The midnight sun and the chance to experience everlasting daylight are what brought us this far north. We are in search of adventure and craving somewhere remote, beautiful, mystic and challenging. We have hopes our journey across the open ocean on stand-up paddleboards will allow us to witness the spectacular dance of horizon and sun.
Finding the perfect destination wasn’t easy. We’d considered the Faroe Islands, Greenland and Svalbard, but it was the Norwegian islands north of Tromsø that captured our attention. We knew a 15-day, self-supported SUP journey around the islands of Rebbenesøya, Grøtøya and Nordkvaløyac wasn’t going to be easy, but we never could have imagined just how rewarding it would be.
The water is cold in the 70th Parallel, far into the Arctic Circle, the days are never-ending and the adventure is pumped up to max. Our SUP experience so far is limited to the lakes of Switzerland, but Norway takes it up a notch. To paddle the open ocean, standing on our own inflatable island of just three metres by one, with our gear strapped to the board, raises several unknowns. Are we going to sink or get blown away? Will paddling be so difficult that we can’t make progress?
As our SUPs hit the near-freezing water on day one, a feeling of unease runs our nerves a little ragged. The weather plays a critical role, but thankfully we’re blessed with calm seas, a gentle breeze and warming sunshine. It’s a chance to get a feel for the boards loaded with food, camping gear, clothes and photography equipment.
In the beginning, we monitor the weather closely, using apps that are updated hourly and pinpoint our exact location. Our days are filled with riding the ocean swell as it rises and falls. Hours pass as we stare at the blue-hued mountains approaching in the distance and the physical challenge becomes draining, but there is no chance to stop. We are surrounded by water, which holds no mercy for surrender. We have no choice but to paddle on.
Occasionally, we check our phones for reception. If the weather is going to change we need to be vigilant, otherwise we could be in danger of getting blown out to sea. SUPs don’t handle wind very well and it doesn’t take much of a headwind to stop progress. If it really turns nasty and starts blowing offshore, our closest landmass is Greenland, 1500 kilometres away – if we’re lucky.
It’s not all weather-watching, though. On a trip as long as this, we have many hours to immerse ourselves in the surrounding nature. The commotion of the city fades behind us and it’s replaced by the sounds of Mother Nature. Even when the waves aren’t lapping against the board and stillness takes over, there is always a far-off cry of a bird or gentle splash. When the seas grow rough, nature amps up the volume as if to tell us it’s time to be aware.
The midnight sun is elusive. As evening falls, the clouds stretch their way across the horizon, creating an impenetrable wall for the ball of light. Sure, our evening is clear, but the shy sun disappointingly hides behind the clouds. We still have 15 days ahead of us, and nature heeds no call to a wish.
Surrounding us is the rugged Norwegian landscape, shaped by the winter winds. The cliffs are dark and powerful, and their jagged edges drop vertically to the sea. It’s as intimidating as it is mesmerising. We realise, at this moment, we are weak in the face of such power and so small in these surroundings. This landscape is certainly delivering the adventure we sought.
Although we’re paddling around three main islands, there are hundreds of smaller ones, too tiny to earn a mention on our maps, scattered like shells on a beach. They seem to huddle together as if seeking protection and draw us nearer as we seek the same. Most of the islands are low-lying, free of trees and surrounded by rocks with the odd sandy cove to entice the weary traveller. The flowers on the islands know this is their chance too. They have been dormant, covered in a blanket of snow so thick and suffocating it seemed almost unlikely they would ever see light again. But their blues, yellows and purples now cluster low, escaping the fierce winds of the Norwegian Sea. Waking each morning to a field of beautiful colour heightens our senses and excites our spirit.
Camping reveals the beautiful coves, islands and rocky outcrops, and there’s not a person in sight. Being on SUPs allows us to move close to the shore to find the best spots to pitch a tent for the night. Once we tie down our boards together to ensure they aren’t blown away in our sleep, we turn to dinner. Norway is famous for its fishing and marine life, but unfortunately for us, fish swim in abundance during winter, while at this time of year, in the summer months, there’s just the occasional small cod to be caught. We feast on mussels at low tide and eat fish most nights, supplemented by our dehydrated packaged food.
As we approach the end of our first week, the weather ups its intensity and slows our progress. The calm seas and blue skies pass, but we are racing a deadline and need to keep pushing – hunkering down in our tents for a week while we wait for the winds to pass would create a problem down the track. They are so strong it feels as if we are barely moving and, at one point, we end up kilometres away from our destination. Doubts start to creep into our minds and while we are comfortable on the boards, we start to see the wind as the enemy. Our arms begin to tire and our minds are just as exhausted, constantly reminding us to beware of ending up in Greenland.
The weather is unforgiving, and as the days pass, it grows more and more dangerous, forcing us into a two-day layover. We make the most of the opportunity and explore the inner islands, swapping our paddles for hiking boots. As we reach the top of cliffs, we’re rewarded with the most spectacular view of Norway. The wind whips the grass, as if trying to pull its roots from the soil and our breath is almost entirely stolen, due to a combination of the hike, the wind’s ferocity and the view before us. As we maintain a healthy distance from the edge of the cliff for fear of the wind toppling us over, deep menacing clouds present themselves on the horizon, threatening to dump their freezing water within minutes. We watch on as the sun pokes its way through, shining its hopefulness, before being suffocated by the next grey mass in what seemed like a never-ending game of peek-a-boo.
Of all the land masses that cross our paths, it is the small island of Sørfugløya that really inspires. What it lacks in size, it makes up for in grandeur. It is dark and powerful, and has us spellbound with its vertical walls rising from watery depths. The sun’s rays expose the cliff’s scars from years of heavy winter winds. Its pyramid silhouette shimmers against the backdrop of the evening sky like a mirage. As it’s a bird sanctuary, camping is prohibited on the island and it seems almost lost in the space between the waves. We have made it to the westernmost point of our trip and, as we continue, Sørfugløya becomes the backdrop of many of our photos and keeps us company in our tiresome paddles.
When calm finally sets in again after days of storms, we have to make up for the lost time. We paddle hard, our bodies yearning for rest and our food supplies running short. Often our thoughts drift with the Arctic terns as they skim the swells synchronised to the ocean’s peaks and troughs. One could watch these amazing birds for days. They are the ultimate travellers, covering more than 64,000 kilometres each year as they travel from pole to pole.
Throughout history, the Norwegian Arctic region has played a special part in polar expeditions. Amundsen, like the Arctic terns above, also undertook a famous journey from the northern Arctic to be the first to the South Pole. His travels are admired, documented and made legend.
We came to the Arctic with less ambition, but a similar fascination about experiencing life under the midnight sun and feeling 24-hour daylight. It isn’t until our last day that the weather decides to take our side. As our aching bodies paddle towards our final destination, aching for relief, the blue sky pushes through the clouds as if drawing a curtain to make way for the sun. Nature was finally granting us our wish.
As a kid, one of my favourite stories was about how my grandfather came to New York City. Travelling from Panama at the age of 12, he stowed away on a cargo ship, tucked among ropes and crates as a hidden human package. Each time he told me the tale, I hung on every word with the same wide-eyed grip as the first time I heard it.
It’s this story that piqued my interest in Aranui 5, a ship with a beautiful identity crisis. It carries cargo, but it is also a luxury liner. The difference to my grandfather’s story, however, is I’m trading the Manhattan metropolis for the tropical Marquesas Islands, a handful of extremely remote, pristine islands within French Polynesia. And I certainly don’t have to hide behind any crates.
If the concept of Aranui 5 sounds a little unorthodox, it’s because it is. Sure, it’s a cargo ship that transports much needed supplies to these remote outposts, but it doubles as a cruise ship where I’ll be sleeping in a delightfully appointed room and spending my days sipping a cold Hinano beer next to the pool.
When I first spot the ship, my jaw drops. It’s as if some mad scientist has Frankensteined commerce and tourism into some half-baked, late-night metal explosion. From the front, Aranui 5 doesn’t offer the grandeur I expected. The bow masks its deep belly, which stores everything from cars to livestock, while two spindly cranes breach its sharp hull like a floating praying mantis. When I look to the stern, however, the scenery changes to a number of suites surrounding a beautiful open-air deck and pool, and balconies that are decorated with colourful chairs.
It’s this melee of sophistication and rustic culture that captures the intrepid spirit for any traveller willing to make the journey.
Once onboard, all sense of the ship’s identity crisis dissipates and I’m surrounded by welcoming hospitality and luscious comfort. The rooms are large, each with its own bathroom. Some suites even have a living room and balcony. There’s cable TV, internet, a gym, pool and lively bar – enough to keep even the most restless cruiser occupied.
Dining on the Aranui 5 is an experience in itself. Breakfast is a lavish buffet of fresh eggs, breads, fruits and cereals, but by the time dinner rolls around, I’m well and truly impressed. As the grand hall fills with travellers, each anticipating the unfolding beauty ahead of us, new friends meet for the first time and discussions about future possibilities unfold. A three-course meal paired with a selection of French wines follows, carefully crafted by the chef who mixes local island flavours with global flair.
What strikes me as interesting is that almost everyone here has either been on the cruise before or has discovered it through a personal recommendation. It’s a testament to the quality of this unique experience and ensures plenty of diversity in the chatter about expectations as the ships horn sounds and it starts gliding through the salty blue mass towards paradise.
Nothing can prepare us for our destination, though, and despite the Aranui 5’s obvious attraction as a cargo ship, it’s the remote Marquesas that really steals the spotlight. That’s why we’re here after all; the ship is merely our vessel to get to the otherwise difficult to reach and wholly untapped islands.
You will not find the usual gift shops or tacky t-shirts to welcome travellers, and there are certainly no Starbucks or McDonald’s, let alone mobile-phone service. The archipelago is wild, sparsely inhabited and fiercely traditional. Here life is simple and far less diluted by the common global consciousness of the internet age. The people are friendly and curious, and the islands are pure and rugged, with dramatic coastlines and devastatingly lush interiors.
Over the next two weeks we visit more than half a dozen islands, each equally as beautiful as the last, but with its own hint of individuality. Wood-carved cathedrals dot the sandy beaches of Nuku Hiva, while Fatu Hiva’s rugged landscape is decorated with waterfalls that cascade between emerald-covered peaks. Some islands are known for amazing woodwork, and others have spent centuries mastering bone carving.
As I watch a young craftsman on Nuku Hiva practise the skills that have been passed down through generations, I marvel at the kindness and warmth of the local people, willing to show their talents with those visiting the island.
There is no established tourism here, but that’s exactly what makes these islands so special and the experience even richer. Predominantly locals, the staff onboard bring the adventure to life, sharing their knowledge, experience and culture. We may be guests, but we are welcomed to the islands as if we are family.
