely impossible not to fall in love with these innocent creatures, who are like humans in so many ways but still so vulnerable. Thanks to one particularly brazen orangutan, who swiped my surgical mask in one fell Tarzan-esque swoop leaving behind a pretty decent scar, there’s no chance I’ll be forgetting the special encounter any time soon.
Later that evening, back on the ship, I get the chance to have a chat with Dr Birute about her lifelong dedication to these great apes, which she says stems from her early childhood.
“Ever since I was a child I was very interested in where humans came from,” she explains. “As I grew into adolescence that curiosity developed into a fascination with orangutans, because they were the most mysterious of the great apes, and very little was known about them.
“There’s just something about their eyes – it’s a very human gaze. When they look at you, it’s like looking at another person.”
Her studies in zoology and psychology would lead her to an encounter with renowned paleoanthropologist, archaeologist and future mentor, Louis Leakey (after whom Camp Leakey is named), and later Dian Fossey and Jane Goodall. Their groundbreaking research of primates in a field traditionally dominated by men would see the trio dubbed the Trimates.
On journeying to Indonesia and setting up Camp Leakey in 1971, she admits there was an “unknown element” to Borneo that was both terrifying and exciting. Despite leech bites that never healed, tropical diseases, warnings from loggers and poachers and one sole orangutan bite (which Dr Birute says “was completely my fault”), she would stay for the next 48 years, making remarkable breakthrough discoveries and observations about the orangutans that would eventually earn her worldwide acclaim among the scientific community.
For now though, her focus is on securing the future of the orangutan. Deforestation remains the number one threat to their existence, with land (often illegally) being cleared for palm oil plantations, timber mills and mining. And while donations and money raised through the OFI go towards buying back as much of this land as possible, it’s a hugely expensive process. Which is why, Dr Birut explains, there’s been a recent shift towards encouraging more tourism opportunities, like the cruise I’m on, within the region.
“You don’t want it to be the case that wildlife has to pay for itself, but I think tourism is one way the orangutan population can be helped,” she says.
“And the most important thing people can do to help the great apes – and not just orangutans, but all apes – is to visit the habitat.”
I ponder this as I sit huddled in the depths of hot and humid Tanjung Puting, insects landing lazily on my sticky limbs and sweat dripping down my already drenched back. Since my conversation with Dr Birute the trip with Silversea has taken on a whole new, far more significant meaning. While it would be easy to let the fatigue of a 5am wake-up call, almost five-hour expedition up the Sekonery River in both a Zodiac and an ageing, swaying klotok (Indonesian river boat) set in, I can’t help but think how vital it is to support places like Camp Leakey, especially if we want to guarantee the existence of creatures like the orangutan long after our current generation is gone.
I’m lost deep in thought, but a muffled gasp and the sudden thrashing of trees snaps me back to reality. A towering, shaggy-haired ginger figure emerges into the clearing. It’s a male orangutan with long, powerful arms and large cheek pads that indicate maturity and give off pretty smug king-of-the-jungle vibes.
Amid a hushed chorus of “oh my god” and plenty of wide-eyed pointing and gesturing from everyone watching on (myself included), he slowly but surely makes his way to the feeding platform, one eye on the fruit, the other on us.
All of a sudden, it’s as if his approval of the feast is the green light for other orangutans to approach. A mother and her adorable baby promptly materialise from the treetops and tentatively make their way from vine to vine to the podium, while another female also emerges looking for a snack. A smaller male isn’t far behind. We’re suddenly witness to some kind of primates-only dinner party, and although I’m completely entranced, I divert my eyes for a second to chance a sneaky look at Dr Birute, who is smiling as if she knew this is exactly what was going to happen all along.
I couldn’t tell you how long we sat there in the jungle, simply watching the wild orangutans go about their business, so close to where Dr Birute set up her base all those years ago.
But I do know that if witnessing something this magical doesn’t stir some kind of emotion, or some desire to live better, do better and make better choices in relation to the world we live in, then I’m not really sure what else would
One kilometre from the Russian border, in a restricted permit-only strip of eastern Finland, lies No Man’s Land, the buffer that separates the European Union from the former Eastern Bloc. This area contains the highest concentration of brown bears in Finland, and it’s here that I set off on foot into the forest.
