It’s 6.23am according to my Fitbit, and the hot trickle of sweat snaking its way from the back of my neck, down my cheek and directly into the furrowed crease of my brow tells me we’re in for another sultry day in the Solomons.
I’m struggling to hold a graceful downward dog position, and the gentle rocking of the boat is making it almost impossible to keep my balance. As for emptying my mind and focusing on nothing but the present – the slightest breath of a warm breeze and the gentle chant of “omm” – I’m failing miserably and already thinking ahead to breakfast, the day’s scuba dive and whether it’s possible to get sunburn at such an early hour.
This is the daily 5.30am yoga session aboard the MV Taka. Well, it would be if it started on time, but out here we’re on what’s affectionately known as ‘island time’, which means any semblance of punctuality no longer exists, replaced instead by a more relaxed ‘go with the flow’ vibe.
Myself and 11 others are travelling with Solomon Islands Discovery Cruises on a seven-night voyage exploring the gorgeous Florida and Russell Islands. Our trusty vessel is the aforementioned MV Taka, a 30-metre liveaboard that boasts 12 comfortable cabins, a communal dining area and more than enough space for lounging around. It’s no Queen Mary 2, but if you’ve come to the Sollies in search of five-star luxury, well, this probably isn’t the right trip for you.
Still untouched and relatively removed from the majority of the modern trappings that have infiltrated much of the South Pacific, there was little I knew of the Solomon Islands before touching down, apart from it being home to some of the friendliest people on Earth and also being ridiculously, rub-your-eyes-it-can’t-be-real beautiful.
Even the flight time was a surprise – it’s just a three-hour trip with Solomon Airlines to Honiara, the capital, from Brisbane.
Comprising 992 islands – of which just 147 are inhabited – the Solomons welcome only 30,000 tourists annually, most of them avid divers lured by the promise of pristine, healthy reefs or history buffs interested in the fierce violence that erupted in the archipelago between Japanese forces and the American allies during World War II.
It’s a narrative the team behind Solomon Islands Discovery Cruises is hoping to enhance via these new seafaring expeditions.
On a mission to showcase another side of the Solomons, the cruise has been carefully crafted to offer cultural experiences, an up-close look at some of the breathtaking natural attractions, plus a stack of water-based activities, all while still incorporating the ever-appealing diving and history components.
And that’s exactly what I get on my week-long adventure, during which time normally spent checking Instagram is replaced with surfing or stand-up paddleboarding, while regular Netflix sessions are swapped for nightly bouts of stargazing.
With yoga done and dusted by 7am it’s time for a hearty breakfast. Steaming somewhere out in the middle of the ocean, you’d be forgiven for expecting little more than cereal and toast on the menu. Not on the Taka.
With the kitchen manned by local chefs Charles and Fred – in fact, all Taka’s crew members are Solomon Islanders – it’s not long before a feast emerges from the depths of the galley. Bacon, eggs cooked to your preference, pancakes, sauteed veggies, fresh tropical fruit, yoghurt… You name it, they’ll cook it up for you, even cereal and toast, if that’s all you fancy.
It’s a meal designed to fuel us for our upcoming scuba dive at White Beach, the site of an old World War II wreck, in the Russell Islands. A former American military base, White Beach was abandoned hastily and all equipment simply pushed into the water by soldiers upon departure. That means there’s a plethora of vehicles, machinery and artefacts lying just below the surface.
Despite considering myself quite the water baby, I’ve never had the opportunity to go diving before, and I’m half terrified, half excited about the prospect of giving it a crack.
Our crew consists of two fully qualified PADI dive instructors, and our cruise leader, Chevone Whitaker, is also fully qualified. Solomon Islands Discovery Cruises was founded by Belinda Botha, who operates the highly successful Dive Munda in the Western Province of the Sollies, so naturally diving is part of the itinerary.
Newbies like myself are offered the opportunity to undertake the introductory PADI course, which permits guided dives down to 12 metres below sea level. Chevone, who also happens to be Belinda’s niece, takes our crew of four dive virgins through the required dry-land training, during which my initial buzz of excited nerves turns to full-blown terror.
“The most important thing to remember is to keep breathing,” Chevone states matter-of-factly. It sounds simple enough, but with various hand signals to remember and emergency procedures running through my head, I’m beginning to worry my natural breathing instincts may not kick in.
As I try to keep a lid on my heightened emotions, we head to the shallows to test our newly learned skills in the lukewarm, aquamarine waters. With every fibre of my mind and body convinced the act of surviving underwater is impossible, I’m shocked upon taking my first gasp and finding that, yes, the equipment actually works and, no, I haven’t drowned yet.
And that’s all it takes for me to completely relax. Before long I’m descending into the depths of the water, dappled sunlight illuminating the passing reef and highlighting corals the colours of Pantone swatches – lavender, peach, buttercup yellow and burnt orange. Tropical fish dart past leftover bullets and casings, while royal blue starfish cling to pieces of scrap metal once used for communication towers.
Time ceases to exist underwater, and after what feels like five minutes we slowly make our way back to the real world. I clumsily clamber back on the boat, a round of applause greeting my fellow first-timers and I, before a freshly cracked coconut is thrust into my hands. Through a giant grin I knock it back, quickly discovering nothing tastes sweeter than that first post-dive bev.
After that, a feeling of euphoria doesn’t quite leave me. It’s present during our visit to Roderick Bay, a place that has become somewhat of a reluctant tourist destination thanks to the wreck of the MS World Discoverer, a German cruise ship that ran aground in the bay in April 2000. A looming presence – the ship is more than 80 metres in length – it’s now an unorthodox playground for the island’s kids, who have built flying foxes, rope swings and diving platforms on the upper levels.
The warm welcome we receive from Chief Patrick and his community is one of flowered leis, fresh coconuts, dancing and music. They’ve come to embrace the increased interest in their island since the wreck turned their home into an attraction, and aren’t shy about sharing stories, showing us their wares and offering tours of the village.
That feeling is there again when we drop anchor at Mane Bay. Enticed into the water by the promise of waterskiing, stand-up paddleboarding and snorkelling, it doesn’t take long for word of our arrival to spread.
Within minutes we’re surrounded by children of all ages – some as young as two, who seem barely able to walk let alone paddle – in wooden dug-out canoes, eager to trade their form of transport for ours. SUP boards and blow-up unicorns are quickly commandeered and my fellow cruisers and I realise we’ve fallen victim to a calculated and well-practised ambush. There’s nothing we can do about it, of course, as these kids rule the waters.
Over by the Taka, business is getting underway. An important ethos of the Solomon Island Discovery Cruises is a focus on sustainable tourism, and a way of delivering on that promise is by actively involving the local communities. It’s the reason why island visits and hosted performances are so integral to the cruise, and why more than 30 canoes, loaded with fresh fruit and vegetables, have suddenly converged on the boat.
This makeshift floating marketplace – every bit as loud and enthusiastic as one you’d expect in Southeast Asia – allows for both the boat to top up its supplies (the use of fresh, local ingredients for our meals is an outstanding feature of the trip) and provides a monetary opportunity for the residents of Mane to sell and trade their produce. It’s an ongoing agreement every time the Taka steams into the bay, and a win-win for all involved, especially in these outer islands where any form of income from tourism is virtually non-existent.
Our final morning begins as all the others have: alarms going off at 5.25am for yoga on the top deck. This particular morning, though, our view is slightly different. We’re on the outskirts of Honiara and there’s a slight haze in the air, while that unmistakable end-of-holiday feeling reverberates between my fellow yogis and I.
As we settle into the now familiar moves of our sun salutations, I once again slip into the familiar pattern of thinking ahead to what’s on during the day: taxis, flights, transfers and more flights. I feel the slightest hint of anxiety start to creep in, so I take a couple of extra-deep breaths and sneak a peek at the
orange-hued horizon instead.
I may have fallen out of step with the rest of the group as a result, but I figure since we’re still technically on island time, it’s not going to matter too much if I soak up the last of the early-morning Sollies sun for just a little longer.
“You wanna know something? Donnie asks in a smoky mid-western drawl. I’m only gonna tell you this once, so pay attention. Where you are now, right now, this place here, is the best ski mountain in the USA if not the whole damn world!”