These islands are raw and functional, with a rustic charm that only a real adventurer and authenticity seeker will enjoy. It’s unrefined and, at times, unorganised, but in a world of prepackaged, Instagram-saturated travel, this unconventional experience is a welcome breath of fresh air.
We trek into the island’s inner caverns, joining a traditional feast of wild pig and breadfruit, and explore ancient sites that are yet to be documented by archeologists.
As we wander the pristine shores of Nuku Hiva, we discover a bay near Taipivai village, where azure waters crash against pristine white sands. We’re told it’s here Herman Melville wrote his first book, Typee: A Peep at Polynesian Life. It’s a small reminder of the remote destination’s rich, connected history.
We find it again a couple of days later on Hiva Oa, which enticed French painter Paul Gauguin, who made the dangerous journey to the island in 1890. It was a voyage that consequently resulted in his European rise to fame through his artistic interpretation of this unseen world.
The artist is buried on the island and a colourful cannon of his work is on display in the Paul Gauguin Cultural Centre.
In the neighbouring Tuamotus, we visit Rangiroa, where a cycling tour along the sandy coast leads to a pearl farm. A long pier stretches over the sparkling sea where black stingrays dart around below the surface. A local diver disappears into the crystal depths and returns with a fresh oyster plucked from the ocean floor. Shucked open, the grey shell reveals a fleshy interior, garnished with a black pearl. The diver hands it to me, and I’m wonderstruck by this gift of nature. Even when we trade the sand between our toes for the sea breeze through our hair back onboard the Aranui 5, the excitement continues.
From craft and cooking classes to dance lessons and parties, there’s always something to do. When I discover I can get a tattoo from one of the locals, it is an obvious must – I collect ink like passport stamps, and in Polynesia, known for its rich tattoo culture, I had to add to the story on my skin. I met with one of the local staff members who offered to do the work for me below deck in the spa. We talk about my impression of the islands, my background, what ideals I hold dear and what I think is important for a good life. Then, with a modern tattoo gun, he proceeds to etch his impression onto my arm. Not quite an hour later, I have a beautiful new piece of work done in classic Marquesas style and it immediately becomes my favourite.
As I turn into my freshly made bed, we voyage away from the Marquesas and paradise becomes nothing but a memory.
We wake up to the manicured Society Islands, where the Aranui 5 staff ease us back into reality with a farewell party atop a private atoll in Bora Bora.
Along the streak of sandy white beach, everyone trades stories and perspectives, processing the unique culture we’ve learned so much about over the past 13 days. There, walking along the beach, I look back across the blue expanse and a smile creeps across my sun-kissed face knowing that the spirit of discovering untapped culture is still possible, and that sometimes, much like New York City was to my grandfather, the fairytale of a new paradise still exists.
Neville is practising his blue steel pose. He has just landed a part in a frontier action-thriller that’s going to be shot in Kakadu and Arnhem Land with Jack Thompson, Guy Pearce and David Gulpilil, and he’s pretty excited, although he doesn’t yet know what his role will be, or how long he’ll be on screen. “Maybe I’ll be a big star,” he says with a shy smile as we cruise up the road in a flat-bottomed boat.
We’re meant to be driving to Ubirr, one of Kakadu’s most popular rock art sites, but the road is submerged and the monsoon forest has transformed into a vast wetland. It doesn’t faze Neville, though.
Out here during the wet months, on the edge of Arnhem Land where floods are just part of the seasonal cycle, the roads turn into rivers and the locals replace cars with boats. We wave to a passing dinghy doing double duty ferrying kids to school.
When Neville’s not auditioning for the silver screen he’s a Guluyambi Cultural Cruise guide, and this special boat trip up the flooded Magela Creek to Ubirr is only available in big wet seasons when water levels are high enough. It’s a magical trip through an ethereal forest of peeling paperbarks full of nesting magpie geese and sentinel storks, a world away from the usual road trip across a dusty landscape of dried yellow grass. As we wind through the trees, Neville tells us stories about living in Kakadu and points out medicine plants and bush tucker, including his favourite, the “tasty magpie goose”. He’s also an artist – his work is sold in the Marrawuddi Gallery at Bowali Cultural Centre in Jabiru – and with a nifty flick of his hand, he transforms a reed into a paintbrush, which he pops into his pocket to use later.
We pull up at the flooded carpark, leaving Neville with his rapidly growing pile of reedy brushes, and head off on foot to the rocky outcrop famous for its galleries of art, which includes imagery of the extinct thylacines, depictions of European buffalo hunters, and ancient creation stories. We’re the only ones here and even the black wallaroos, who obviously weren’t expecting any tourists to turn up today, are surprised to see us. “They’re very rare,” says our tour guide, who usually only visits Ubirr in the dry season. “I’ve never seen them here before, there’s usually too many people around.”
It’s not my first visit to Kakadu but it may as well be because the view from the top of the lookout across the plain is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before: a rippling green sea of two-metre-high spear grass speckled with water glinting in the sun, replacing the vast golden savannah I remembered. It’s also crowd-free. Climb Ubirr on any given afternoon in July and chances are you’ll be sharing your view with hundreds of others, all jostling for the best sunset shot.
Back in the boat, Neville talks about the six distinct seasons in Kakadu: Banggerreng (storm season), Yegge (cool season), Wurrgeng (cold season), Gurrung (hot, dry season) and Gunumeleng (pre-monsoon storm season), but it’s when Gudjewg (monsoon season) arrives in February and March that the landscape completely transforms, although for the Traditional Owners of Kakadu, the seasons are defined by the bush foods that are available rather than just the weather. Neville, like everyone else I talk to on this trip, loves Gudjewg because the nesting magpie geese are easy to catch.
Up until now I had always thought April and November were the best times to visit because the roads and four-wheel drive tracks to campsites are all open. My last trip was in August, when we spent three weeks moving from one campsite to another and hiking through forests to secluded waterholes. We swam in the ink-black waters of the magic Motorcar Falls while turtles nibbled our toes and climbed up to the top of Gunlom Falls, which doesn’t flow in August but has one of the world’s best wet-edged plunge pools at the top. The landscape was blackened and bare after the annual burning that cleans the country of dry grass, and although the smoke haze produced some spectacular sunsets and the wildlife – buffalo, brumbies, wallabies and crocodiles – gathered at shrinking billabongs while migrating flocks of geese and other birds turned the sky dark with a million wings at dusk, it lacked the thundering waterfalls and lily-covered wetlands I see before me now.
It’s February, smack bang in the middle of the wet time, but it’s not actually raining that much on this trip – three of my four days here have been dry and when it does rain it has been at night. The humidity, on the other hand, has ramped up and as I turn in at the end of the days I’m grateful for the comfort of hotel-room air-conditioning and pleased I haven’t opted for canvas walls this time around.
The 4WD tracks to the epic waterfalls are closed – by the time they dry out enough to drive the falls will have all but disappeared – so the only way to see them is a 70-minute chopper flight that skims out along the edge of the escarpment, past Dreaming sites and gorges laced with dozens of ephemeral cascades, to Jim Jim and Twin Falls. We’ve asked for the doors off, and our pilot hovers above the billowing clouds of smoke-like mist, circling the sites so we can capture the shimmering rainbows that arc across the canyons. It’s awe-inspiring, bigger and more powerful than I’d ever imagined, and absolutely worth the splurge.
We fly low across the floodplains and I can see roaming buffalo and brumbies, while rivers fan out over the horizon. From this view, the enormity of Kakadu’s 20,000 square kilometres is enthralling. Devoid of buses, campervans and grey nomads, it seems even more untouched and wilder than it is in the dry.
I’d hiked most of the popular walking trails on previous visits, so we ask local indigenous guide and former ranger, Victor Cooper, to take us off track. He over-delivers, and we find ourselves tramping through the prickly spinifex, scrambling up rocky outcrops and splashing across creeks. We get to a small waterfall and crouch beneath the gushing water to cool down when Victor sheepishly admits that he’s lost the track because it’s so overgrown.
He heads off on a reconnaissance and half an hour later we reluctantly leave our wild spa to follow him clambering up a rocky cliff. I still can’t see the trail but Victor seems pretty confident he knows where he’s going (or he’s a really good bluffer), and all is forgiven when we get to the top and look out over the edge of the escarpment. We haven’t seen another person all day.
An early-morning cruise on the Yellow Water Billabong the following day leads us to the fabled oceans of lilies. The flooded plain is carpeted in pink, purple and white flowers while dainty jacana – nicknamed ‘Jesus birds’ for their ability to walk on water – pick their way from lily pad to lily pad. Sea eagles surf the thermals above, although our boat driver – just like Neville on our cruise to Ubirr on the first day – seems very disappointed that he has to motor past trees full of geese without taking one home.
“Those geese look much better on a plate,” he says with a grin, reminding me that up here, particularly in the wet season when there’s not so many tourists about, traditional hunting and gathering is still very much a way of life. I think back to the paintbrush Neville made in seconds on my first day, and recall his comments that there aren’t any Officeworks out in the bush.
It’s hard to believe that one place can provide so much. It seems that’s the magic of Kakadu; from dry to wet, reed to paintbrush, the changing seasons breathe new life into more than just the surrounding landscape. I leave Kakadu feeling restored, and wondering how Neville is going with his blue steel. I guess I’ll find out when High Ground hits the cinemas.
The red light of sunset hangs in the mist churning out of the thundering rapids. Two tribesmen, the best river runners in their village, steady their motor-dugout for a run upstream into the fury of the monstrous waves. Beyond lies the mystery of the vast, jaguar-haunted Guiana Highlands, but the only way in is on the Kabalebo River, which sits just past these rapids. The Amerindians pick a line and the old outboard screams as the boat shoots into the heart of the rapids. If the canoe happens to turn broadside to the fury of the river, it will be broken up and lost, and we will be left stranded in the Amazon jungle.
Upon my arrival to the capital, Paramaribo, the Minister of Tourism told me “Suriname is very wealthy.” We meet in the shadow of an old Dutch castle with rusting cannons still trained on the Caribbean. Suriname is emerging from a dark era of dictatorship and atrocities, so common in post-colonial nations, but I’ve come here to explore its dramatic potential for adventure. His Excellency, dressed more like a Somali pirate than a diplomat, offers me a glass of rum and smiles, reaffirming that this is an extraordinary country. “In the jungle there is gold and bauxite; many minerals, many opportunities for mining.” The crux of what he is saying is this: Suriname must make its way in the world, either by extraction or appreciation of its only asset, the Amazon jungle.