The bears don’t worry me. I’m following an experienced guide and my bear viewing will take place overnight, once I am tucked inside my wildlife-watching cabin, known as a hide. Or so I think. As we approach the hides, I glimpse movement. About 50 metres beyond them, three huge furry mountains are having a violent altercation. Suddenly there’s a fourth, just 30 metres away, but he’s as relaxed as I am terrified. Standing exposed in this clearing, I’m a bear snack personified.
“Oh, I see the bears are here before us today,” guide and wildlife photographer Lassi Rautiainen remarks casually. I’d met the 62-year-old at his lakeside Wildlife Safaris base camp, a former logger’s cottage, in remote forest 630 kilometres northeast of Helsinki. Wildlife enthusiasts in the know contact Lassi when they’re keen to photograph Finland’s top carnivores: brown bears, wolves, wolverines and, rarely, the elusive lynx. Before setting out for the hides, Lassi tells us Finnish brown bears are not dangerous, despite being the same species as the North American grizzly, which has caused fatalities. Finland has about 2,000 bears, and every year 150 to 200 are legally hunted, with the meat commanding a premium in high-end restaurants.
“In Canada and Alaska, the bears are protected in national parks and they do not care about vehicles or humans,” says Lassi. “But our animals will be shot if they are too close to houses or people. The more stupid bears that are not shy of humans will lose their life.”
We split into three groups for the overnight viewing – my group includes a couple from the UK and Lassi. Leaving us watching the squabbling bears, Lassi shows the couple to their hide before depositing us in ours. “Please do not come out until I come back at 7.30am,” he cautions. “I’m not worried about you, I’m worried about scaring the bears.” We watch him enter his own hide 20 metres away.
Our hide contains six bunk beds, an attached (and remarkably odour-free) composting toilet and a long viewing window. Under the window are camera-sized cut-outs in the wall, with fabric sleeves and drawstrings that tighten around the camera lens to exclude breezes and mosquitoes.
Beyond the window, a natural clearing is fringed with taiga, a subarctic forest of pines, birch and spruce. Fifty metres away, a carcass has been secured to a tree. The four bears, the largest of which probably weighs in the vicinity of 370 kilograms, bicker with one another while fending off majestic white-tailed eagles, insidious crows and, surprisingly, four types of seagull. From our primo seats, it’s an awe-inspiring show.
Many bears drift in and out of the feeding station through the light-filled summer night, and the action becomes almost personal. As everyone else in my hide naps, an inquisitive bear approaches the particularly rickety structure where Lassi is sleeping. It advances, sniffing the air. My breathing stops as the bear rears to its colossal full height, leaning on the roof and investigating the tarpaulin wall of our guide’s hide. I’m weighing up whether I should attempt to rescue him from the jaws of this predator, when the bear drops to its dinner plate-sized paws and lumbers away.
After midnight, a skittish, shadowy movement in the trees introduces Finland’s second-largest carnivore, a grey wolf. At 2.30am, the sun finally makes a brief shallow arc below the horizon and, for 20 minutes, the landscape dims. The wolf slinks into the clearing, feeding warily while dodging bear charges. Although no wolverine appears, when Lassi knocks on our door hours later, I am exhausted and deliriously happy.
Back at the Wildlife Safaris base, we’re invited to use the wood-fired sauna. More than just a novelty, for the Finns sauna is a cultural mainstay. They are traditionally taken naked, with time in the heat interspersed with dips in freezing water. Emerging in a cloud of steam, I prudishly run down the jetty in my towel, ditching it as I plunge into the bracing lake water. Invigorated and now awake, I’m ready to hit the road.
One hour’s drive to the west is Kuhmo, a timber town making the transition to tourism. Strolling the boardwalk along the tumbling River Pajakkajoki, we watch locals fly-fishing for salmon. We munch on korvapuusti, a cinnamon and cardamom pastry, before learning more about Central Finland’s wildlife at the Petola Visitor Centre. I learn why we didn’t see a wolverine – there are only 50 mature animals left in the entire country.
Aside from impressive carnivores, Central Finland’s other natural claim to fame is the Lakeland region, several hours south of Kuhmo. Here, glaciers carved out the landscape leaving thousands of islands, peninsulas and a spectacular forest-edged coastline. Lakeland is 25 per cent water, and we traverse the area using free car ferries, an extension of the road network.