I’m propped up at the bar at the Hellroaring Saloon & Eatery on Montana’s Whitefish Mountain. In front of me is a pint of Moose Drool Brown Ale and to my left is Donnie, a local skier with an amazing ability to fit twice as many words into a sentence than is necessary. The bar itself is decorated with an eclectic mix of ski paraphernalia and the odd stuffed animal. There are three guys in cowboy hats downing shots of whiskey at the end of the bar. If not for everyone dressed in ski gear we could be in a scene from a classic Clint Eastwood western.
“This place ain’t like them fancy pancy nancy Colorado reeezorts,” Donnie drawls. “Oh, no sir! I skied down there before I got up this way and I ain’t never ever even thought once about heading back on down.”
“Coz we’re different, man. We’re the real deal in these parts.” Then he stands, shakes my hand and wanders out onto the powdered slopes of Whitefish leaving me grinning.
“Donnie,” I say to myself channelling his linguistic trait, “that is simply, without a doubt, the main exact reason we’re here.”
We had landed at Bozeman Airport a week earlier to make our way to Montana’s most famous ski field, Big Sky Resort. Embracing the Wild West, we eschew the ski-in, ski-out chalets and instead choose to stay at Lone Mountain Ranch, one of National Geographic’s Unique Lodges of the World. Picture the quintessential American log cabin surrounded by trees slouching with the weight of a fresh snowfall. The 27 log cabins are spaced well enough away from each other to ensure privacy and a feeling of isolation, yet all are within walking distance of the main ranch where the renowned Horn & Cantle Restaurant serves award-winning nosh and its saloon bar pours American whiskies and craft beer. It’s all rustic wood, open fires and low lighting. I feel like I need to buy a Stetson just to fit in.
The snow when we arrive is waist deep. The stars light our way and the glow of the open fire in our cabin – named Lame Deer – beckons through the windows. There’s a record player with a selection of vinyl. I choose The Best of John Denver (nice touch) and climb into the deep warmth of our bed to the strains of ‘Rocky Mountain High’. This is America.
It’s a short drive from Lone Mountain to Big Sky Resort. As we approach the base there’s a flurry of activity as a few skiers and boarders jostle for the lifts. Claiming to have the “Biggest Skiing in America”, Big Sky has more than 20 square kilometres of ski terrain with runs for all levels. It is astonishing that there are not more people here. There are no lines for the lifts. None. Not one. Perhaps that is why the likes of Justin Timberlake and Ben Affleck choose to ski here.
Big Sky has only recently opened the Ramcharger 8, one of the most technologically advanced chairlifts in the world. Built to carry eight people, it is high speed, heated and comes with a weather-protecting hood. Unless word begins to get out, I struggle to see how they will fill it given the lack of crowds.
We ski all day, only stopping for lunch at Headwaters Grille on the mountain. Big Sky lives up to its name and for a couple of hours in the afternoon I have no idea where we are. It is a great way to ski knowing there are new runs after every lift. Thankfully the mountain is well signposted and we don’t find ourselves staring down a double black diamond run to get home.
It’s not all skiing here though, and on our second day we join the team from Spirit of the North for a dog sled through the Moonlight Basin in Big Sky’s backcountry. With the imposing Lone Mountain and Spanish Peaks as a backdrop dogsledding through fresh snow is a serious adrenaline rush. My team of Alaskan huskies barks with excitement and, even before we have taken off, pulls hard on the sled.
“Foot down!” Jim yells at me to ensure I weigh heavily on the foot brake. “If they take off without you we’ll never get your wife back!” My wife shifts uncomfortably in the sled.
Jim gives me the thumbs-up, so I lift my foot and step onto the sled.
It lurches forward and for a split second I fear I’ll be a bachelor again.
It is not easy controlling a dog sled. Push the brake going downhill. Jump off and run with the dogs going uphill. Lean to the left when turning right. Lean to the right when turning left. I curse myself for not paying enough attention to Jim’s briefing, especially when we take a sharp turn and hit a tree branch heavy with powdery snow.
“Having fun?” I ask my wife as she clears the snow from her head. The views are astonishing though. There is so much deep snow it feels like we’re sledding through a world made of marshmallow.
The drive from Big Sky to Whitefish is a seven-hour cruise through middle America. We pass small towns with houses decorated with American flags, like something out of a 1980s Tom Cruise movie. There’s a church with a sign out front proclaiming “All Pasties Welcome”. I assume it means pastors, but out here who would really know? There seems to be more pick-up trucks than people in these parts.
Fifteen minutes after Donnie has departed the Hellroaring Saloon I am back up on the summit of Whitefish. We’re in luck with the weather today. With not a cloud in the sky, the views are endless. The peaks of Glacier National Park run all the way to the Canadian border to the north; to the south Whitefish Lake sparkles in the afternoon sunshine. Donnie had told me of the inversion days that happen here, where the warm air pushes the cloud cover low over the lake and town of Whitefish. “Can you like imagine, just for one minute, what it would be like to ski above the clouds? Man, that’s what it is like. I’m serious. It’s like being in heaven.”
We are staying on the mountain this time in the wonderfully unique Ponderosa Chalet, a treehouse literally a ski length from Tenderfoot chairlift. I learn the first morning to make sure I’m dressed for breakfast after a lift-load of eager snowboarders laughs hysterically at me through the window.
While Ponderosa is set up for self-catering we make the most of the mountain resort’s restaurants. We fine dine on buffalo tenderloin at the renowned Cafe Kandahar and gorge on burgers and beer at Ed & Mully’s where the après-ski scene tends to kick off each day. It ends at The Bierstube with a great selection of local craft beers and retro video games. On our last evening it is karaoke night and, as I look through the song list, I hear a familiar voice from the stage. It’s Donnie and he’s trying to sing ‘The Gambler’ while flashing a beaming smile my way. He beckons me to join him and I spend my last night in Montana singing “You gotta know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em” arm in arm with a guy I’d only met a day earlier. It’s the real deal out here alright.
Imagine Japan. What do you see? Likely the cloud-tickling skyscrapers of Tokyo and ancient teahouses of Kyoto. In reality, those two images are far from representative of Japan’s compact but diverse landscape. Less than two hours by boat north of the mainland of Shimane Prefecture, I find myself surrounded by the Sea of Japan, at the doorstep of the Oki Islands, a volcanic cluster of unrefined beauty and drama.
From largest to smallest, the rundown of the Oki Islands goes like this: Dogo, Nishinoshima, Nakanoshima and Chiburijima. Together they’re home to spectacular coastal scenery, including epic cliffs and pristine beaches, lush mountain walks through ancient forests, diverse populations of wildlife and, in more recent times, UNESCO Global Geoparks Network recognition.
While you can get to the islands by aeroplane, it’s far more scenic and affordable to catch the Oki Island Ferry. By the time the ship has sailed, it’s clear this is also the best way to understand the locals’ love of the sea.
While the other three of the Oki islands are clustered together in tight formation, like three pieces of a slowly separating jigsaw puzzle, Dogojima is a separate entity. Compared to Tokyo, the large, lonely island’s population of just 15,000 residents seems minuscule, but it plays the role of the capital of the islands. It’s the biggest fish in a small pond. What Dogojima lacks in population, however, it makes up for in unparalleled scenic views and ecological diversity.
If you were to ask the locals to pick just one location on the map that was representative of the island, they’d likely pick Candle Rock, also known as Rosoku-jima. Sitting just off Dogojima’s northwest coastline of, Rosoku-jima is a 20-metre-tall rock formation only accessible by a sightseeing boat.
At 4pm we head out on the cruising boat, cameras poised and skipper primed to manoeuvre his charge into position. While the rock’s uniquely tapered, candle-like shape is impressive throughout the day, it’s especially so pre-sunset. With boat, rock and setting light source correctly aligned, the sun plays the role of the candle flame, glittering gold and red light atop the slim rock.
Battling greying skies and a mischievous ocean breeze that coated camera lenses in a fine layer of sea water, we take shot after shot in an attempt to capture the balanced fragility and compelling beauty of this icon of Dogojima.