Old town Paramaribo looks like a film set, and as I walk a dirt road lined with soaring Amazon hardwoods and colonial mansions, I consider my plan. The Minister of Tourism agrees to loan me a Cessna aircraft to explore the country, wanting to prove to the world that Suriname, both a Caribbean and South American nation, is at peace and has much to offer. My journey is taking me deep into the Northern Amazon to stand upon the banks of the storied river, Kabalebo.
“Ready to fly?” my pilot asks early the next morning as I board a small single-prop bush plane. Before I have time to answer, he quickly gets the shuddering craft airborne, and we’re tracing the Caribbean coast toward the mouth of the Kabalebo River, where we will land and refuel. From the air I can see silt dark water lapping at dense mangrove forests, a visual indication why Suriname has never caught on as a beach destination, despite a long Caribbean coastline. I was encouraged though; I wanted jungle adventure, not white sand.
Stepping out of the plane at a riverside airstrip, I’m greeted by Evan, the last Peace Corps volunteer working with the Maroon people.
“They were slaves, and when they escaped, they went into total isolation out in the jungle,” he explains as we step into his little wooden pirogue, a narrow canoe made from the trunk of a tree. Following the abolition of slavery in the 19th century, Dutch colonials brought cheap labourers from Indonesia, India and China. Meanwhile, former African slaves formed what amounted to a nation within a nation. Living in the jungle, they were cut off from the changing language and customs of their homelands. “Their culture is like a time capsule, it hasn’t changed for 200 years,” Evan says.
The people we meet in the village are quiet and show no signs of curiosity as to who we are. “The escaped-slave mentality is still strong,” Evan explains as we walk through the village. Shrines to Obeah sit at corners of dirt lanes and A-frame huts are decorated in a style that Evan says was commonplace in West Africa long ago. “Everything is about survival for them,” he adds. Their garden locations are secret and they keep caches of supplies hidden in the jungle, including machetes, cooking pots and pickaxes. “These are their wealth, their bling-bling.”
I check into a riverside lodge nearby called Pikenslaay, where I fall asleep to the calming and mysterious sounds of the jungle, and awaken to the golden sunrise reflecting on the Kabalebo. The view before me is an almost clichéd picture of a jungle river; a dense canopy hangs over dark, slowly roiling water.
Our next destination is a 300-kilometre plane ride away. My pilot is navigating by map and compass as we trace the looping course of the Kabalebo, sometimes crossing the broad stretches of unbroken jungle. From the aerial view, the jungle looks vast with no sign of humans, yet across the border in Brazil, the very same jungle is quickly disappearing. Technically known as the Guianan Moist Forests, the terrain we are venturing into is known as one of the largest intact tropical rainforests in the world, stretching from Venezuela in the west to the Atlantic coast in French Guiana. My thoughts drift back to the tourism official I’d met in Paramaribo and his unconcealed pro-industry attitude. If Suriname is to save its wild places, it will have to be done with tourist dollars.
Suddenly, the pilot pulls back the controls, jams the throttle and the plane shudders as it angles away from the grassy airstrip below, and narrowly clears the jungle canopy. It banks steeply, and as he wipes his forehead and pulls off his radio headset, the pilot says “On the runway… big anaconda.” Our welcoming party to Nature Resort Kabalebo, a rough collection of buildings and grass huts set on a short runway cut out of the jungle. This is the most remote settlement in Suriname.
“Welcome to the jungle!” a bare-chested, barefooted man shouts, happily swinging a machete as he walks towards the plane. “I’m Jerry, your guide,” he says in a strong Dutch accent. He explains that come afternoon, we will be travelling upriver in a boat, into a part of the Amazon that is untouched by man. “No place you can go is more wild.”
Jerry, a zealous fisherman, suggests a walk to the river to cool off. As I glide through the water, he pulls a big silver fish from it. I ask what type of fish he’s catching, to which he emphatically replies, “Piranha.”
“How dangerous are piranhas?” I ask, quickly kicking toward the shore. He takes a moment to think before he responds; “This time of year, if you aren’t already bleeding, they shouldn’t attack you.
“If you go in any of these villages, you’ll find people missing toes or fingers. Just don’t go swimming naked and you’ll be fine.”
On the walk to the resort’s nearby village, I learn that we will be travelling upriver in a motorised dugout with two of Jerry’s best boatmen. We are entering wild territory here with just the slight possibility of running into some small nomadic Indian groups, although unlikely given the remoteness of the area. It seems Jerry is more concerned about the illegal gold miners who have begun to rush in from Brazil and wreak havoc on the environment.
The village of thatch-roofed huts is small and smoky. Amazonian natives lounge around in loincloths and donated clothing, drinking warm cassava beer brewed in clay pots. “The women chew the cassava,” Jerry says, handing me a bowl of beer made from the fermented remains. I try not to think about the information he has just passed on to me as I take a sip.
Once a year, the village men make the trek to the coast to sell cotton, which is their only cash crop. The rest of the year, the village lives on starchy cassava, fish from the river and animals hunted in the forest. Despite understanding the modern world, and valuing manufactured items, they don’t like the city and distrust people from it, and even those who move to the city eventually come back to the village, Jerry explains.
As our vessel’s engine starts and we begin speeding up the river, Jerry yells over the drone of the outboard, “These guys know every rock and every fallen tree under the water.” The settlement is barely out of sight when I see my first caiman, a small alligator half-submerged and poised on a rock. A short ride upriver, we surprise a group of capybara, large rodents which can dive underwater for several minutes. One has long, slashing wounds running down its back. “Jaguar,” Jerry confirms. “There are many animals here because there are no people.”
Our aim is to travel as far into the Amazon as possible, but for tonight we’re staying at Uncle Piet’s Lodge. Our dugout glides onto a sandbar just as the sun is setting, casting its shadow over the raw wooden stilt house on the riverbank. “Welcome to Uncle Piet’s Lodge,” Jerry smiles. “The most peaceful place in the world.”
It takes no time for Jerry to bait his hook with some of the piranha he caught earlier and he begins fishing in the growing darkness. Behind us, a small generator kicks on and the house lights up. Over a fire, cassava bread is warmed and a bottle of rum is passed around as we sit with the locals. It’s the first time I’ve heard them speak and within minutes, Jerry walks out of the gloom with a monstrous fish.
I roll out of my hammock in the darkness. Scarlet macaws are screeching raucously nearby and monkeys forage in the treetops on the far bank. Jerry is already awake and brewing coffee over a small fire. We are leaving early to reach our campsite, water levels permitting.
Our hopes are high and we spend the day poking our canoe into tributary streams, swimming and fishing. Following a set of jaguar tracks from the riverbank into the jungle, I realise why early European explorers lamented the density of the “Green Hell” where a day’s travel is often limited to a single kilometre.
Sharp, spined hanging vines tear at my clothes as thick undergrowth and sucking mud entangle my feet. Cicadas call out as loud as fire alarms and every surface is covered in insects, but it’s Jerry’s snake warning I’m most worried about. He tells me there are species in the jungle with a bite that will kill me.
Despite this fear dwelling inside me, it’s hard not to marvel at the spirit of the Amazon. It’s full of life; monkeys make treetops their endless playground, capybara play their roles as the socialites of the jungle and jaguars stealthily crawl through the thick vegetation, each animal gliding through this hot gloom with a grace and ease I can’t imitate. This corner of the Amazon seems like one of the most deadly places on the planet, and yet, the natives consider this very same jungle home and thrive in its chaos.
I wonder to myself if it’s merely a change in perspective which will allow me to experience the jungle more as a friend than an adversary.
It takes us most of the day to reach the boat-destroying rapids, and after each attempt to make it through, we find ourselves courting disaster. I make my way upstream through the dense jungle to get a better look and realise the water is too low to make it over the rocks and the dugout is too heavy to portage around them. Jerry finally shakes his head and calls the attempt off. “It’s too dangerous, you don’t want to spend the night out here,” he said. He was right, I didn’t.
This is as far upriver as we can go. I am content with what I’ve seen. I take a moment to savour my last moments in the wildest place I have ever visited, and despite the urge to continue deeper into the jungle’s depths, I still have a couple of days to spend at the lodge. I sneak up on hiding caimans, fish for monsters of the river depths, search for glimpses of giant anacondas and jaguars tracks lacing the riverbanks.
As we silently drift back toward the airstrip, watching scarlet macaws browse the canopy, I wonder if more people were to come and experience this untouched aspect of the Amazon, would there be more incentive to preserve it? But for a country still recovering from a troubled past, is the wild expanse of rainforest worth more in tourist dollars than the gold which may lie beneath it? I certainly think so.
This is some of the best quality whitewater rafting in the world, I tell the group of skydivers, paramedics and assorted adventurers with no previous whitewater experience.
We had been sitting on a rock shelf, beneath the blistering Kimberley sun, with a major section of enticing whitewater next to it. It is a relief to finally get back in the water.
The size of the rapids this wet season has me surprised. I make the call to run this section as a ‘wolf pack’ with myself leading the safest way down the furious whitewater. Travelling in a group means that I am right beside the two rafts and two kayaks, ready to help if someone flips their boat. The two four-metre rafts are heavily loaded with five people, two weeks of food, shelter and everything else we need to survive the self-supported trip through the ultra-wilderness of Western Australia’s Kimberley region.
The Fitzroy River is the highest volume river in Australia and I can believe it today. I see a tree getting washed down the silt-laden chocolate-brown water, and as the sweat drips from my brow, I exhale and peel out from the eddy (a slow current that runs beside the main flow).
As I enter the main current, the rafts and kayaks are close behind. I complete the main move in the rapid between two large crashing waves, paddling over crests that are almost twice as tall as the rafts. I look over my shoulder nervously to see one raft and two kayaks safely behind me. Before I even have a chance to breathe a sigh of relief, a big wave breaks over the top of my head and another hits the second raft. With no mercy, the raft stands on its side and then quickly flips, throwing the five paddlers into the water.
“Eddie Out” I scream over the thunderous roar of the wild river. I watch like a hawk as the river sucks people, paddles and the raft under water. As they resurface, the relentless water smashes them down again. The upright crafts scramble to find an eddy while the upside-down raft, gasping rafters, and equipment resemble a yard sale spread down the river waiting for a moment of relief.
The first priority is life and I scream at resurfacing rafters to swim hard to the other raft. I can only count four helmets as the upside down raft approaches the next rapid. I paddle over to find Wom, the missing paddler, clinging to the capsized boat.
“Are you are okay?” I ask. He pants for air and tightens his white-knuckle grip around the rope on the raft. Conscious and responding, he follows my instructions to take some deep breaths. He needs all the oxygen he can get into his fatigued body because the lip of the next rapid is less than 20 meters away, we are in the middle of the flooded torrent and there is no way to get the exhausted paddler to safety before the next onslaught of crashing waves.