The largest of Finland’s lakes is Lake Saimaa, and in a channel between two islands sits the hamlet of Oravi. Here we experience another Finnish tradition, staying in a lakeside cabin. Ours sits up a hill, with a path that leads from the sauna to the lake through birch forest and wild blueberries alive with iridescent butterflies. On the jetty we find a wooden rowing boat and explore uninhabited islets.
Ramping up the pace, we meet Tanja Heiskanen, who’s dressed in medieval garb and who whips us across the glassy lake in a speed boat to Hotel & Spa Resort Järvisydän. The Heiskanen family has owned these quirky lodgings for 11 generations, since 1658, when the original hotel was built on the ice path that facilitated year-round trading between Russia and Sweden. In a nod to history, the recently remodelled reception area sports a 200-year-old wooden boat hull protruding from the wall. These days, guests enjoy hiking and lake activities and, in winter, snowmobile and ice-skating tours explore the frozen lake.
The hotel’s Lake Spa building pays homage to its natural surroundings, its architecture featuring pine and birch logs up to 2,500 years old salvaged from the lake floor. The complex takes the concept of the sauna to a whole new level and I work up a sweat five different ways, from the gentle to the blisteringly hot. The weird and wonderful storm shower pummels me with water jets representing different seasonal rains, while a soundtrack of thunder and rain is mixed with storm-related scents. Skipping the plunge in the lake, I opt instead for a bucket of icy water dumped over my pre-heated head, leading to involuntary shrieking.
While I’ve come to the region to experience the lakes, an added drawcard is the Saimaa ringed seal, found only in this freshwater lake. With only around 400 individuals remaining, this is one of the most endangered seals in the world. Heading back to Oravi, I try to maximise my seal-spotting chances by joining a guided two-day kayak through the forested islands of Linnansaari National Park.
Oravi’s narrow channel opens to the lake’s wide mirrored surface, dotted with tiny granitic islets topped with tufts of pine trees. On the open water, our guide mentions that our five double kayaks should stay together through the navigational channels, lest we collide with a boat. I can’t help but laugh, as there are no boats nor any other trace of humans here for as far as the eye can see.
Our relaxed paddle passes nesting eagles and rocky passages. Occasionally we land and take short hikes to viewpoints. On Linnansaari Island, we’re accommodated in a basic red cabin and an elevated tent that’s suspended between three birch trees.
As dinner approaches we watch our guide prepare small lake fish known as vendace in a simple wood-fired smoker. They’re served with rustic potatoes and crusty bread and demolished at a communal picnic table.
Our allotted timeslot in the wood-fired sauna arrives and by now we’re dab hands at the technique. Adding a scoop of water to the hot rocks releases a cloud of steam and the temperature surges towards my melting point. With practised aplomb we hurl ourselves from the sauna’s small jetty into Lake Saimaa, duck diving to the freezing deeper water.
Sitting on the dock, I feel both invigorated and calm as I wait for the sun to set at 10pm. I’m savouring the silence when a dark blob ripples the surface. “It’s a seal!” I call out to alert everyone, before I realise we have this place to ourselves.
Soon enough, the Saimaa ringed seal makes a second and third appearance, catching its breath and scrutinising us with enormous black eyes before submerging to the tannin-stained depths. It’s no amazing photographic encounter, but it’s authentic and natural, like Central Finland itself.
I believe in love at first sight. You know that feeling you get when you catch a glimpse of a stranger and everything slows right down? Your heart skips a beat and you ask yourself, “Why have I bothered with anything else up until now?”
At the water’s edge we pull up our Nissan N-Trek Navara and hop out, the turquoise waves of Shark Bay lapping at our feet. Hermit crabs scurry off into the distance and hungry gulls squawk overhead in search of their next meal. My wife and I look at each other and marvel at what we’ve accomplished in the past 14 hours of driving. The journey, however, was merely the obligatory courtship period required for the start of any good relationship.
As the sun rises behind us and we both look back at Steep Point, mainland Australia’s most westerly outcrop, it’s time to get down to business. Despite the early hour, the Dirk Hartog Explorer, a makeshift barge specifically designed to transport a single 4WD and camper trailer from the beach, approaches the shoreline and we drive carefully onto the deck.
Its skipper is a burly, unshaven West Australian named Keiran Wardle, who wears a Bisley shirt and a strong, wide smile. Keiran fires up the Explorer’s motors and, as we leave mainland Australia, I look across to Dirk Hartog Island already convinced this is a love affair that will last.