A little closer to shore sits another of Dogojima’s famed attractions: the humble boathouses that line the rocky beach. With roofing held down by oversized stones and at just ¥1,500 (about AU$20) a year to rent, they are a perfect example of Dogo’s laid-back yin to the dramatic yang of Candle Rock.
While Dogojima is the largest of the Oki family, when it comes to coastal attractions, biggest doesn’t necessarily mean best. Nishinoshima is the home of the Kuniga Coast, a rugged 13-kilometre-long fringe of the island with eroded cliff formations that resemble oversized abstract sculptures.
At 257 meters tall, with its blood red face contrasting against the impossibly blue water of the Sea of Japan, Matengai is the centrepiece of Kuniga Coast. Walking tours take visitors to admire the stunning site, but the best way to get up close is by boat.
On an almost impossibly perfect day, we depart Beppu Port to cruise Nishinoshima’s most dramatic side. Chugging past the monstrously tall Kanabo-iwa and So Butsuzo-iwa cliffs, and intermittently dipping in and out of sea caves Otohime-goten and Takimi-no-iwaya, we’re treated to endless naturally crafted masterpieces, each more dramatic than the last. But if the preceding cliffs are masterpieces Matengai Cliff is the Mona Lisa, such is its perfection.
While the Oki islands are without question a boat lover’s paradise, when the waves are rough – no rarity here – it doesn’t mean the opportunity to admire the coastal beauty is only out at sea. You can easily be swept away by incredible views while still having two feet planted on solid ground.
In a northeastern corner of Dogo Island is the Joudogaura Coast, a pocket of picture-perfect views that’s easy to hunt down if you can write in Japanese (search 浄土ケ浦海岸). To get to its most scenic section, our guide tells us to take the slippery, foliage-covered walking path. It isn’t an easy trek but is well worth the extra 15-minute slog to arrive at a primo spot for photography. Around 2.65 million years ago, volcanic activity crafted this dramatic scene. Thick basalt lava spewed 10 metres into the air then settled along the coast and nearby Cape Sakiyama to create a black layer-cake effect. It feels somehow prehistoric but sea erosion and wind constantly sculpts and reforms its shape in a type of live art performance. You can almost read the history in every sagging lava rock and sharp cliff edge that towers above the deep ocean.
Dogo’s other must-visit viewpoint is the Shirashima Coast Lookout, located on the northernmost tip of the island. The geological formations that make up the neighbouring landscape are yet another example of the almost logic-defying diversity of this small landmass. Just moments ago we were snapping photos of the dramatic black landscape at Joudogaura, and now we’re admiring the pure white rocks that make up the cliffs of Shirashima.
While they’re better known for their outdoor pursuits than their artistic output, you can certainly get a little creative here on the Oki islands. After a long few days trekking along the coast and bobbing in the ocean, we head to Dogo’s Kurui Port to experience the marine world in a different way.
The paints are set out in the classroom, newspaper is laid down and there’s a box of clean, palm-sized shells from which to choose for an oyster decorating class. The teacher shows us a few example pieces before giving us a rundown on the process. Basically, there are no rules; just do as you want and let your creativity run wild. Others in the class outline maps of the island and re-create beach scenes. I decide to paint the tanuki (Japanese raccoon dog), a mischievous symbol of Dogo. These fuzzy Japanese natives can be spotted across the island, weaving in and out of the bush. Painting the shell is more tranquil art therapy than class and much more fun than I had thought it was going to be. After about 40 minutes of almost zen-like concentration, carefully tracking the tiny peaks and valleys on the shell’s interior, I have a tanuki-adorned oyster as a souvenir of my time exploring this untouched island corner of Japan.
This story is sponsored by JNTO (Japan National Tourism Organization).
The entrance to the small green shed that is home to the Northern Lights Wolf Centre is covered in the skulls and antlers of Canadian Rockies natives. And a door the same colour as the nearby mountain town of Golden is our gateway to an experience for which I’m not fully prepared.
We’re going to walk with wolves, and I’ve watched enough Game Of Thrones to wonder whether I’ll have to adopt a Yorkshire accent to ensure the world’s largest wild canids know I’m friend rather than foe.
The centre was established in 2002 when Casey, a former Hollywood animal trainer, and Shelley Black decided to educate people about the majestic wolves and the important role they play in the environment. They started with just one wolf, but now have a pack of seven that live in a 5000 square metre enclosure.
A chorus of howls adds a backing soundtrack to Shelley’s warnings as she prepares us for what’s to come: “It’s important to remember, we’re on wolf terms.” Thankfully, the wolves, which have been born and raised in captivity, are used to the presence of humans. As a result, they act more like dogs than wild animals.
A leash is attached to young female Flora, who follows Casey to his sedan and is loaded into the back. Riding behind with Shelley, I see Flora’s yellow eyes peering through the back window. She has a pup-like appearance, but this is a 45-kilogram grey wolf with the strength to take down a cow.
It’s a combination of the breath-stealing scenery and majestic nature of the long-legged creature padding beside me that makes me want to pinch myself through my puffy jacket. Flora disappears then reappears far ahead or behind us. It doesn’t faze me until, as I crouch down next to a glacial creek snapping photographs, she starts running towards me. I freeze before remembering Shelley’s words: “Always stand taller than the wolf.” I don’t realise Casey is holding a treat, which is what has Flora’s attention, but before he says, “Don’t panic,” I’ve jumped up and moved well out of her way.
With my heart pounding, we continue. I’m still unsure of my relationship with Flora. She’s not let me pat her, nor has she sniffed my feet as a normal dog would. Shelley instructs me to stand next to a log, and I oblige. Within moments, Flora has jumped up on it and run her tongue along my face, leaving a trail of saliva. It’s the most action I’ve had on this trip to Canada and, wearing the remnants of her sloppy kiss, I’m no longer left wondering whether I’m friend or foe
Less than 24 hours ago I was lying on a stretcher in a Slovenian emergency room, defeated, deflated and dehydrated – the effects of attending a five-day heavy metal music festival in the scorching summer heat. But now I’m racing down route 209 on a road bike, crossing the turquoise Sava Bohinjka River and pedalling like a madman between lofty limestone mountains with peaks obscured by puffy cloud. I’m picking up serious speed too, making the painted lines on the bitumen blur into one continuous streak.
Thankfully, I’m yet to share this gorgeous mountain road with any cars on this summer’s day, and that’s because I’m cycling to one of Slovenia’s lesser-known attractions. Most visitors limit themselves to exploring Bled, a fairytale lake in the country’s northwest, famous for the baroque church rising from a thicket of green on the island at its centre, and the medieval castle that lords over its north shore.
But I’ve chosen to bypass the tourists and ride from Bled to the less developed Lake Bohinj, Slovenia’s largest and, in my opinion, most majestic alpine lake, just 26 kilometres away.
Assuming I don’t die on the way, I’m also hoping to visit Savica Waterfall, the lake’s main tributary, adding another four kilometres to the adventure. In total, 30 kilometres isn’t a great distance for a semi-fit cyclist. Then there’s me: out of shape, poorly equipped and about as experienced on two wheels as your average 10-year-old. Plus, there’s that whole emergency-room thing. I’m clearly out of my depth, and nearly out of breath – even at this early stage. Although I’m fairly confident I’ll make the distance there without puncturing like a tyre and having my stamina evaporate into thin mountain air, completing the return journey is another matter entirely.
Declaring its independence during Yugoslavia’s last gasps in the early 1990s, Slovenia, as a nation-state, is relatively new on the diplomatic stage. This novelty, however, belies the millennia of history etched into this small tract of Central European territory caught between Italy, Austria, Hungary and Croatia. As with much of Europe, the Romans left their mark here. In fact, Ljubljana, the compact capital, grew from the Roman settlement of Emona, which was founded more than 2000 years ago. The Roman Empire used it as a commercial hub from which to trade olive oil and wine for amber and bronze sourced from outlying provinces.