I realise I’m not much use to anyone if I’m in the same predicament as him, and I need to paddle on. “Hold on tight, mate,” I instruct him, warning him of the oncoming blitz of rapids. “I will see you at the bottom, hold on mate.”
I paddle away from the raft and make the safe line down the rapid. Once we’re all at the bottom, I paddle straight back over to the topsy-turvy raft. Wom is still holding on, conscious but less responsive than before.
There’s another rapid approaching and I need to get him to shore, fast. “Let go of the raft, hold onto the back of my boat and kick hard,” I yell. I have to repeat myself three times before he responds. I paddle as hard as I can with an 80 kilogram anchor holding on for his life to the back of my boat in the turbid fast-moving water. When we reach the shore, Wom is shaken to his core, but thankfully, he is breathing.
The raft is still caught in the current and as it runs into the next rapid, a massive wave power-flips it the right way up. I stare in disbelief – somehow, all the equipment is still strapped into the boat. As far as catastrophes go, this is a successful one, with all heads accounted for and the equipment still intact. In wild terrain like this, on a two-week expedition that requires us to be self-reliant, losing half the food, equipment and transportation for five people would result in an evacuation. Organising a helicopter to pick up half the team is not what I had in mind today, so I have no choice but to paddle like crazy to catch the raft.
It’s wet season in the Kimberly and during this time of year the road system is limited, cut off by the cyclonic weather system and daily torrential downpours, so the only way to get access is by air. It’s taken a five-day delay and a three-hour light aircraft flight into an Indigenous Australian community 300 kilometres upstream from our current location to get here. We still have at least another 150 kilometres of river ahead of us. We are deep into the middle of one of the last true wilderness landscapes on the planet.
With the runaway raft secured to a nearby tree, I signal for the rest of the team to come down and meet us. Fifty metres on, we find an ancient sacred site of the land’s traditional owners. The sheltered rock face is estimated to be at least 17,000 years old and is decorated in Gwion Gwion images. This is arguably some of the oldest rock art in the world and that notion is not lost on me. I take a moment to recognise the honour of standing on ancient land, almost untouched by time and home to one of the oldest living cultures on the planet. It’s a privilege and experience that I struggle to describe in words.
Adding to the wonder of this landscape is its life-force. The land comes alive in the wet. Freshwater crocodiles follow us down rapids, while whistling kites, wedge-tail eagles and red-tailed black cockatoos circle high above us. Barramundi, bream and turtles glide through the river, and frogs, monitors and rock wallabies hang out on drier land.
For the local Indigenous communities, Wandjina are the spirits of the clouds and rain. They are the creators of life, and a symbol of fertility, rain and the wet season. The legend says that Wandjina have no mouths so that they may not pass judgment, but when the electric, thunderous clouds of the Kimberley wet season erupt with booms and cracks of the most terrific lighting you’ve ever seen, they are sending a message. Images of Wandjina can be found on remote rock faces and caves throughout the Kimberley.
As the river crashes against the banks and waves collide with a wild ferocity, it becomes very clear that Wandjina is demanding our attention, and if we are to survive, we ought to heed the advice.
The severity of our location is clear to everyone in the group, and there is a sense of relief as we roll into camp, ready to re-energise our bodies after a hard day on the rapids. Happy to be safe and sound, with our equipment intact, we settle down for a feast of popcorn and fish cakes.
As the sun dawns on a new day, it’s clear the team is still driven by both the exhilaration and the fear of yesterday. No one more so than Wom who, despite his brush with danger, shows no hesitation to get back into the action for the remaining 150 kilometres of river we have yet to travel to reach our final destination. Thankfully, today’s journey is far less aggressive and as the mighty Fitzroy cuts through the King Leopold Range, the fast-moving rapids turn into a vast body of water which, at times, can spread to 14 kilometres across the floodplains.
Golden orb spiders and goannas are forced into treetops to take refuge from the rising waters, as the river navigates the never-ending labyrinth of back channels, branches covered in webs and sandy islands.
Our rafts drift toward Fitzroy Crossing. The experience of exploring the isolated wilderness of this region is every bit as powerful as the rapids that have just pushed us here. Eliminating the distractions of modern life has offered us a sharpened focus on our surroundings and the opportunity to bask in the glory of this outback kaleidoscope. With heightened senses, clarity and a bond that can only be formed by a perilous experience like this one, the team reaches the end of our river-run in the small town of Fitzroy Crossing, each of us leaving undeniably moved by our brush with the mystical Fitzroy River.
It’s believed that those who drink from the mighty waters of the river will continue to be drawn back to this land, and it’s without question that I’ll return to the world’s last truly wild landscapes to again hear the sounds of Wandjina and the Fitzroy.
Hoping for safety in numbers, hundreds of thousands of sardines gather in silver tornadoes in the Caribbean Sea at the beginning of the year. But leering at them from the sidelines are sailfish – hulking predators that can clock up speeds of about 110 kilometres an hour, which makes them the speediest fish in the world. Chomp down on a snorkel and slip into the warm blue water off the coast of Mexico’s Isla Mujeres to watch as they gulp down wayward swimmers and corral seething baitballs to the surface, where waiting gulls and frigatebirds hover in the hopes of stealing a sardine of their own. Spanning up to three metres long, the sailfish is equipped with a nervous system that allows them to flash a whole host of colours and, adorned with spear-like noses and generous dorsal fins, these pelagic beasts are an awesome sight to behold. If their frames aren’t impressive enough to satisfy a desire for underwater encounters, the manta rays and enormous whale sharks you’ll spy gliding beneath the waves will surely hit the spot. Come early in the year, when the sailfish are in a frenzy before they depart in March, bellies full.
All four elements of ancient Greek astrology align at the sheer granite monolith of El Capitan, in California’s Yosemite National Park. Water from heavy rains and melting snow courses across the earth, tumbling into the air as it reaches the edge, where it transforms into a blazing stream of fire. Or so it appears. For just a few minutes a day over a couple of weeks during February, rays from the sinking sun catch the seasonal Horsetail Fall, sending a dazzling gold thread plunging more than 450 metres into the valley below. Pack a Thermos, pull on gloves and a woolly hat and make for the picnic area, which offers the best views of the falls. You won’t be alone – shutterbugs have been flowing here since National Geographic photographer Galen Rowell snapped the phenomenon back in 1973.
Airborne streams of flaming green, ethereal strobes of fuchsia and smoky rivers of butter-yellow can only mean one thing: you’re catching a glimpse of the world’s greatest light show and it doesn’t require a flight across the globe to Norway or deepest, darkest Iceland. Even on shores as close as Tasmania you can eyeball the fleeting beauty of the aurora. Caused by coronal mass ejections – they happen when the sun releases a colossal burst of solar winds and magnetic fields into space – these dancing illuminations are notoriously unpredictable, but the southern lights are just as frequent as the northern. While aurora hunters need to cross their fingers for elevated geomagnetic activity, edging closer to the South Pole increases your chances of a glimpse. From New Zealand’s South Island to the more remote reaches of the world’s southernmost city, Ushuaia, in Argentina, and the island of South Georgia stranded at the bottom of the South Atlantic Ocean, there are plenty of options perfect for gazing below the Earth’s equator.
You don’t have to be Moses to make the seas part. Anyone with a plane ticket to South Korea can watch this natural phenomenon. The Jindo Sea splits to reveal a causeway connecting the meaty isle of Jindo with the small speck of land that is Modo Island, and it’s a spectacles that draws hundreds of thousands of locals and foreigners alike every April. The modern miracle – spanning an hour on just two days each year – is a result of extreme low tides. Rather than parting, the entire sea actually lowers to expose a three-kilometre-long and 40- to 60-metre-wide path. Watch as people seemingly walk on the tranquil waters, trailing off into the horizon like technicolour ants, or pull on some waders and hurry to Modo yourself while the tide still allows. On the island you’ll find a handful of homes, a beach and Baemikkumi Sculpture Park, where artist Lee Il-Ho’s larger than life ‘eroticism sculptures’ emerge from the grass and sand.
Light my Fire Great Smoky Mountains National Park, USA
For just eight short days, deep in the belly of the Great Smoky Mountains, an ocular extravaganza takes place. Amid dense blocks of temperate old-growth forest, slow creeks and abandoned stone cottages, this UNESCO World Heritage site throngs with flying critters in the mood for love come late May and early June. Like a vast parade of fairy lights, resident Photinus carolinus – or rover fireflies – flit through the obstacle course of Fraser firs with their booties aglow to attract a mate. This species of lightning bug is the only one in the US that’s able to synchronise its flashes of yellow light with other males, and this national park is one of the only spots in the country where you can watch these forest stars festoon the foliage en masse. Log onto the USA’s National Park Service website in late April to enter the firefly viewing lottery. recreation.gov
Spring is iceberg season in Newfoundland, Canada’s wild eastern isle. Frozen formations of all shapes and sizes drift down from the north, coinciding with the annual whale migration in the opposite direction. To celebrate, the town of St Anthony on the tip of the Great Northern Peninsula hosts all manner of weird and wonderful events as part of its annual Iceberg Festival. Hike the nearby walking trails, feast on seasonal snow crab, slurp down Iceberg Beer made with 25,000-year-old berg water and participate in a screech-in to become an honorary Newfoundlander – you’ll down a tot of local Screech rum and kiss a cod right on the gob. Wrap up your stay with the closing ceremony at the Norstead Viking Village, but not before heading out on a berg-filled boat trip with a side order of whales, dolphins, bald eagles and Arctic terns. theicebergfestival.ca
Surveying biochemical emissions of light produced by living organisms doesn’t sound too sexy. But you know what does? Raking your fingers through glowing, neon blue pools of light on a remote Taiwanese island. The two natural phenomena are, of course, the exact same thing, and it turns out that Taiwan’s Matsu Islands are one of the best places on the globe to experience these Life of Pi-like scenes. Known as ‘blue tears’, the blooms of Noctiluca scintillans algae form an ethereal, luminous cloud around the craggy coastline of these 18 islands every year between June and August. Paint your own scenes with your toes dipped into the water or watch this otherworldly marine show unfold while crouching on the sand on a balmy summer’s night.
Following steady winter rains Namaqualand’s arid veld blooms in a riot of colour. Stout vygies brandish violet blades, golden nemesias adorn the landscape like confetti and tangerine daisies blaze across the plains. The first petals unfurl in July and the rainbow carpet rolls down from the border of Namibia over the following weeks. Make the five-hour journey north from Cape Town in early August, when the flora reaches peak saturation, and hike between the region’s granite koppies (hills). You’ll spy Lachenalias, with petals resembling scoops of boysenberry-swirl ice-cream, and watch as fields of floral faces turn to face the afternoon sun. Plant life isn’t the only attraction in this part of South Africa’s outback, either. Keep an eye out for honey badgers nosing through the fields, as well as antelope, aardwolves and rare Hartmann’s mountain zebra.