Dirk Hartog lies about 900 kilometres northwest of Perth, past the point where canary yellow canola fields make way for that unmistakable West Australian red dirt. From the turn-off to Shark Bay conservation area it’s another three- to four-hour adventure, even for the most experienced off-road enthusiast. The corrugation along this route is bone-rattling and, as you turn off Useless Loop Road onto the Steep Point 4WD track, you cross ashen saltpans and manoeuvre your vehicle over thick sand dunes with virtually no air in your tyres. The experience is equally exhilarating and exhausting.
After the short water crossing, we arrive at what I pictured the edge of the world to look like. The 80-kilometre-long finger of land is mostly flat and craggy through the middle. Enormous rocky cliffs force back the wild Indian Ocean on one side; on the other 190-metre-high Sahara-like sand dunes shift in the wind.
It’s spring and magenta wildflowers and sun-tinged scrub explode with life on the roadside, helping to guide our 45-minute journey from the southern arrival point to the ecolodge set on protected Homestead Bay on the eastern side of the island.
It’s here we begin to realise Dirk Hartog Island has a knack for creating unlikely love stories. Either you fall in love with the place yourself – as I already have – or lose your heart to another and remain forever.
Keiran Wardle’s grandfather, Sir Thomas Wardle, was one of the first to fall under the place’s mystic charm. An Australian supermarket baron in the 1950s, he acquired the pastoral lease for the island in 1968 and took over its sheep station. He loved it so much, Keiran explains, he would “just come up here fishing all the time with his mates”.
Soon after the lease became his, however, his business interests crashed. He fled to the island, but it became mostly off limits to the rest of his family. Kieran first returned as a six-year-old, but it was at 18 that he was asked to help run the station for a few weeks. His true love of island life then began to solidify.
Like all good love stories, fate would intervene and a young apprentice chef from Melbourne named Tory would soon also get a call to help, this time with meals for weary workers. Her visit was supposed to last just a few weeks, but it stretched into marriage, three children and now a thriving eco-tourism business. If you haven’t found romance yourself, forget about Fiji – turns out the real Love Island is in the west.
In 1991, when the West Australian Government decided it wouldn’t renew expiring pastoral leases, it had already earmarked Dirk Hartog as a national park. This move, along with diminishing wool prices, gave the Wardles an idea. They saw an opportunity to negotiate the acquisition of more freehold land for tourism and, in return, they’d assist with the rejuvenation of the island’s ecological heritage.
Kieran’s grandfather had already significantly reduced sheep numbers – he’d even attempted his own species reintroduction process – but now the flock would be completely removed from the island. So too were the goats and a significant population of feral cats.
The change over the past 10 years, says Kieran, has been dramatic. Vegetation has returned, dunes have retained their shape and bird species are now coming home. “I reckon they’re dinosaur footprints,” he says with boyish enthusiasm, as he traces his finger across some coloured dots he’s made on blurry iPhone photos. “We’ve just got to get an archaeologist over here to verify it.”
As he’s talking, I imagine it’s this enthusiasm for new discoveries that has kept him so enamoured by the island for decades.
While there’s no guarantee the island’s history is prehistoric, it is certain this is the location of the first European landing on soil that is now known as Australia. Dutch explorer Dirk Hartog carved his name into a pewter plate in 1616 and nailed it to a wooden post at what would become known as Cape Inscription at the north end of the island. But today’s history is being written by the Wardles at their ecolodge, ocean villa and new camping facilities on Homestead Bay.
For those looking for a little more comfort, the converted limestone shearer’s lodge features six well-appointed rooms with 180-degree views of the bay. These are fully catered by Tory, who somehow manages to assemble a breakfast, lunch and dinner worthy of some of the best hotels in the country despite being in the middle of nowhere.
The ocean villa sleeps up to 12 people in three separate rooms. There are also camping sites aplenty, which fill rapidly during school holidays. Kieran’s self-imposed cap of just 20 cars on the island at any one time ensures a sense of remoteness is retained and the impact on the environment is low.
On our first day, from the balcony, we see a dugong feeding out in the bay. The next morning, as the sun rises, a manta ray hunts in the shallows. But this choose-your-own-adventure holiday destination also allows you to leave the lodge each morning with a packed lunch to discover the island’s pristine hidden corners.