Even before the arrival of the Romans, earlier Celtic tribes and Neanderthals, Slovenia’s geology and rugged landscape had been refined by Mother Nature for millions of years. The culmination of her work here is the Bohinj Basin and its pearl, Lake Bohinj, which was formed by glaciers during the last ice age. The lake and the surrounding region flaunt rich biodiversity, including dozens of species of alpine flowers and wildlife such as ibex, rare chamois (goat-antelopes native to Europe) and golden eagles. More than two-thirds of Bohinj lies within Slovenia’s only national park, Triglav, which has protected the region from mass development and left its nature relatively untouched. This is where Slovenians come to experience the great outdoors in its purest form, and I’m keen to get in on the action.
Ernest Hemingway once wrote “it is by riding a bicycle that you learn the contours of a country best, since you have to sweat up the hills and coast down them”. Twenty minutes into the ride it’s apparent that Bohinj is making me work for my education, and I struggle to climb fierce mountains (they’re probably just hills) that never seem to end. But for every incline I’m compensated with postcard views of the Julian Alps and dreamy vistas of gushing rivers, rustic hamlets and thick forest – in other words, the slog is totally worth it. Threading my way like a needle through the landscape, I cycle over immense concrete bridges dwarfed by the surrounding mountains that throw their shadows on the road like an eclipse of the sun. I speed past patient locals fly-fishing in the turquoise river below. And I pedal beyond rusted road signs introducing places I cannot pronounce.
I round a bend, the limestone corridor opens into a wide meadow carpeted with blooming purple and golden wildflowers, and the shadow I’ve been riding in brightens by degrees until consumed by the sun. In the distance I spot cows grazing among wooden farmhouses and lonely toplarji, freestanding wooden hay-racks complete with roofs and storage lofts that are used for drying wheat and hay. Unique to Slovenia and particularly prevalent in the Bohinj region, the best toplarji are found in the nearby town of Studor, where they’re well-preserved and still very much in use. Further down the road, a congregation of roofs indicates an upcoming town and I catch a glimpse of sparkling Lake Bohinj on the horizon, oasis-like in its appeal. An arrow of excitement pierces me, and I drop to a lower gear and ride like a parched man in a desert, mouth agape and legs firing on all cylinders.
Ribcev Laz isn’t the largest of the 24 settlements scattered throughout Bohinj. That accolade belongs to the 1700-person town of Bohinjska Bistrica, which has served as the major gateway to the region since a railway connected it to the rest of the country more than a century ago. But pint-sized Ribcev Laz claims the most idyllic location. Sitting on the eastern shore of Lake Bohinj, the town offers splendid views of the valley, including the 1800-metre-high Mount Vogel, Slovenia’s premier ski resort. Surrounded by limestone mountains wearing patchy beards of vegetation and spindly evergreens, Lake Bohinj holds more than 100 million cubic metres of water – which isn’t more than a bucketful, says an old Bohinj joke, if the bucket is large enough. Stretching for more thab four kilometres long and a kilometre wide, it looks more like a small emerald sea than a lake.
At the local tourist office, I’m informed that the lake acquires its green tint from the minerals and sediments found in the glacial waters that feed it. I also learn that 15 marked bike trails skirt the lake, as well as a 12-kilometre path that you can trek for four to five hours. You can also jump on a boat captained by friendly locals and enjoy a 30-minute cruise on the lake’s protected waters. No combustion engines are allowed in the Triglav National Park, I’m told, and so these vessels are all electric and environmentally friendly. For the moment, though, I’m content to just stand and admire the water from the shore. These are the types of vistas that capture the attention and lenses of photographers, locals and travellers alike, and I’m hooked.
Although the lake freezes in winter, in summer the water temperature rises to a pleasant 22°C, making it perfect for swimming, especially after a blistering bike ride. Shrugging off my backpack, I wade into the translucent water and dunk myself under. It’s cold, but refreshing. A kayaking competition is underway nearby, where pre-teens manoeuvre vessels with skill to the cheers of an onlooking crowd. It’s an impressive show, but I’m totally beat, and so I retire to the banks, roll my towel into a pillow and lie down. Eyes closed, I rest my weary limbs as the wind plays with the leaves overhead and pockets of sun emerge from behind clouds to toast me dry.
But there’s still one more mountain to climb. A four-kilometre road winding its way up a peak stands between me and the final to-do on my itinerary: Savica Waterfall. Setting off from the tiny hamlet of Ukanc on the western shore of the lake, I cycle through a tapestry of browns, greens and grey, made up of damp-smelling forest carpeted with decaying leaves and rocks partially hidden under spongy moss. The canopy above has darkened the scene and the twisted tree roots resemble the bony fingers of some unearthed forest monster, ready to rise up and devour me at a moment’s notice. Each hill I crest – there are many – is a triumph of will, and 10 minutes into the belly of the beast I’m running on fumes. There are no other cyclists on the road, and when the occasional car does pass me I’m certain I appear as a picture of desperation in the rear-view mirror. The choice to give up, turn back and drown my sorrows with a cold Laško beer is almost irresistible. But I push on, determined to reach the top of the calf-burner and embark on the last leg of my journey.
After a gruelling 45-minute ascent I finally reach the waterfall’s entrance. I lock my bike, guzzle some water and set off on the short hike to the falls. It takes 20 minutes’ worth of sweat, climbing up 500 slippery steps and over thundering rapids and crystalline streams to reach the viewing platform facing the vertiginous waterfall. From up here the sound of water cascading over the rock face and plunging 78 metres into a frothy turquoise pool is at a roaring intensity. An Italian family asks me to take their photo, and I’m only too happy to oblige. I’ve reached the end of my challenge, collected my reward, and it’s downhill from here.
Back at the restaurant by the entrance, I tuck into a not-so-Slovenian burger, fries and an icy beer. I think about the falls and the power of the water that carved its way through rock over thousands of years, eventually forming a gorge. It reminds me of my own struggle to get here. Like the unending flow, it was sheer will and persistence that fuelled my journey. But even willpower can run dry, and so I return to Bled by bus later in the afternoon. It’s that or risk visiting another Slovenian emergency room.
I’m heading north. Almost as far north as you can go before leaving civilisation behind. My final destination is Svalbard, a Norwegian archipelago sitting at almost 80 degrees north – well within the Arctic Circle. It’s late November and I’m told the polar night is in full swing, meaning the sun has taken leave and will not reappear for another 90 days.
There will be light though. Well, at least that’s what I’m searching for. It’s here that particles from the sun, attracted to the Earth’s magnetic poles, collide with the atmosphere and create a light show electrifying the long winter nights. The northern lights beckon me, and I can think of nowhere better to experience them than the unadulterated darkness of Svalbard.
American poet Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, “To find the journey’s end in every step of the road … is wisdom.” While the great Robert Louis Stevenson mused, “To travel hopefully is a better thing than to arrive.” Both wise men echo an ancient Taoist saying: “The journey is the reward.” It’s a philosophy I strive to embrace, although I’ve had doubts ever since I suffered a 48-hour non-stop bus journey through India with my bowels begging for Bombay’s porcelain. Yet, as I sit down to lunch on board the MS Kong Harald – a Hurtigruten passenger ferry currently docked off the Norwegian coastal town of Trondheim – at the start of my journey, I embrace once again the writings of Emerson and Stevenson.
An enormous fish tank sits front and centre of Kysten restaurant, one of three on board. Inside, Norwegian red king crabs the size of steering wheels vie for space. Each crustacean has a tag with a QR code linking to information about where and when the creature was caught and details of its captor. I’ve chosen what looks to be the plumpest crab and, having scanned the code, find myself toasting a Norwegian fisherman named Ole who caught my lunch near Finnmark, the northernmost point of mainland Norway.
Ole has been a fisherman for 53 years and fancies Swedish music. Judging from his photos, I’m certain ABBA doesn’t feature on his playlist.
“Ole, my new faraway friend,” I think to myself while cracking into the crab and trying to shake the lyrics of ‘Mamma Mia’ from my mind, “this setting is not what I was expecting.”
In fact, nothing about the MS Kong Harald is as I expected. Shouldn’t riding a passenger ferry be a crowded, uncomfortable and all-round unpleasant affair? Aren’t they designed to ship passengers from A to B in a perfunctory fashion? Instead, the ship boasts a range of bars and restaurants, a bakery, an ice-creamery and two outdoor hot tubs that prove quite popular, even in the chill of winter. It is one of 11 Hurtigruten ships cruising a constant circuit and picking up and dropping off cargo along the way.