Tucked away in the Gansu Province of northwest China, there’s a rainbow that never fades. Zhangye Danxia Landform Geological Park, also known as the Rainbow Mountains, is a 24-million-year-old formation that trumps the elusive pot of gold every time. Shaped by eons of wind and rain, these sandstone, mudstone and gravel domes in a kaleidoscope of colours reach up to 3800 metres high, and have remained virtually undisturbed by humans. Drop in on a balmy afternoon during September, when the golden autumn light is strong and the palette of colours – rosy red, blood orange, sunny yellow and even a hint of dusty blue – are at their most vivid. Choose your viewpoint (we recommend nabbing a spot near the viridescent rapeseed fields in neighbouring Qilian County for striking juxtaposition) and lose yourself in nature’s psychedelic hills.
This voltaic night show will make you believe Zeus, the god of lightning, has ripped the very fabric of space asunder while showing off his party tricks. The fringes of Ologa village in Venezuela play host to an electrical hot spot, where pulsing storm clouds unleash up to 280 lightning strikes an hour on around 150 nights a year, with activity peaking in October. Generated by the perfect marriage of heat, humidity and wind blowing in from the surrounding Andes, the lightning is thought to be the most powerful in the world – and the most dangerous. A number of fishermen are struck each year, and visitors must also brave unravelling social order in a country already notorious for its cities’ soaring murder rates. If you count yourself among the daring, join a local tour to see the light show at its finest. You’ll cruise through flooded forest in Ciénagas de Juan Manuel National Park and into Maracaibo Lake, South America’s largest body of water, before venturing to Ologa. As the sun sets, kick back at your campsite and prepare to witness the night sky come alive. natoura.com
It’s deathly toxic to almost any creature unfortunate enough to plunge into its glassy waters, but for one type of critter Lake Natron plays host to the ultimate family reunion. More than a million lesser flamingos – three quarters of the world’s population – stream past the volcanic cones of Gelai and Ol Doinyo Lengai (Mountain of God) each year to dip their toes in this Tanzanian soda mudflat. Stalking the caustic shallows, viscous with salt, they’re safe from the likes of hyenas and baboons as they build mud nests, lay eggs and feast upon spirulina, the blue-green algae that turns the birds pink and the lake cerise in dry season. Visit in November when hatchlings are beginning to emerge and the wet season is in its infancy, meaning more wildlife and fewer travellers. The moonscape surrounds and reflections of flamingos littering the 57-kilometre-long lake will overwhelm your SD card, while the bodies of calcified bats and birds that have lost their lives to the stew make for eerie imagery.
The only major meteor shower thought not to originate from a comet, Geminid is a showstopper in almost every sense. Hundreds of streaks of light splash the sky every hour amid a backdrop of stars when this celestial display peaks in mid-December. These ‘shooting stars’ travel slower than most other showers, at about 35 kilometres a second, making them fairly easy to spot, and they often arrive in bursts of two or three. Although visible from the southern hemisphere, they’re best viewed in the north, away from light pollution. Settle in for the night on a picnic rug in the countryside at an accredited Dark Sky Reserve to stand the best chance of eying the Palladian asteroid painting the night sky. From the bleakly beautiful Brecon Beacons National Park in Wales to the mountain meadows of Germany’s Rhön Biosphere Reserve, there’s a total of eight reserves for Europe-going aspiring astronomers to choose from. darksky.org
It’s easy to spend a week exploring the back streets of Havana’s Old Town, sipping mojitos and watching kids in high-stakes games of soccer, but if you want to take home something other than a Che Guevara t-shirt, sign up for a five-day course at La Casa Del Son. For two hours each day, you’ll sway your hips to the beat and learn some of Cuba’s traditional dances, including the rumba and salsa. Even if you’ve got two left feet and failed to master the basics of square dancing in primary school, these private lessons will have you skimming across the dance floor in no time at all.
Because your resolution… is to mount a horse like John Wayne and learn to live off the grid.
If your travel dream is to feel at home on the ranch, an internship at Estancia Ranquilco, a huge property in the northern Patagonia region of Argentina that stretches all the way to the High Andes and the border of Chile, will have you ridin’ and ropin’ like an old cowpoke. The two-month course, taken in summer between January and March, is a crash course in living on the land, with connection to the outside world almost non-existent. Expect to leave not only having mastered the basics of horsemanship, but also able to pack a mule, butcher a goat, tend to the garden and cook for a crowd. After all, when you’re this far from the big smoke – it’s a three-hour ride to the nearest city of Zapala – it’s not like you can duck to the supermarket or local cafe.
About US$3300 for two months in a shared room, including meals. ranquilco.com
Because your resolution… is to make something with your own two hands for a change.
More and more people are taking to the bike paths of our cities to save themselves time and money and do their part for the environment. Add a notch to your green belt by taking a weekend to construct your own bamboo bike during a London sojourn. At James Marr and Ian McMillan’s Bamboo Bicycle Club in Stratford, you’ll choose your materials then be guided through how to cut and shape the bamboo tubing, create mitre joints and complete your bike frame. You can custom design any style of bike you fancy, from a racer to a tandem bike. While there’s an alternative weekend workshop that focuses on the finishing, you can also get a guide to fit the final components at home. Now, that’s a souvenir worth saving room for in your luggage.
About US$590 for the workshop and materials for the bicycle frame. bamboobicycleclub.org
Because your resolution… is to add a creative, yet vaguely useful, arrow to your quiver.
One of the things most travellers mention when they return from a trip to Turkey is their carpet dilemma and how many cups of mint tea they consumed in the process of either negotiating a price or a way out of the shop empty-handed. For a richer experience, sign up for a week-long carpet weaving course. You’ll stay in the village town of Gokpinar, not far from Bodrum, visit the beach and markets, and spend time at a cultural centre with local women learning how to make a small carpet in the traditional manner. Then it’s up to you to take those skills home and create your own masterpiece.
The week-long experience costs US$950 a person, twin share, including accommodation, meals, transfers from Bodrum airport, classes and some excursions. turkeyclasses.com
Because your resolution… is to get on the tech train but avoid the inside of a badly lit university lecture hall.
You know what you want from a restorative holiday: a villa with pool, yoga, delicious food, a laptop… Hang on. What now? If you’ve got a Bali break in mind, but you’re tired of late nights in Kuta and mushroom milkshakes, you could kickstart a new career instead. After the Institute of Code’s 10-day web development course, not only will you know what terms like HTML, CCS and Javascript mean, but you’ll actually be able to create kick-arse websites using them. There are mentors on hand so you can develop a small portfolio between soaking up views of rice paddies and sipping on freshly blended smoothies, plus the support continues once you’ve got off the flight home.
From US$3460 for 10 days, inclusive of accommodation, meals, airport transfers, course materials and ongoing support, and daily activities. instituteofcode.com
Because your resolution… involves exploring the high seas, but doing it the way you’ve always wanted.
Picture this… You’re on the deck of a luxury yacht sailing from one picture-perfect destination to another. You can go wherever you want – within reason, of course – because you’re in charge. That dream can become a reality when you sign up for Sunsail’s RYA Day Skipper Practical Course. After five days, you’ll graduate with the skills – navigation, passage planning and yacht management – to take charge in familiar waters. Best of all, you can do the course in the stunning Greek islands from the base at Lefkas. Oh, before you sign up you’ll need at least 160 kilometres of sailing (and four hours’ night sailing) under your life vest. The same course is also available in Croatia.
The cost of the course is about US$885 a person, twin share, including transfers, accommodation on board the training yacht, and breakfast and lunch. sunsail.com.au
Because your resolution… was to never be disappointed in your holiday snaps again.
Imagine returning home from a trip and having your family and friends actually excited to come around for slide night. On this 15-day tour of Georgia, you’ll not only explore the historic cities and captivating landscapes of this former Soviet republic, but also have a local photographer along for the ride, advising on capturing postcard-perfect shots. Take images of traditional weddings, Tbilisi at night, colourful markets and local shepherds as you explore monasteries, Stalin’s steelworks in Rustavi and seventeenth-century fortresses. There’s a wealth of opportunities and you’ll learn how to take advantage of each and every one.
About US$1900, including 15 nights in two- and three-star accommodation, travel arrangements and local photographer guide. caucasusjourneys.com
Because your resolution… is, unlike most other people’s, to drink more and not feel guilty about it.
Take a gap year with a difference. Head to Bordeaux’s Cafa Wine School and train to become a sommelier. You’ll learn about tasting techniques, study vineyards from around the world, get the lowdown on cellar management, pair drops with suitable dishes and negotiate all the other skills you’ll need to get a job that relies on the grape. For the first 17 weeks, spend your time in the classroom – lessons are conducted in English – before completing a six-week internship, either in France or beyond, and returning to do your exams.
About US$7700, including tuition, tastings and field trips. cafawine.com
Because your resolution… is to give your office job the flick forever and namaste the shit out of the rest of your life.
It’s no huge surprise so many high-flying, stressed-out corporate types gravitate towards yoga. Regardless of the style practised, it emphasises mindful movement, controlled breathing and being in the moment. If you’ve ever wanted to make the most of your power poses and sun salutes, head to Costa Rica, where Anamaya Resort, overlooking the ocean near the beach town of Montezuma, is the dream destination to take your downward dog to another level. For 28 days, you’ll live and learn with your classmates, finishing with a yoga teaching qualification and, no doubt, a completely different outlook on life.
From US$3890 for dorm accommodation, all meals and training (double and single accommodation also available). anamayaresort.com
Because your resolution… is to go deep, deep down into the ocean powered only by the breath you can hold.
Ask any freediver and they’ll tell you the freedom of finning alongside the creatures of the ocean – manta rays, sharks, turtles – is like nothing you’ve ever experienced. Of course, it takes a bit of practise. Or you can sign up for a two-day course at Apnea Bali, located in the small fishing of Tulamben on the island’s northeast coast, and let the professionals show you how to do it properly and safely. You’ll learn, both in the classroom and the water, the skills you’ll need to get to a depth of 20 metres on a single breath, with all courses adapted to a student’s ability. The jewel in the crown of your two days in the ocean is a freedive on the wreck of the USAT Liberty, a cargo ship that was torpedoed by a Japanese sub in 1942 and now rests in between four and 30 metres of water.