Following Kieran’s directions on a map, I push the Nissan over a ridge before parking it and clambering over some rocks feeling like a young Charles Darwin. Walking down to the water’s edge, I watch as dozens of small nervous sharks gather in the shallows of Surf Point, their fins cutting the surface as they whip one another into a feeding frenzy. If they were a few metres longer it would be truly terrifying.
Kieran and his family have their secret spots, too. We are given directions to Stowk Cove (the name is made up of the initial of each family member – Sanchi, Tory, Oli, Will and Kieran), but there is another favourite family spot where the boys and their father regularly camp under the stars. Here they dive in the mornings with whale sharks that are migrating north to the more popular tourist spot of Exmouth.
Thanks to Kieran and Tory, Dirk Hartog Island has a bright future. But their biggest accomplishment to date, despite having no supermarket, no mechanic, no doctor, no plumber, no cleaner or full-time chef, is creating a world-class destination unshackled by the need to run livestock in order to survive.
At the time of writing, an unfinished cafe and bar dubbed Inscription sits overlooking the bay adjacent to the ecolodge. Negotiations with the state government for a liquor license are complicated and ongoing, but Kieran is unperturbed by the delay. It’s like he knows something we don’t. Could it be the result of needing to be an eternal optimist in a place where life is always on a knife’s edge?
On our last night on Dirk Hartog, we follow the Wardles and a few other guests into the dusk across the towering sand dunes towards a spot known as Herald Heights.
They make this trip regularly with visitors as an opportunity to catch Australia’s last sunset. “If you don’t count Christmas Island,” says Kieran, smiling once again. Tory cracks a bottle of champagne and, against the setting sun, I grab my wife’s hand, feeling terribly romanced by Dirk Hartog’s evening charm. I look over at Kieran who has his arm around Tory’s shoulders and I realise this place offers much more than just love at first sight. Falling for a place like Dirk Hartog Island is everlasting.
From the broken bridge to the pink clinic is 2.89 kilometres, reads the directions. Keep driving past a Mopane tree forest and dried up rainwater pans. Watch out for elephants crossing the sand road. Getting to the Okavango Delta Music Festival feels more like a scavenger hunt than a straightforward foray, which is wholly appropriate given this is no mediocre event.
Botswana is famed as a wildlife destination, but we’re here to explore sounds and song rather than set out on safari. Packed tightly into a 4WD, crowded by a cluster of camping equipment, I’m taking two friends – sound engineer Carmen and music-loving Lauren – on an alternative Okavango adventure.
Our destination is as unusual as the directions. A small village roughly 45 minutes from the town of Maun, Tsutsubega has a San name meaning Place of the Emerald Spotted Dove. This gentle little bird frequents many a tree branch in these parts and is known in twitching circles as King of the Blues thanks to its mournful call. My grandmother, an avid birder, taught me how to remember its unmistakable song using this solemn rhyme: “My father’s dead, my mother’s dead, oh oh oh…” Although Tsutsubega village is named for the sombre ballad, it certainly contradicts its namesake on this particular weekend. Or maybe the doves sing a different rhyme – “Dancing ahead, dancing ahead, oh oh oh” – when, once a year, revellers are welcomed to this precious corner of the Okavango Delta.
Just beyond Tsutsubega village lies the forested oasis of Festival Island. It’s the end of August, when the Okavango Delta is flooded, so the island usually sits encircled by lily-laden waters. Drought, however, is visiting Botswana. Water levels at the UNESCO World Heritage Site are dependent on the annual rainfall received at the source, thousands of kilometres away in the central highlands of Angola.
Just like the would-be water, we’ve travelled a fair distance to be here – roughly 1,300 kilometres from our home city of Johannesburg in neighbouring South Africa. After checking in at the ticket office, which has been decked out with colourful skulls and handmade fabric bunting and is home to several sleeping pups, we cross one last stretch of sand to set up camp at the edge of Festival Island. It overlooks a dusty, rather than damp floodplain, but the dry conditions haven’t put anybody off.
Established in 2018, the Okavango Delta Music Festival is a three-day affair of live music and vibey DJ sets operating as sustainably as possible in this delicate wilderness area. In its first year, the festival entertained 500 guests, but in 2019 the ticket sales nearly doubled, hitting 900. With tents erected, we set our sights on the festival grounds to meet Jay Roode, one of the devoted organisers. “Last year was all about mokoro,” he says. “We had members of the community pole people across the floodplain to the island in a traditional dugout canoe, but this time we offer a different kind of local transport.” In this part of the country donkey carts provide daily mobility for many locals. Now freshly painted and embellished with flowers, the stylish carriages make for a memorable entrance. It’s just one of the ways this event was arranged to benefit its hosts.