Hurtigruten has been servicing the Norwegian coast since 1893, transporting local passengers, freight, mail and visitors to 34 ports that span from Bergen in the south all the way up to Kirkenes in the north. As passenger numbers grew and freight trade slowed, the Hurtigruten team realised travellers were interested in learning more about the Nordic nation. They introduced activities for passengers at each port and now offer more than 60 experiences, ranging from snowmobiling and coastal walks to quad biking and dining like a Viking. Add in a refurbished fleet, and a ‘coastal kitchen’ policy that ensures the fresh local produce purchased at each port dictates the day’s menu, and you’ve got a journey of which Emerson and Stevenson would surely approve.
With the bow pointing north, we spend three days at sea, stopping at 13 ports on our way to Tromsø. Sometimes the ferry pauses for just 15 minutes, although more often we dock for up to four hours. Coastal port towns like Bodø and Ornes appear to have been lifted straight from the movie Frozen. Light from houses flickers off the snow and frosty peaks rise sharply behind them. I join a coastal walk in Bodø and find the path busy with locals. Not even the challenge of winter twilight is enough to keep the outdoorsy Norwegians locked up at home.
We pass through the tight fjords of the Lofoten Islands, where the dark outlines of craggy mountains loom ominously over the ship. It must be breathtaking in the light, but they hold an eerie allure in the cold darkness. One afternoon a passenger spots a sparkle in the inky sky. In an instant the decks teem with tourists and locals alike, all hoping for a glimpse of the aurora. I’m told they’re quite common on this passage. I think I see something of a shimmer, but it may just have been the reflection of a camera flash.
As November creeps to a close and we venture further north darkness devours more sunlight. The few remaining daylight hours become bitingly cold. In the south in Oslo, Norway’s small but busy capital, the sun sets after 4pm, but now, as we cruise closer to Tromsø, it pokes its head above the horizon at 9am and sinks by 1pm each day. Despite the brief window of light, the views are still spectacular.
Lengthy nights make sundowners a dangerous proposition. Inevitably, we find ourselves at the Explorer Lounge and Bar on the top deck of the ship. From here you can toast the ever-changing vistas that unfold before you. I meet Tor, who resembles a cross between Asterix the Gaul and a hipster hairdresser. Tor is returning to his village in the Lofoten Islands and has a penchant for Norwegian aquavit, a rather potent local spirit.
Sara, the Swedish bartender, teaches us a Swedish drinking song, which translates to:
“Something naked, blue and swollen,
Is hanging from the ceiling,
What could it be?
It’s old Aunt Sonya!”
While no one can explain the origins, I am rather worried about old Aunt Sonya’s family.
“It is not as strange as the one where the boy makes a poo in the waffle iron,” Sara explains earnestly. I’m not sure I agree.
As we disembark the MS Kong Harald in Tromsø I watch as a tractor, containers and a small car are loaded into the hold. A Canadian couple sporting maple leaves on their bags crosses my path as they board. “It is such a great trip!” the wife exclaims. “We haven’t been snowmobiling yet,” she tells me, “but there’s been a snowfall further north.” They are travelling all the way up to Kirkenes and back to Bergen again, revisiting all 34 ports.
After an extensive crawl between Tromsø’s craft beer joints – did I mention Arctic sundowners are dangerous? – we fly north into the dark polar nights of Longyearbyen, the world’s northernmost city, and the only city in Svalbard.
Longyearbyen translates to Longyear City in Norwegian, and owes its name to John Longyear, who started the Arctic Coal Company back in 1906. Mining is tough business anywhere in the world, but through an Arctic winter in 24-hour darkness? I can almost hear the miners crying, “Fuck, it’s been a long year!”
With most of the coalmines now closed tourism has become the primary industry alongside scientific research. On arrival, I join a two-hour Maxi Taxi tour with Vigor, who’s an ex-miner himself. He drives us out of the city and up a mountain pass to the Svalbard Satellite Station. In the 10am darkness I can make out two huge satellite dishes. I feel as though I’ve walked onto the set of an M Night Shyamalan film, especially when we stop at the Global Seed Vault, which turns out to be a lone door with a shining emerald glass front on an otherwise bare mountainside. The vault holds back-ups of the world’s crop collections, kept safe from any global disasters that may come to pass.
Vigor turns out to be a kind of Svalbard Siri. He knows everything there is to know about the place, including where to find the only graveyard. Apparently it’s illegal to die up here, as your body can’t decompose in the ground’s permafrost. He gives us a full rundown of the city centre’s best restaurants and bars. “Have fish of the day at Gruvelageret,” Vigor advises. “It’s whale.”
It’s an odd feeling to pass days in constant night and I can see how some people struggle to live here. So far the skies over Longyearbyen have been covered with cloud, but despite the cold there’s no sign of snow. On my hotel door is a picture of Ivan Starostin, a Russian trapper who holds the record for enduring the most winters in Svalbard. He spent 39 winters here in the 1700s, catching polar bears and Arctic foxes. In the name of Ivan I decide to toughen up.
One evening I head out of town to dine at Camp Barentsz, named after Dutch explorer Willem Barentsz, who first discovered Svalbard in 1596. Winter ice crushed his ship during one expedition, and the camp hosts northern light spotting evenings in a replica of the hut his crew built from the boat’s debris. We dine on reindeer stew and sip hot wine as we hear how the pioneers huddled around a fire while frostbite nipped at their backs. One of the first things they constructed was an hourglass to give them a sense of structure in the four months of darkness. The aurora borealis must have been like fireworks to those hardened sailors as they tried desperately to survive. Tonight, however, it’s overcast and we leave camp without even seeing a star.
Anika, a Svalbard local, tells me she collapsed upon first seeing the lights when she arrived in Longyearbyen nearly 10 years ago. “Was it spiritual?” I ask her. “Is it that spectacular?”
“Not quite,” Anika says, laughing. “I just had my head back so far, staring up for so long, that I fainted from lack of blood flow.”
I ask Anika if she thinks she might break Ivan’s record of 39 winters. She chuckles but doesn’t dismiss the challenge. “There’s so much to do here,” she says. “When the snow comes we can snowmobile for days on fresh powder and sleep out in old trappers’ huts at night. There’s dog sledding into ice caves, cross-country skiing, polar bear spotting… And that’s just in winter.”
On my final evening I head to Svalbard Bryggeri, the northernmost brewery in the world. Robert, a former miner, now brew master, fought hard to change a law that barred alcohol from being manufactured in Svalbard back in 2015. This year he’s hoping to produce up to 250,000 litres of beer, brewed with 16 per cent local glacial water. Folks are thirsty up here.
Robert suggests I try a Spitsbergen stout. “Drink enough of this and you will see the northern lights with your eyes closed,” he offers.
“The lights aren’t everything, Robert,” I unconvincingly reply between sips. “The journey has been the reward.”
Swerving in from the Timor Sea, our frothy wake billows behind us like a wedding veil caught in the wind. Leaving the ocean behind, our steel runabout breaches the coastline, plunging inland up an unnamed creek. We slalom through its curves as the surrounding rocks grow in stature and mangroves encroach from either side, funnelling us into the ever-narrowing gorge. When we can go no further, guide Bruce Maycock throttles back. We drift – embraced by the Kimberley.
Ochre sandstone pillars pierce the cerulean sky. Green mangroves crowd the tinnie. Saltwater crocodiles skulk in the translucent jade water. It’s enveloping, powerful, primordial. Bruce watches our reactions, a grin lighting up his sun-weathered face as we soak up the grandeur of this prehistoric landscape. He admits this unnamed creek is one of his favourites, and he calls it Jungle Creek.
Like a mate showing off his hometown, Bruce is in his element. This is his backyard, literally, as when he’s not guiding for luxury Berkeley River Lodge, Bruce retreats to his open-air camp up a similar creek, in the northeast Kimberley wilderness. He’s been camping out here since long before the lodge was built, between seasons working for a diamond exploration company. It’s a hermitic bushman image that’s hard to reconcile with his friendly, personable demeanour.