Making cheese isn’t that hard – all you need is whole milk and a little patience. But making good cheese is a different ballgame altogether. It can take a lifetime to perfect the craft, and the best way to get a head start is to book a five-day course with Sapori e Saperi in Tuscany. Giancarlo Russo, consultant to Slow Food Italy and cheese buyer, judge and stagionatore (ager), leads the classes along with five local makers, who will reveal the secrets behind traditional methods of creating a range of formaggio, including ricotta, pecorino and stracchino. At other times, you’ll have dinner at the home of a truffle hunter, learn to milk a goat and taste homemade salumi. Expect to stay at beautiful farmhouses and a castle, and return home so inspired you’ll be looking at dairy herds within days.
About US$1675, including four nights’ accommodation and all meals. sapori-e-saperi.com
Because your resolution… is to nail the Portsea Swim Classic once and for all.
It’s one thing to swim untold lengths of a pool day after day, but a completely different kettle of fish to take to the open water. If you’ve ever dreamed of giving it your all during the Bondi to Bronte Ocean Swim or the Rip View Swim Classic at Port Lonsdale, you’ll need to do some serious training out in the waves. During the European summer, head for the spectacular Spanish island of Mallorca and Swim Trek’s six-day coaching event. You’ll dip in for swims lasting up to six hours – that’s a qualification swim for anyone wanting to tackle the English Channel – have your technique assessed and attend seminars about nutrition, training and mental preparation. We’re not saying it’ll be easy, but the perfect turquoise ocean and Mediterranean landscape make it all worthwhile.
About US$1110, including five nights’ accommodation, breakfasts and lunches, seminars and fully guided swims. swimtrek.com
Because your resolution… is to overcome your fears and never get vertigo on an escalator again.
Acrophobia affects about 7.5 per cent of the population, making it one of the most common phobias. For some, the fear of heights stop them conquering Sydney’s BridgeClimb, while others have a problem with staircases. But you can overcome it when you sign up on a two-day course at Will4Adventure. You’ll start inside, discovering the reasons for acrophobia and using neuro-linguistic programming to retrain your brain. Then it’s out into the beautiful Peak District National Park to take on some graduated challenges, from walking up a rocky hill to abseiling down a cliff. For those wanting to take a few more steps, head to the follow up session in Snowdonia where you can reach your height goals. At any point you can choose not to take part, but if you manage all the exercises, you’ll enter a new fear-free stage of your life.
About US$255 for the weekend course, and an extra US$180 for the follow-up session. will4adventure.com
Because your resolution… is to be more Bodhi and ride a wave that never ends.
You’ve mastered Bells Beach, cracked your board at Teahupo’o and you’re now on the hunt for the next great conquest. OK, so the standing wave at the Lachine Rapids on Montreal’s Saint Lawrence River may not be anywhere near as challenging as Waimea Bay, but it is very different. Cresting at up to two metres, this half pipe-style break just goes on forever. But this is Canada, and after a couple of minutes, surfers will drop off the wave to let someone else in. If you’re a beginner and find yourself in Canada during the summer, book a day-long lesson that will take you from the nearby bunny wave to Habitat 67 (named after the building in the background). Everyone says this is the easy way to become acclimated to board riding, so nail it here then take your surf skills on the road.
About US$105, including surfboard, helmet and life-jacket hire. ksf.ca
Because your resolution… is to prove you’re at least 50 per cent harder than Bear Grylls.
The Namib Desert is a landscape like no other, where seemingly desolate sandy plains and granite mountains shaped by ancient volcanoes are inhabited by wildlife that ranges from elephants to dik-diks. The San Bushman have lived here for about 70,000 years, tracking and hunting animals to survive – they’ve been known to chase kudu for two to five hours until the animal drops from exhaustion. Learn their skills on Wild Human’s seven-night Wild Namibia tour, led by two guide from the team and accompanied by two San Bushman trackers. You’ll combine running and tracking with desert bushcraft, all while staying in a wild camp and sleeping beneath the stars. This is a chance to develop skills that are part of every humans’ DNA and practise the real reason we can all run (you won’t, however, do any actual hunting). If you’ve been seeking a trip that’s both challenging and memorable, you can stop searching now.
Because your resolution… is to make yourself a more well-rounded individual while helping someone else.
Plenty of people head overseas to immerse themselves in a foreign language, but you’ll get more than an advanced grasp of Spanish when you enrol in the immersion course with Pop Wuj in Guatemala. As well as spending five hours each day conjugating your verbs one on one with a tutor, you’ll stay with a local family in Quetzaltenango – Xela for short – and can opt to volunteer for one of Pop Wuj’s community projects that focus on medicine, social work and education. Regardless of how you spend your spare time (there are some fantastic hikes in this volcanic landscape), feel content in the knowledge that the dollars you spend at the school assist in keeping these projects viable and allow families in the city to sponsor Mayan children so they can stay in school.
About US$210 a week, including tuition, school activities and full-board pop-wuj.org
Because your resolution… is to pummel something really hard while avoiding jail.
Beating things senseless is an excellent way to diminish stress and it can be a lot of fun, too, especially if it’s a drum you’re banging with large sticks. In Tokyo, the Taiko Center is the place to wrap yourself in a kimono and make a lot of noise during a drop-in drumming class. You’ll get to know a little about the history of the taiko, learn the basic techniques and master a simple, traditional song, all in the space of an hour. There are two studios – one in Aoyama and the other in Asakusa. If you book for the latter, you’ll be able to bolster your new sense of peace with a visit to the famous Senso-ji temple.
Because your resolution… is to fly free, like a bird, without crashing into the side of a mountain.
Sure, you and all your mates have done tandem skydives, but now it’s time to take the next step. From the cliff tops of Cape Town, you can spend 14 days perfecting your piloting skills and become a licensed paraglider. You’ll take in-depth theory classes but the pièce de résistance is launching from somewhere like Lions Head, where magnificent views of the city and ocean will have your eyes popping as you ride the thermals. You’ll complete 35 flights over 14 days (it can take one to six months to do them all), and pass a written examination before your licence is handed over.
Well and truly off the beaten track, this 21-day tour through the ’Stans bestows its guests with much more than intriguing passport stamps and honeymoon bragging rights, although prints from Kazakhstan, Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan and Turkmenistan do look pretty cool. You’ll visit no fewer than eight UNESCO World Heritage Sites, dine with local Uzbek families, listen to traditional Kazakh folk performances and cross one of the world’s largest mountain ranges. The accommodation won’t be something to regale the grandkids with, but the opportunity to visit a region that’s steeped in mystery and devoid of tourists just might. mircorp.com
The ’Stans to Borneo: Stop over in Malaysian Borneo on your way home with flydubai and China Southern.
Take a secluded stretch of shoreline on a coral island just off the coast of Borneo, add white sand to scrunch between your toes, and bamboo sharks, clown fish and sea turtles below turquoise waters. Sound like paradise? It is, especially after traversing the rugged lands of the ’Stans. A treehouse or tropical timber villa comes next, and you and your better half – kicking back on your private balcony with chilled beers in hand – complete the picture. You may be out in the jungle, but there’s still plenty of ice for your champagne bucket and an underground cave stocking almost 5000 bottles of wine. Just make sure you don’t drink and dive. bungarayaresort.com
Mount Olympus is legendary. Not because it’s Greece’s tallest mountain, but because the world’s most feisty deities fell in love and waged war from above its rocky summit. Take to the slopes on a private seven-night tour with a guide and channel your best Aphrodite or Eros (just not together – they’re mother and son) as you trek through pine forests and discover chapels constructed in caves. Put your endurance to the test as you scramble up Skolio, Olympus’s second highest peak, where you’ll stop for dizzying vistas and first date vibes, complete with pounding hearts. The highlight though is the Pinnacles of Meteora, where monasteries are built atop cliffs among 400-metre-high sandstone columns formed millions of years ago. And we thought “until death do us part” sounded everlasting. trekking.gr
Thessaloniki to Skopelos: The 2.5-hour ferry journey departs daily between 30 June and 10 September.
Set on a headland on the island of Skopelos, Villa Pyrgos offers rustic charm. Think handcrafted wooden furnishings, chequerboard floors, an antique stove and – the pièce de résistance – windows topped with stained glass that look to Alonissos Island erupting from the Aegean Sea. Fill your days reading by the pool set on the edge of the promontory, following hilltop trails past grazing goats and twisted olive trees or exploring the island’s many beaches. Stock up on bread, wine and skopelitiko tiropita (the region’s famed goat’s cheese pie) at Skopelos, the postcard-perfect town nearby, or jump into the 4WD that comes with your castle and make for the little taverna down by the beach to celebrate your union over a glass of Peparithios, the local wine. gicthevillacollection.com
Dousing your date with broth-drenched udon noodles? Not a good look. But someone who is now legally bound to you? That’s a different story. Indulge every culinary dream with zeal on this self-guided food-themed odyssey across Japan’s Honshu Island. It’s all there: handcrafting your very own soba noodles in the highland town of Matsumoto, taking a street food tour of neon-plastered Osaka and embarking on a ramen crawl of gastronomic capital Tokyo. Tour company Inside Japan can tailor almost every element of the trip to your exact requirements. But whatever you do, there will be ample opportunity to share your love of food with each other, bibs or no bibs. insidejapantours.com
Osaka to Ishigaki Island: Fly with Japan Airlines from Osaka, where the gastronomic adventure ends.
Mermaid-tail blue water, white sandy beaches and subtropical forest might not be the first things you associate with Japan, but in the country’s most far-flung southern islands that’s exactly what you’ll find. Enjoy this secret paradise with your significant other at Jusandi, a luxury five-villa resort on Ishigaki Island, where the clean lines of modern Japanese design meet the rugged outdoors. Each villa boasts a private pool and garden and is just minutes from a private beach, so there’s ample space to enjoy alone time together. Rest assured cabin fever won’t be an issue though, as staff can arrange all manner of local activities, from diving Japan’s biggest coral reef to admiring the Southern Cross on a stargazing trip. en.jusandi.jp
Nothing draws you and your loved one closer together than hours on the road with jaw-dropping views whipping past the glass and your wedding soundtrack pouring through the speakers. The Dempster Highway, one of the world’s most scenic stretches of road, promises the few who drive it a journey through lunar landscapes and expansive tundra and past jagged peaks as they make their way to the Arctic Circle in Canada’s Yukon Territory. Pick up a heavy-duty camper from Motorhome Republic in Whitehorse and set the GPS for Dawson City, a historic gold-rush town with a Wild West vibe. Cruise on to Tombstone Territorial Park, where you’ll spot moose in fields of wildflowers and lakes reflecting granite ridges. Once you’ve crossed the circle, stop to learn about First Nations Hän and Inuvialuit people at cultural centres and to find good spots to camp before, finally, you get to the end point of Inuvik. When you’re this far north darkness never claims the summer night sky, and what could be more romantic than re-creating your first dance under the midnight sun? motorhomerepublic.com
Whitehorse to Halfmoon Bay: Air North flies from Inuvik to Vancouver via Whitehorse. From there it’s a two-hour drive and 40-minute ferry ride.