After cooing over the doleful donkeys, I follow Jay to the dance floor. It’s a modest square covered with natural fibre rugs laid down in a bid to quell any dust being kicked up during dancing. The open-air stage is impressive and sits beneath towering leadwood, jackalberry and sausage trees. Bringing the speakers and sound equipment through all that sand from Maun was a logistical nightmare, Jay tells me, but it’s quickly forgotten as golden-hour light ushers in the first act.
The music selection for the festival is purposefully diverse. “We prefer our stars in the sky,” Jay says, smiling. This is not to say the artist line-up isn’t excellent. Quite the contrary; the performers are just not the regular headline acts. “We wanted to provide a platform to different artists, and stand by a strong African focus.” I recognise only one name from the line-up, South African Afro-folk favourite Bongeziwe Mabandla, but he’s not due to have his time in the spotlight until tomorrow. For now, I throw my arms up and find my feet a-flutter joining the audience in jamming to the playful beats and sanguine sounds of Zimbabwean musician So Kindly. (I also make a mental note to add their spice to my Spotify playlist once back home.)
Botswana is one of the least crowded countries in the world, with just 3.5 people per square kilometre, and it’s echoed here. There’s plenty of room on Festival Island. I look across the crowd. No matter race or age, everyone has breathing space. So much so that when the artists leave the stage, they join the party. Tomeletso Sereetsi, who hails from Botswana and performs as Sereetsi & the Natives, is one such merry-maker. “It’s awesome how the festival unites people from all over Southern Africa and beyond, both black and white,” he says. “That’s the often understated power of music and festivals.”
He’s right. There’s an intimacy to this event, and it’s further proved when I cross paths with another popular Botswana act on the dancefloor. Mpho Sebina describes her genre as ethereal soul, citing Sade, Bob Marley and Brenda Fassie as primary influences. She asks me to come watch her sing the next morning – “It’s an early slot, so I’m gathering a company” – although she really needn’t have worried. “I’ve already told my friends about this festival,” she continues.
“There are so many music acts from different parts of the continent, yoga, delicious drinks, and there is a spirit of oneness at the festival. Plus, the most scenic surroundings.”
Bands of children skip between us as we dance, invariably marching to their own drumbeat. Their beaming faces are coated with big-cat markings, painted by members of Cheetah Conservation Botswana. I laugh out loud when Mpho tells me her weirdest festival moment so far: “This guy was carrying his daughter – she must have been just five months – and she was stark naked, and it was beautiful how free she was. Then she pooped on her dad.” According to Freedom House, an NGO that researches and advocates political freedoms, there are just eight African countries that can be described as free. Botswana is one of them, and it feels especially present at the festival.
Sophie Dandridge and her husband Adrian are the festival directors, but their involvement is deeply rooted. They live nearby, within the Tsutsubega area. “Adrian and I have been involved with this community since he first moved here about 10 years ago,” Sophie tells me. The village is home to roughly 500 people, and almost half of the local community is trained then employed by the annual festival.
Even though it’s only for a weekend, through their ‘party-cipation’ all festival attendees help provide employment and encouragement to this remote outpost. After the first event in 2018, proceeds funded a reliable borehole and solar pump for Tsutsubega, providing drinking water for people and their livestock. With a large section of the delta enduring drought and floodwaters sitting scarily short of the normal range, it’s a crucial contribution.
It’s just the first day, but many of the new friends I make agree the Okavango Delta Music Festival is the antithesis of most commercial festivals. Sure, this event is about music (my feet sure feel the beat), but it’s also so much more. The festival and its intrepid organisers provide a much-needed alternative to Botswana’s mainstream safari sightseeing and bring tourism to marginal areas. I can’t help but think about the driving directions again, only this time they ring a lot more like life advice. When faced with a fork in the road, keep left.
The Goto Islands, around 100 kilometres off the west coast of Nagasaki on the southern island of Kyushu, consists of five main land masses in the East China Sea. Famed for their natural beauty, they also acted as a secret safe haven for Hidden Christians from the early seventeenth century to the mid-nineteenth century.
The northern Goto Islands, also known as Shin-Kamigoto, have traditionally been the most sparsely populated of the archipelago, and the most closely linked to the history of this type of religious persecution. For more than 260 years, Christians hid on these islands to escape oppression on mainland Japan and to practise their faith in secret.