Berkeley River Lodge makes the most of its remote location in Western Australia’s Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, offering guests a range of excursions from comfortable river cruises and helicopter jaunts to fishing trips and guided hikes. We’ve struck it lucky – wind and tide have enabled a full-day coastal excursion west of the lodge, an occurrence that only comes around about once a month.
From Jungle Creek we head to Osprey Bay. Multiple tracks between beach and lagoon warn of saltwater crocodiles as we clamber over boulders to a rock overhang adorned with Indigenous art. Discovered by Bruce in 2001, the well-preserved images include hand stencils, Gwion Gwion-like stick figures, a Wanjina-style spirit being, a detailed dilly bag and an enormous dugong. It’s both thrilling and humbling to be one of so few people to see these still-vibrant paintings (no cruise ships stop here), but sad to hear people from the various Aboriginal clans of the Kimberley now rarely visit this isolated region.
Bruce recounts watching a crocodile emerge from the sea with a dugong in its mouth before devouring it in a bloody mess on the beach. We look furtively around and dash back to the boat.
Wallabies, camouflaged on the rock ledges, watch as we tie up to mangroves for a spot of fishing while crocs float like logs behind us. In quick succession we catch and release a couple of cod and mangrove jack, lose some bait to a reef shark and mourn the loss of a legal-sized barramundi.
Resembling an arty driftwood sculpture, an osprey nest balances precariously atop a rock at Atlantis Bay. Snake-necked darters air outstretched wings like feathered statues and a white-bellied sea eagle drifts overhead. We pull up to a rock ledge for lunch before a hot and sweaty hike up the creek bed to a series of spectacular waterholes.
Pandanus sprouts between rocks the colour of molten gold. Water lilies garnish the gin-clear water. Rainbow bee-eaters dart between us snatching water beetles as we swim cocooned by the ancient escarpment in a croc-free pool. Even losing my waterproof camera can’t dampen my spirits. Miraculously, fellow guests who helicopter to the rock pool 48 hours later find it underwater – undamaged and still working.
Bouncing back to the lodge over the late afternoon chop gives a seaward perspective of its remoteness. Perched on the red dirt behind expansive sand dunes, it commands views of both the Berkeley River and Timor Sea, yet its footprint is insignificant in the vastness of East Kimberley.
It’s a similar feeling arriving by air. The one-hour flight from Kununurra travels over a rumpled quilt of jutting ridges and shadowed valleys, snaking rivers and fanning flood plains that abut the sea. The colours – auburn, khaki, cobalt and turquoise – are as intense as an over-saturated digital image. The orange dirt airstrip, like a child’s sugary fruit-strap, is the only hint of the resort.
Built in 2012 on Indigenous-owned land, the lodge is unpretentious, barefoot beach-house chic. It lets the landscape take centre stage. Service is efficient and personable thanks to the philosophy of down-to-earth owners, the Peirson-Jones family, founders of Matso’s Broome Brewery, who camped here during construction. Villas are designed with practicality and the environment in mind. Bamboo floors accommodate dusty feet, louvered windows capture gossamer breezes, open-air bathrooms enable showering with birdsong or bathing beneath the stars. The neutral decor focuses attention on nature’s colours, best viewed from daybeds atop decks that point toward the ocean or river.
It’s a theme echoed in the main lodge, where glass doors are thrown open to the deck. An infinity pool offers a refreshing dip before pre-dinner drinks, when excursion options for the following day are discussed. Degustation dinners feature the likes of barramundi paperbark parcels, Sichuan peppered kangaroo fillet, and slow-roasted, herb-crusted lamb.
While it’s enticing to just chill, revel in the isolation and listen to the birds, this is my first trip to the Kimberley so I grab every opportunity to explore. Within an hour of arriving Bruce has us on a beach drive in a safari-style 4WD, stopping to point out a jabiru, fresh flatback turtle tracks, dingo prints and a selection of Aboriginal tools.
An army of blue soldier crabs scurries across the sand like scattered cat’s-eye marbles and pied oystercatchers prance at the water’s edge as we wade through Second Creek with fishing rods, keeping a wary eye out for crocs. Warned on arrival to stay five metres from the water at all times, we hope our trust in Bruce is not misplaced.
Two deft throws of a net and Bruce catches enough flapping mullet for bait. I reel in an estuary cod and mangrove jack, while others pluck bream and trevally from the water – a barramundi for the chef proves elusive. Back on the beach we picnic under the shade of pandanus trees, eating from beautifully presented bento boxes. On the return drive we spot shovelnose sharks in the shallows and meet Boots, the 2.5 metre-long saltwater croc that resides at the river mouth.
A relaxing cruise on the Berkeley River passes through a rugged gorge of sienna sandstone, its mosaic of fractured crags reflected in the still waters. A boab tree stretches its branches above the scrub in a bay where moon jellyfish congregate to breed. Inky stains dribbling down towering rock faces mark wet season waterfalls. As it’s the end of the dry, the only fall flowing is spring-fed and so insignificant compared to its counterparts that it doesn’t have a name, although it looks impressive to us.
Behind is a rock garden of trickling water, grasses and shady eucalypts that would make Jamie Durie jealous. We cool off in a pond of lily pads sprouting tiny white-frilled flowers.
A natural amphitheatre of 80-metre-high cliffs proves a dramatic backdrop for lunch, the scraps of which are eagerly devoured by waiting fish. The waterfall may not be flowing but a recently collapsed rock face is testament to the unpredictability of this harsh terrain, as noted by Charles Price Conigrave, who named the Berkeley on an expedition in 1911, saying of all the gorge-like ravines in the area, “The Berkeley is infinitely the wildest and most stupendous.”
His expedition from Wyndham also circumnavigated and climbed Mount Casuarina, a flat-topped monolith seen in the distance from the lodge. He left notes on the journey under a rock cairn at the summit, and, thanks to a Truenorth Helicopters tour, I’m standing next to that cairn at sunset, sipping champagne as the Berkeley River gorge below glows shades of orange in the lowering sun.
Conigrave later wrote of the Berkeley, “In the fading light of early evening, we fellows sat at the cliff-top, fascinated by the sight of the silent river away down below. We thought that in far distant days, when we vagabond wanderers will have been completely forgotten, tourists will see the Berkeley Gorge, but the most enthusiastic and impressionable among them will not have, I am sure, quite the delight we had in viewing it for the first time.”
They say birth is an unpleasant experience that culminates in absolute joy and wonder for all involved. Having witnessed the birth of my own daughter recently, I can concur.
It was terrifying, nauseating, painful (even to watch) and went on for far too long, but exhilarating with the knowledge that eventually once we made it through there would be this perfect gift of innocence and beauty. It reminded very much of crossing the Drake Passage heading to the Antarctic Peninsula. Three days and two nights of labour, only to emerge wide-eyed in a new world so clean, so pure and of seemingly endless innocence.
A flotilla of seafaring vessels are docked in the salt-stained port of Ushuaia, Argentina’s (and the world’s) most southern town and main departure point for Antarctica. An old schooner, a luxury liner and rusting cargo ships await their crew. Tucked among them is the Polar Pioneer, Aurora Expeditions’ Russian ship, complete with ‘St Petersburg’ emblazoned across her stern and a crew light on English. We are briefed on the bridge and introduced to Captain Sergey. With a hard seafarer’s face and strong Russian accent, he looks like he’s straight out of a Tom Clancy spy novel. Later in the trip he is spotted early one morning sitting at the stern, pipe in one hand, fishing line in the other, pulling in cod. Captain Sergey is the real deal.
We head down the calm waters of the Beagle Channel; the snow-capped mountains framing Ushuaia disappear into the distance. On board, a merry mix of passengers get acquainted with each other and the Polar Pioneer. Some are here to climb untouched peaks. Others are kayakers excited to glide through clear waters. There’s a group of ‘birders’, lists in hand, ready to check off species they’re yet to spot. The rest of us are just as wide-eyed with excitement to experience a continent few have. Some head for the bar for a cold Quilmes (Argentina’s local beer), others gather on the bridge with Captain Sergey and some even wander outside on the bow to breathe in the early evening air. It’s been a long trip from Australia, so I’m quick to my bunk and drift off to sleep wondering what lies ahead.