Pointhouse Suites at Sargeant Bay, Halfmoon Bay, Canada
There’s something about sleeping outside that feels earthy and romantic, but there’s no need to forego four walls and creature comforts while getting cosy with Mother Nature. Designed to blur the boundaries between inside and out, the Pointhouse Suites at Sargeant Bay on Canada’s Sunshine Coast do just that. Floor-to-ceiling windows flood rooms with light and offer views of waves from the Georgia Strait smashing against the granite below, as does the outdoor hot tub for two. Housing just a handful of guests at a time, the hotel offers sweethearts one of two luxurious suites in the B&B, where each day starts with plush robes and gourmet breakfasts, or the privacy of the standalone Aerie or Annex guesthouses. Cut off from the mainland by water and mountains, this slice of British Columbia is accessible only by plane or ferry, making its forests an untapped adventure playground – although after your Yukon road trip you might want to stay in one spot. pointhouse.ca
Given that We Bike Tuscany is the brainchild of an American–Italian couple who met on a cycling tour of the region, it’s practically a given that their itineraries are designed with a hint of romance and boundless local knowledge. The four-day Val d’Orcia Dream is one of the company’s most popular. You’ll pedal through crumbling medieval hilltop towns, sweep round curlicue bends in the roads through a landscape dotted with cypress trees and sate sharpened appetites with tastings of organic cheese and full-bodied reds en route. A hard day’s work behind the handlebars is rewarded with stays in four-star, heritage Tuscan villas and inns complete with swimming pools to ease aching muscles. Coasting through this UNESCO World Heritage-listed region is guaranteed to bring you even closer together. webiketuscany.com
Florence to Monopoli: Fly from Pisa, less than an hour on the train from Florence, to Bari, near Monopoli, with Ryanair.
A former fish hatchery doesn’t sound like the most amorous of honeymoon destinations, but this seaside retreat has been polished into the epitome of stylish Italian living and offers a great way to relax after a long bike ride. When you’re ready to leave the white walls and handmade silk bedding in your gorgeous guestroom – one of just 13 – throw on a kaftan or your cheekiest Speedos and lounge, cocktail in hand, by the pool. Actually, make that pools. Add in the private beach and there are enough swimming spots for you to dip somewhere new every day during a week-long stay. And if salt from the Adriatic kissing your skin doesn’t refresh you enough, indulge in a little pampering at the spa. When you’re ready to venture outside and into Puglia start at the UNESCO World Heritage town of Alberobello, famed for its streets of trulli (conically roofed houses). peschierahotel.com
You would be hard-pressed to uncover an Amazonian adventure more exclusive than this. For one thing, the onboard ratios work very much in your favour. The four-suite boat caters to a maximum of eight guests, with a whopping 15 members of staff, including two expert guides and naturalist, on hand to tend to your every need. The boutique Delfin I ventures into the most secluded reaches of the Pacaya–Samiria National Reserve. When you’re not sailing past indigenous settlements on this fabled, mighty river you can scan what is the single largest remaining tropical rainforest in the world for resident wildlife. Peru boasts the largest number of bird species on the globe, plus giant otters, giant anteaters, tapirs and black caimans, and you’ll get a close-up view on rainforest walks and kayak outings. Or you can simply watch the emerald green landscapes sail past from the privacy of the whirlpool on your own deck. delfinamazoncruises.com
Peru to Uruguay: Fly between Iquitos in Peru and Uruguay’s capital Montevideo with LATAM Airlines. From there it’s a 90-minute drive.
Pair stark, cutting-edge design with the bleakly beautiful dunes of a quiet Uruguayan fishing village and you have the blueprint for an idyllic off-the-radar escape. Perched on the shores of the wild Atlantic coast – less than an hour’s drive north of its famous cousin Punta del Este – is Bahia Vik in José Ignacio. Opened in late 2014, the resort’s buildings feature sharp metallic lines that belie the creative interiors. Each suite boasts bespoke installations, from geometric prints adorning bedroom walls and bold artworks gracing ceilings, created by local and international artists. By day sink your toes into the warm sand as you raise a toast with ice-cold caipiroskas at the retreat’s restaurant, La Susana. When the sun slips beneath the horizon you can cosy up together under a blanket by a beachside bonfire knowing there’s still the option to party to live music at the late-night lounge should the moment take you. bahiavik.com
Miavana is no run-of-the-mill boutique property; it’s a sanctuary built to preserve and pay homage to Madagascar’s Oscar-worthy array of endemic wildlife. On Nosy Ankao, a private island off the country’s northeastern coast, indulge in the beauty of your choice: wake up with the sun, snorkel straight off the front of your villa, trek hand in hand with your newlywed to observe lemurs and organise a dive to inspect the extraordinary marine biodiversity. Then again, you could simply enjoy a late breakfast in bed at your five-star villa – one of just 14 – before embarking on a tough day of lounging on baby-powder-soft sand (four different species of turtles lay their eggs here, but that happens after dark, so you’ll need to ask staff members to accompany you). When you’re this far from the daily grind, everything counts as adventure. timeandtideafrica.com
Madagascar to Zanzibar: Fly from Madagascan capital Antananarivo to Zanzibar with Kenya Airways.
Outdoor bathtub? Check. Private pool? Check. Rooftop champagne bar? Check. Butler service? Check. All the ingredients for a romantic getaway are on tap at Zanzibar’s White Sand Villas. Each one-bedroom guesthouse features oodles of seclusion, since all are bordered by lush gardens. Comprising 500 square metres of living space, each of the 11 villas is more than double the size of most urban apartments. Inside the calming cream walls, furnished with hand-picked antiques, there are unadulterated views from your bed to the ocean. Soak up some quality one-on-one time with your loved one or, if you get itchy feet, there’s a whole host of activities of which you can partake, from a market tour that demonstrates why Zanzibar is known as the Spice Isle to kitesurfing the island’s endless downwinders. whitesandvillas.com
For an Instagram-worthy honeymoon album, make like Lawrence of Arabia and venture into the wild Jordanian desert on horseback. On the nine-night Footsteps of Lawrence tour, you’ll ride Arabian horses over rose-pink dunes and stark, stony plains, cross paths with local Bedouin families, eat lamb cooked over an open fire, and bed down on a mattress beneath the stars. As if the changing daily landscapes weren’t enough, you’ll also marvel at the carved sandstone cliffs of Petra and soak your limbs in the healing waters of the Dead Sea. Embarking on the first stage of marriage with an adventure this epic is sure to kick off a lifetime of action-packed memory making. inthesaddle.com
Jordan to Israel: Fly direct from Amman to Tel Aviv with Royal Jordanian.
Although it’s an alluring stretch of golden sand and less than a 20-minute stroll away, the pull of Tel Aviv’s beaches might play second fiddle to the sleek rooftop infinity pool at the Norman. A warm hug of a hotel set in two delicately restored 1920s Bauhaus buildings awash with books and demure pops of colour, the Norman is the antivenom for any brutalist property you’ve ever endured. It’s also burrowed deep in the core of what is arguably the Middle East’s nightlife capital. Explore backstreet wine bars and dimly lit speakeasies arm in arm before teetering back to your individually designed suite. thenorman.com
If you’ve ever seen El Nido’s glimmering waters and the seemingly endless stretches of beach in Boracay, you’ll know the Philippines is a haven for water babies. But did you know there’s a more mysterious side in its northern lands? Unravel its secrets on a six-day journey with a private guide through the mountains of the landlocked Cordillera region on Luzon, the country’s largest island. You’ll hike through hills, visit Batad – a town encircled by mountains cut with ancient rice terraces forming a natural amphitheatre – and shack up in little villages. Sluice off heat from hiking at waterfalls, spot the hanging coffins of Sagada and clutch each other tight as you head underground to explore the sprawling cave network. Six-day trips from US$581 per person. unchartedphilippines.com
Manila to Small Bamboo Island: Fly from Manila to Coron Island with Cebu Pacific. From the port it’s a one-hour trip by boat.
Paradise in the Philippines isn’t hard to come by, yet finding a perfect stretch of sand free from tourists is like hunting for buried treasure. Strike 24-karat gold at Small Bamboo Island in Palawan. Situated in Culion Bay, this pristine isle’s blue-green waters and sugar-white sands play host to just 16 guests (sister island Big Bamboo sleeps 25). Bamboo huts are dotted between palm trees and feature rustic island luxuries. After organising your big day you’ll be happy to know the hardest choice you’ll have to make while here is how much or little you want to do. You might find yourself plunging into water to see coral lagoons and tropical fish, exploring the island or catching rays on the beach. bambooislands.ph
With its gorgeous beaches, historic cities and soulful nightlife, Cuba graces the top of many wish-lists. But travelling there can be a bit tricky and red tape often gets in the way. Make your honeymoon more relaxing than taxing by letting the locals at Cuba Adventure Company take care of the bureaucracy so you don’t have to. Working as your private guides, the experts here can help piece together your ideal trip, whether you and your other half want to go caving and rock climbing or kayaking and snorkelling. Itineraries can also include a sprinkling of culture, from salsa dancing to classic car tours that take in the faded grandeur of Old Havana. cubaadventurecompany.com
Cuba to Nicaragua: Travel from Havana to Costa Esmeralda Airport in Nicaragua via Costa Rica with Air Cubana and Sansa Airlines.
Florida, Spain and France all possess one, but it is Nicaragua’s so-called Emerald Coast that’s igniting the lion’s share of interest. This Central American country retains enough grit to entice the most experienced traveller, yet a blossoming stable of homegrown, boutique accommodation makes it an equally tempting proposition for couples hunting luxury escapes. Mukul is the country’s first luxury resort, and arguably the region’s hero property when it comes to romance – think private plunge pools, secret gardens with outdoor showers and your own palapa (palmleaf beach hut), all set on a 675-hectare reserve. That’s a space the same size as the British Overseas Territory of Gibraltar. The folks who run the place are so thoughtful they’ve even thrown in some world-class surf breaks just for good measure. mukulresort.com
If you’re looking for an Alaskan expedition that’s low on crowds but big on wildlife, check out the Inside Passage Catalyst cruise. Housing just 12 passengers and five crew, the Pacific Catalyst II boasts a charm like no other. She’s been sailing these waters since her maiden voyage in 1932, and her wood panelling and beamed ceilings, imbued with decades of history, offer an intimate residence for guests on this adventure. Weave through fjords dotted with bobbing icebergs, hike among forested outcrops and paddle along glassy waters in a kayak for two. On your 10-day round trip from Juneau you’ll encounter an abundance of creatures living among the trees and below the water’s surface. Highlights include visiting Pack Creek for the best brown bear spotting in South Alaska, and entering the feeding grounds of humpback and orca whales. adventuresmithexplorations.com
Alaska to Hawaii: Alaska Airlines flies from Juneau to Kona on the Island of Hawaii, via Seattle.