Travelling northeast from Fukue Island, the largest of the quintet, to Naru, Wakamatsu and Nakadori, I had my sights set on the uninhabited island of Nozaki, home to the former Nokubi church. My goal was to find one of the most inaccessible Christian churches, and experience the other qualities that set the Goto Islands apart from everywhere else in Japan. There are many different ways to chart this course – by local ferry, guided tour or chartered boat – and how you decide to travel around the Gotos will ultimately depend on your time and budget.
Setting off from Fukue, my first destination was Egami Catholic Church on Naru Island, located in the centre of the Goto atoll. Concealed among thick trees, it’s almost impossible to discern from a distance, and has no obvious symbols revealing its true identity. To leave the church unadorned of any symbols or imagery would have been a conscious decision made during its construction.
When you walk to the back of the church, however, you can see a cross is projected onto the wooden gable. Egami Catholic Church was built by Yosuke Tetsukawa, who went on to construct a total of 38 churches in the region. Once inside it becomes obvious the budget was tight. Stained pine has been used, and the windows have been hand-painted to give the appearance of stained glass. The austerity somehow adds to its charm.
The next stop is the Christians’ Cave on Wakamatsu Island, a site accessible only by boat. This 50-metre crack in the rocks was used by eight people to evade persecution during a time of heightened risk to Christians. One early winter morning, after hiding for four months, smoke from their fire was spotted by a passing boat. Authorities were notified and the exiles were arrested and tortured. In 1967 a simple white cross and three-metre-tall statue of Jesus were erected at the entrance of the cave to honour them.
Even if you know what you’re looking for, locating the exact position of the cave from the water can be tough. Just around the corner is a fracture in the rock face said to look like Mary Magdalene, and those who hid there took it as a sign she was protecting them.
As the westernmost point of Kyushu, the Goto Islands were the first port of call for Japanese envoys on their way back from Tang Dynasty China in the seventh, eighth and ninth centuries. More than 36 missions were undertaken, with the hope of learning more about the culture, lifestyle and civilisation of the country. Goto udon is one of the dishes brought back, and how it is made has remained unchanged for the past thousand years.
On Nakadori Island, the northernmost of the islands, I meet Mitsuaki Ota, the fourth generation owner of the Ota Udon Shop, who uses the same ingredients, techniques and even tools as his forefathers during the noodle-making process. The key ingredients that define Goto udon are spring water, oil from the camellias that grow wild across Goto, and locally produced salt. The unique aspect of the production method – different to other types of udon – requires the noodles to be stretched rather than cut. The process is lots of fun to try, and it is surprising how long the noodles can become.
The year-round mild-to-warm temperatures of the Goto Islands create especially good conditions for growing camellias, and once you come to recognise the plant you will see it everywhere you go. Up to half of the camellia oil produced in Japan comes from the Nagasaki Prefecture, and 70 per cent of that is from the Goto Islands.
In the Sone area of Nakadori Island, you have the opportunity to make camellia oil to take home. The production process is quite simple. First, the camellia nut is broken up and crushed in a large mortar and pestle – an easy feat as the nut contains roughly 30 per cent oil. The grounds are then placed in a hydraulic press, manually pumped to increase the pressure. Before you know it there’s oil that can be used as a moisturiser for hair, skin and nails pouring out of the press.
My final destination is the Former Nokubi Church, on the now deserted island of Nozaki. The windswept landscape, infertile soil and dry stone walls are reminiscent of Ireland’s west coast, just with better weather.
Nozaki was originally home to a Shinto community, but was settled by Christian families in the early 1800s. They would visit the island’s shrine and pretend to be followers of the Shinto faith, while actually continuing their Christian traditions in private. After the ban on Christianity was lifted in 1868, the families decided to pool their money so they could build a church. They contacted Yosuke Tetsukawa, the architect of the Egami Church, who set to work on the design and construction. It was finally completed in 1908 and cost ¥2,885, equivalent to ¥57 million today.
Although closed to the public, it is possible to organise a visit to the Former Nokubi Church in advance through the Ojika Island Tourist Office. The Shinto shrine is also still standing, as are the remains of Shinto houses, and keep your eyes peeled for deer and other wild animals that roam free across the island.
This feature was sponsored by JNTO (Japan National Tourism Organization).
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