The following two days are hell. There’s no point glossing over it. Seasickness is a horrific affliction, and with the Polar Pioneer dancing the tango with the Drake Passage, I am thankful for Doctor Giles and his endless supply of assistance. Late on day three, I finally arise. Peering through my porthole at the calming sea my stomach turns with delight for the first time in 48 hours. “It’s an iceberg!” I yell out to no one. It passes quickly and I see another in the distance. I head to the dining room, embarrassed by my two-day absence, only to discover I haven’t been the only one. No one is sour though. The sight of an iceberg has us all buzzing. The waters have stilled and we all know we’re close. Even the birders are strutting, with a couple of new sightings ticked off their list. I can’t remember which because I’m watching another iceberg drift past as they explain.
The next week is a constant flurry of activity and excitement. We’re incredibly lucky that the weather provides perfect blue skies, contrasting the pure white landscape and deep black sea. This is not a cruise. There is no leisurely gazing out windows sipping champagne. We’re up early with a hearty breakfast and quickly into Zodiacs to explore the surrounds. The older passengers amaze me as they climb aboard – one slip and you’re into the freezing black below, but they persevere with bravery beyond their years. If seeing an iceberg through a porthole was a buzz, motoring within a meter of one is exhilarating. The top of an iceberg is only 30 per cent of its size, and being so close with such clear water you can watch its base disappear below in a maze of blue hues. We circle a bright blue iceberg that bobs in the ocean sea. It stands out from the rest. Its old ice seems electric. Memory cards are filled.
We first step foot on the seventh continent at Mikkelson Harbour. Gentoo penguins abound. They are everywhere. Like ants, they all seem busy, stealing pebbles from rival nests in a never-ending battle for supremacy. The climbers head to a nearby snowy peak, and, as they glide by, I envy the kayakers’ intrepid natures. For me, on this first day, it is enough just to sit on a rock surrounded by deep snow and penguins, taking in this amazing place. Sue, one of the expedition leaders, says visiting Antarctica is like visiting another planet. She is not wrong. I feel so far removed from the rest of the world I might as well be on Mars.
And so we explore along the coast of Antarctica, through the Gerlache Strait and down towards Port Lockroy, where we visit a tourist shop and museum managed by four girls all in their twenties – each of them living in Antarctica for a year. With queries of cabin fever and thoughts of them turning on each other in solitude-driven insanity, I’m surprised to hear they have a boat through every two days. I’m even more surprised to find a Lonely Planet guide to Antarctica for sale in their store.
It’s a great example of Lonely Planet, like me, growing up. I can only hope that it isn’t a sign of things to come. As we head out of Port Lockroy, a humpback whale breaches in the distance. The sun is trying to set – it never really does down here – and Captain Sergey steers the Polar Pioneer towards our new friend. The ship almost lurches to the side as we all lean over to watch the performance.
Every day down here is a highlight, but it is hard to top cruising through the Lumiere Channel. The bow is full and silent as we take in the view of snow-capped peaks rising steeply on either side. The sun is warm on our smiling faces, chilling us only as it falls behind the peaks. The biting wind has dropped. A leopard seal dozing on a drifting iceberg looks up sleepily as we motor past. A quick glance and he’s back to sleep in the afternoon sun among thousands of ice islands.
The Lumiere Channel is a funnel for drifting icebergs. Emerging from the channel, they a laze around Pleneau Island, stranded as the sun melts them away. It is extraordinary. We pass an iceberg with a circle, square and triangle of ice sculpted by the sun. It seems as though it cannot be natural, yet it is. If you tire of the sculptures, a lion seal lazing on ice splattered with penguin blood from its recent feed is just as captivating. We’re in Zodiacs and our guides are as excited as us. We are visiting nature’s gallery featuring abstract sculptures that would make even Dalí envious.
That night, we have the opportunity to camp out on the ice and I’m surprised by the turnout. Digging a small ice bed and finding an exposed rock, a group of us plunge a couple of bottles of vodka into the surrounding ice and promptly pronounce our new discovery the southernmost bar in the world. With only a few customers, we try to drink the sun down. Unfortunately, down here it never sets and too many vodkas later I crawl into my sleeping bag. A trail of penguins wander past, only metres from my dug-out snow bed. Is it the vodka or are they real? The following morning my memory card confirms they were real. I must have looked like a giant blue elephant seal.
They say there is nothing better for a hangover than a cool dip. It has been two days exploring 50-storey-high glaciers and outposts manned by maniac explorers. We visit the deserted Argentinian base of Amirante Brown where, apparently, the resident doctor set the place on fire after being told he had to stay another year. The boat returned to the inferno to pick him up and lock him away back home. We anchor off Cuverville Island on a perfectly clear day. There’s a solar rainbow and it is warm enough to wear just a t-shirt as we trek up a nearby point. Penguin colonies abound and the view from the top takes my breath away. The Polar Pioneer is dwarfed in the distance among the surrounding icebergs.
Back on the ship late that afternoon we’re asked who wants to join the Polar Plunge Club. I leap off the middle deck trying to prove my machismo and plunge deeper than expected, almost instantly regretting my arrogance. The chill hits your bones about three seconds after you hit the water. As I flail manically trying to swim back to the boat my muscles start to seize. One of the Russian crew members dives in off the top deck as I shudder up the stairway. My skin is tingling and my two-day hangover is long gone. Back in the sauna as we thaw out, the Russian crew member is laughing and chatting away. I can’t understand a word, but we both smile at each other and what we’ve just done. That evening we raise a toast in the bar to the new members of this exclusive club. Halfway through the toast, orcas are spotted on the port side of the ship so the celebrations end early. We spend the next hour following a family of killer whales as the sun tries to set. You could not have asked for a more perfect end to the day.
I feel we are trespassing in heaven down here. There is an innocence about the Antarctic. No wars have been fought here, no blood spilled, no indigenous inhabitants wiped out. It is untouched and beautiful. Whales breach safely, frolicking in the plankton-rich water. All manner of penguins busily go about their days, wary only of their natural predators. I feel guilty for being here. Am I part of the beginning of the end? How long until we ruin this place?
It isn’t easy to get here and the cost is certainly a deterrent. Let’s hope this keeps the masses at bay. It’s truly a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And having been through a hard labour to get here, I feel I’ve been reborn.
The world is full of talented people with absolutely no idea how great they could be. There was a butcher at my local market whose impromptu singing had meat seekers in awe and lining long for his loin. I once had a cab driver who kept me in stitches on an hour-long trip to the airport with tales of his upbringing on the wrong side of the tracks. Get him on stage and he’d sell out a stadium.
Sometimes it takes just one lucky break to change everything, like when a university classmate of 80s hit maker Tracy Chapman handed her demo tape to his record-producer dad. The rest is herstory. Or when Jamie Foxx found Ed Sheeran busking in Los Angeles…
It’s this kind of serendipitous moment that changed life’s course for Chef Benz. A chef in a family restaurant on a small Thai tourist island, her cooking was so spectacular it drew travellers like flies to a barbecue. On one fateful day, unbeknown to her, she was cooking for a tourist with friends in the hospitality game, and their word-of-mouth praise would change her life.
It took one meal and less than a day before Sonu Shivdasani and his wife Eva, owners of one of the more spectacular resorts in the Maldives, Soneva Fushi, called Chef Benz and asked her to come and work for them at the resort’s restaurant. “I didn’t even know where the Maldives were,” Chef Benz tells me with a smile. “Of course I wouldn’t go.”
So Chef Benz remained in her small restaurant on Phuket until, finally, after several years, she gave in to the Shivdasanis and made her way to the middle of the Indian Ocean to work at one of the world’s most exclusive resorts.
“I spoke no English when I arrived,” she says with a laugh. “No one understands me and I have to do everything with sign language. On the first night I cannot find my way back to my bungalow. But I don’t speak English so cannot explain to anyone. Finally someone works out why I am not in bed.”
For the next 10 years, Chef Benz remained at Soneva Fushi, where her English and her food excelled. Sonu and Eva then created another breathtaking resort, Soneva Kiri, on the undiscovered Thai island of Koh Kood. Not surprisingly, they asked Chef Benz to move home and run Benz, its signature dining experience.
The resort is the personification of barefoot luxury. So much so that its mantra is “no shoes, no news” and, upon arrival, you’re given a bag to hold your footwear, which isn’t returned until your departure. Soneva Kiri is a low-impact, eco-friendly Robinson Crusoe-like treehouse extravaganza. You’ll be treated to uber private villas surrounded by swimming pools, some with waterslides. There’s an ice-cream parlour with home-made delights, as well as a chocolate room sitting opposite the cheese room. A dining pod hangs in a tree necessitating delivery of your breakfast by zipline. This is an off-the-charts experience.
But Benz Restaurant – an overwater, stilted shack tucked into a small cove about 15 minutes away from the main resort – is the real showstopper. There are two ways to reach it; either on a sunset boat cruise from the main resort jetty or by taking quick car ride and walking through the Koh Kood jungle. Here, Chef Benz works her magic for the likes of Gwyneth Paltrow – she proclaimed it “the most exquisite, spicy Thai food I’ve ever had” – and us.
There’s no menu at Benz. Produce is bought fresh daily at the local market in Ao Salat and the food is simple and served without fanfare. As we munch on miang kham, betel leaves filled with with peanuts, coconut, dried shrimp and fresh herbs, Chef Benz describes her cuisine as Thai “family” food. There’s deep-fried prawn cake and a chicken and prawn soup. Her prawn curry with pineapple causes my taste buds to sing and the flavours of the steamed sea bass still make my mouth water every time I think of it.
The appearance of Benz is rustic, but the white cushions and soft lighting give off an almost Hamptons chic feel. Chef Benz works the kitchen, smiling broadly at the satisfied diners as she plates up her creations. Her little slice of taste heaven is so good we return twice on this trip. Oh, and did I mention the Thai dumpling in coconut milk for dessert?
INGREDIENTS
20 betel leaves (or Chinese broccoli leaves, beet greens or another earthy-tasting leafy green)
¾ cup toasted coconut
½ cup roasted peanuts
1/3 cup dried shrimp (soak in hot water for at least 15 minutes)
2 thin-skinned limes, diced with skin on
Chillies, to taste, thinly sliced
¼ cup shallot, diced
¼ cup ginger, diced
METHOD
To make the sauce, add dried shrimp to blender and blend until fine, then add galangal, ginger and ¼ cup water and blend. Pour into a small saucepan. Swish blender with another ¼ cup water to capture all the bits then pour into saucepan.
Add palm sugar, shrimp paste and fish sauce to the blended herbs, place over medium heat and simmer until the sugar is completely dissolved. Adjust heat to low and simmer for 5 minutes or until reduced by about half. Add the ground coconut and ground peanuts. Let the sauce cool until it’s lukewarm, then check the consistency – if it’s too thick, you can add a bit more water. If it’s too runny, reduce it a bit more. Taste and adjust seasoning with more fish sauce as needed.
To serve, place all the wrap ingredients in separate bowls. Take a betel leaf, make a little cone with it then fill with with the wrap ingredients to your liking. Top with a little bit of sauce, close the cup and enjoy.
Standing in front of a gargantuan stage, I’m chiding myself for having forgotten my earplugs – as usual. Heavy bass vibrations surge up through my body, rattling my teeth and propelling me into motion.
I’m surrounded by about 2000 people, some dancing blissfully with their eyes closed, others transfixed on the evening’s entertainment. Jamaican reggae and dancehall superstar Anthony B is up on the stage, belting out his hit song ‘Real Warriors’ as he struts back and forth. He moves to centre stage and pauses, beaming out at the crowd.
“Exercise time,” he announces, with a playful grin. “We call this dancehall aerobics,” he continues, rallying the crowd to follow his lead as he pumps both hands in the air to the beat of the music.
“Hands up! Hands up!” he instructs, as he breaks into a dance variation of a star jump. The crowd cheers him on, although he’s clearly not done.
“Sit on your bicycle seat and pedal, pedal, pedal,” he sings out, prompting the most enthusiastic (or, more likely, inhibition-free) fans to hunch over make-believe cycles as if they are mimes on their own Tour de France.
But this isn’t some sort of mega Zumba class. Anthony B is the headlining act of Goa Sunsplash, India’s largest reggae festival. On one hand, it’s like most other reggae festivals on earth. While there’s plenty of home-grown talent here, the bulk of the performers are international, with the likes of the UK’s Channel One Sound System and Australian beatboxer and bass producer Dub FX on the bill. There are also dance workshops, yoga classes and even panel discussions led by Donisha Prendergast, Bob Marley’s granddaughter.
However, in many ways, Goa Sunsplash is anything but your typical reggae festival. First of all, it’s in Goa, a tiny seaside state known for its mix of sandy beaches and lush jungles superimposed with centuries-old Portuguese forts and churches, vegan cafes and a seemingly endless number of booze shops. Goa is also the birthplace of psychedelic trance, high-BPM electronic music that can run the gamut from uplifting to mind-fucking – basically the antithesis of laidback roots reggae.
Perhaps even more striking is that unlike most music festivals, Sunsplash is neither in a big club nor a big field. Instead, the event is staged at Riva Beach Resort, one of a handful of high-end hotels in the northernmost reaches of Goa, an area otherwise dominated by cheap backpacker guesthouses and roadside stalls selling healing crystals. More curious still is that for the duration of the festival, the resort continues to operate as normal, so people who just happen to have booked a stay at Riva during Sunsplash weekend end up as de facto festival guests.
Yet nobody here seems out of place. Sure, there’s no shortage of usual suspects in attendance. A quick glance into the crowd reveals plenty of dreadlocks, bare feet and Lion of Judah t-shirts, not to mention the occasional awkwardly unaware youngster garbed in a Native American war bonnet. But there are also plenty of day-drinking pensioners among the crowd, along with young families towing toddlers.
Like most events in Goa, the crowd is decidedly global. While it’s clear plenty of people have come from around the world to attend Sunsplash, many are from elsewhere in India, particularly from urban hubs such as Delhi, Mumbai and Hyderabad where reggae in its many forms has a strong and solid fan base.
But this hasn’t always been the case.
When I first moved to India in the mid-noughties, the most reggae you’d hear was ‘No Woman, No Cry’ occasionally blasting over the speakers in a smoky backpacker cafe. The scene began to take off at the end of the 2010s, when bands, DJs and collectives influenced by the sounds of Jamaica began gaining prominence across India. At the forefront of the movement was New Delhi’s Reggae Rajahs, a sound-system crew who, in the course of a few short years, went from throwing low-key reggae and dancehall nights in South Delhi – where I first got acquainted with them – to opening for the likes of Major Lazer and Snoop Dogg. In 2016, the Rajahs took their efforts to the next level, launching Goa Sunsplash as a one-day event headlined by Britain’s General Levy, before extending it to two days the following year.
At one point during this year’s festivities, I find myself drawn to a huge throng of people swarming around a side stage, their howling cheers nearly drowning out the heavy basslines of an upbeat dancehall riddim thumping through the speakers. As I get closer, I realise that the star attraction isn’t the DJ but a dancer, a 20-something Indian woman who’s effortlessly switching from fast-paced footwork to perfectly timed gyrations, known in the dancehall culture as whining, as the crowd cheers her on. Impressed, I pull out my phone and begin livestreaming her performance, too captivated by her talent to notice that an old friend from Delhi, who has been involved in this scene from the beginning, has sidled up to me.
“We definitely wouldn’t have seen this a decade ago,” he shouts over the din. Though my eyes remain on the stage, I can hear an unmistakable note of joy in his voice. I assume he’s talking about her sensual dancing, which, even today, could raise eyebrows in socially conservative India.
I nod then second-guess myself, thinking back on the many nights I spent with him and our little circle of reggae-loving friends, bouncing about on makeshift dancefloors in tiny South Delhi bars. It occurs to me that his comment is not in reference to the dancing, or at least not alone. He’s talking about the entire tableau before us – the three stages, the world-famous performers, the 2500-odd jubilant fans, many of whom have flown halfway around the world to be here.
“Who would have thought?” I concur, realising I’ve been spending so much time capturing photos and videos that I haven’t given myself enough time to simply experience it. I put my phone away. Then we both begin to dance.
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