Continue your party in the USA in the nation’s tropical archipelago, Hawaii. The land of wild mountains, sand and surf is the perfect place to defrost for a week or two on your way back to the southern hemisphere. The rustic luxury of Kealakekua Bay Bali Cottage, situated in a quiet beachside residential area on the less-visited Big Island (it’s proper name is the Island of Hawaii), is where you want to be. A sprawling ficus tree shades the bungalow, which features an eclectic mix of Balinese teak fixtures and quirky decor (check the surfboard-adorned ceiling). Homemade dinners are best consumed alfresco beneath the twinkle of fairy lights. When you need a break from your love shack, hang out with the turtles, mantas and angelfish living in the bay. airbnb.com.au
Ride the African Explorer, South Africa and Namibia
An African safari? Just a bit unimaginative. A 13-day, 3600-kilometre expedition by railroad and open-top vehicle from Cape Town through to Namibia’s Etosha National Park? Much more inspired. See some of Africa’s best-loved landscapes from the window of a private luxury train. There’s a grand, cigar-den feel to the African Explorer’s cabins that lend this train an air of romance, yet almost any mod con you could need is available on board. But it’s what’s outside the carriages that is the main draw on this once-in-a-lifetime trip. Scale the world’s highest sand dunes at Sossusvlei in the Namib Desert, stand at the lip of Fish River Canyon – the second largest of its kind in the world – and gape at the largest salt flat in all of Africa. There are also ghost towns, German colonial settlements and braiis (barbecues) aplenty. trains-and–cruises.com
Namibia to Mozambique: Fly from Windhoek in Namibia to Nampula in Mozambique with South African Airways.
Mozambique hosts beaches to rival the Maldives, Bermuda and Brazil all squeezed together. But it’s yet to receive the same litany of travel headlines or immense tourism traffic of those tropical favourites, making these deserted shores the perfect place to wind down following the excitement of nuptials. At Ossimba, eight simple, thatch-roof villas allow the scenery to take centre stage. Surrounded by indigenous forest and settled on a 1.5-kilometre stretch of private beach, the lodge is ideal for nature lovers. Best of all you can sleep easy in the knowledge that the lodge is eco-friendly, too, since Ossimba runs on solar power and harvests its own borehole water. The usual gamut of water-based activities is on offer, so when lazy days get a bit too much, you and your partner can stand-up paddleboard into the sunset. ossimbabeachlodge.com
Paddling furiously, we manoeuvre the kayaks into the middle of the cove and peer up at two specks soaring above the hemlocks and spruces. Caught up in the thermals, they twirl around each other, nearly touch, then circle again, gliding effortlessly through the crispness of the morning sky. The ritual is repeated over and over until they crescendo into the grand finale. Grasping talons, they lock together tumbling in free fall towards the ground.
“For a bald eagle, trust is everything,” explains Megan, our expedition leader. “What we’re seeing is a courtship dance. They’re testing out each other’s fitness and strength. That is, if they don’t crash…”
It’s spring in Alaska and love is not only in the air, it’s all around us. My affair with the last frontier started when I saw a snippet on TV of Susan Butcher winning her first Iditarod sled dog race in 1986. Gary Paulsen’s novel Hatchet came out the following year and I became hooked on all things Alaskan. From Travels in Alaska by John Muir to Alaska: A Novel by James A. Michener, the poetry of Robert Service and the works of Jack London, words on dog-eared pages drew the pictures in my imagination.
This is my fifth trip to Alaska. The ‘call of the wild’ keeps drawing me back. I’m not alone. Passion for the vast wilderness is written on the faces of the people. You see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices and feel the comradeship that comes from being in a place where survival depends on what Mother Nature throws your way.
Starting in Juneau, I’m travelling with UnCruise Adventures for two weeks through the Inside Passage. It’s late April and we’re on the first itinerary for the year.
“As an Alaskan, spring is my favourite season in Southeast Alaska,” says UnCruise CEO Dan Blanchard as we prepare to set sail. “Everything is fresh. Like the bears emerging from their dens, we feel renewed. It’s like an awakening.” Dan is similar to his vessels – built for adventure. A wild, madcap type of guy who’s more comfortable with his feet in the water than under a desk. And Juneau, the rugged capital of Alaska, suits him just fine.
Originally settled by the Auke and Tlingit tribes for the abundance of food sources, and later named after gold prospector Joe Juneau, the state capital (population 35,000) is only accessible by sea or air. It was a Tlingit chief who told Joe Juneau where to find the gold that led to the town becoming the home of the three largest gold mines in the world. Speak to any local and they’ll nod towards the mountains and mumble, “There’s plenty of gold left in them hills”.
It’s the same story all the way along the Alaskan part of the Inside Passage and across the border into Canada’s Yukon territory. When cries of ‘gold’ went up in 1896, it started one of the greatest adventures in American history. The Klondike Gold Rush saw a frenzy of around 100,000 gold diggers (known as stampeders) sail from the US west coast to claim their fortune. However, once they arrived, perilous journeys on foot over the inhospitable terrain filled with steep ravines, freezing temperatures and dangerous animals dashed the hopes of many. Most either died or turned back. It’s said 99 per cent of the gold in Alaska is yet to be discovered.
Today the rush for riches is of a different kind: tourism. By the end of September, more than one million cruisers will sail on mega ships through these waters. We see none of them. UnCruise vessels get into the myriad hidden coves and sheltered inlets the big ships can’t, so virtually the only people I see are my 49 fellow guests and the 32 crew.
“Whatever nature gives, we’ll embrace it,” says Megan, who aims to get out all the toys (kayaks, paddleboards, hiking poles, skiffs) every day. Some days we tuck into coves surrounded by old-growth rainforest and paddle the kayaks through the glassy waters; other days we drift past spring meadows dotted with early bloomers like the vibrant yellow skunk cabbage flowers.
From water level there’s a sense of immediacy and surprise. The soft eyes of a harbour seal suddenly popping up in front of the kayak, a sea otter floating along on its back, the blow of a humpback whale echoing across the water. And then there’s the day we paddle to the face of a glacier.
As one of the world’s most protected sites, Glacier Bay National Park is the holy grail of Southeast Alaska. Covering around 1.3 million hectares and home to more than a thousand glaciers, it’s a glimpse of how our planet might have looked during the ice age.
Surrounded by snow-covered mountains we paddle towards Lamplugh Glacier. It’s almost t-shirt weather. Sunlight captures the drips from my paddle and transforms them into mini starbursts. As we get closer to the glacier, whooshes of cold air sting my face and we start to navigate through the bergy bits and growlers (small chunks of ice) floating past.
“Keep your kayak straight and try not to bump the ice,” says our guide Matt. Positioning the kayaks on the edge of the exclusion zone, we crane our necks up at the skyscraper of ice. A maze of spidery black lines slice through patches of iridescent blue, topped with swirls of white that look like meringues.
But within the beauty lies the beast.
From somewhere deep inside on the left of the six-kilometre face, a low rumbling sound reverberates across the water, followed by a long moan that sounds like a sick cow. Suddenly there’s a thunderous crack and, within seconds, chunks of ice start tumbling down the face of a massive column. There’s a pause as the column teeters on the brink before smacking into the water in a cloud of icy shards. “Get ready for the wave,” yells Matt.
Mesmerised, we watch the swell create a pattern across the water. The front of the kayak lifts slightly as we ride a series of ripples that peter out as quickly as they formed.
Other days we swap the paddles for boots. We walk through old-growth rainforests under a dense canopy of hemlock, spruce and cedar trees. Branches drip with moss and walking the forest floor feels like bouncing on a trampoline. Everything is silent.
“Too silent,” says Megan, before shouting, “Hey bear! Bears don’t like surprises. By letting them know we’re here, we want to keep them away.” The guides also carry a range of deterrents like bear spray. Thankfully on this occasion they don’t need to use it.
It’s low tide when we hike along the rocky shores of Keku Islands, a string of tiny islets sheltered between two larger islands. “In Tlingit tradition, this would be a banquet,” says Megan. “When the tide is out, the table is set.”
Clinging to slimy rocks, wrapped in thick straps of kelp or tucked into sheltered rock pools, the rich intertidal life of limpets, crabs, mussels, oysters, starfish, coral, sponges and clams creates a kaleidoscope of reds, oranges, blues and purples. Although the staple of the Tlingit diet was salmon, they cooked ‘beach tucker’ over an open flame. Kelp wasn’t only a source of food; it was also put to a more practical use, collected to create things like baskets and decorative jewellery.
Pulling a strap from the water, Megan explains the importance of healthy kelp forests. “The kelp here supports a variety of fish species, as well as whales, sea lions and sea otters.”
To learn more about the Tlingits we meet up with Dan’s friend Joe Williams, a Tlingit elder and Ketchikan’s former mayor.
To Joe, preserving his heritage is his life’s work. He tells how when he attended a Native American convention in the 1960s, he was told that by the year 2010 there wouldn’t be one person who could speak the Tlingit language. Fortunately, due to the work of Joe and others, the stories and traditions of the Tlingits and other Native Alaskan tribes haven’t been lost. “The younger generation embraces the culture because they consider it an honour,” he explains. “In our culture, we’re split into two groups called moieties. Everyone is either an eagle or raven. An eagle must marry a raven and vice versa. It’s all about the balance.”
I think back to all the eagles and ravens we’ve seen soaring through the skies and perching in the treetops. There is a true sense of equilibrium here, and you can’t help but marvel at the harmony in this ridiculously beautiful part of the world.
It’s 7am and I’m as high as a kite. Higher, actually.
Hot air beats down on me as flames lick the air, puffing up the 32-metre-tall rainbow holding me suspended in this surreal state of being. Up here the world is silent, but if I really concentrate, I can hear the faint jangle of cowbells below.
I’m 2000 metres above the dairy farms and storybook chalets of Château-d’Oex and at eye level with 90 per cent of the Swiss Alps. Heralded as the hot-air ballooning capital of the world, it was here, in Switzerland’s picture-perfect Saane Valley, the Breitling Orbiter 3 – the first balloon to successfully circle the globe – took flight in 1999. Cold air descends from the mountains that encircle the valley to create a unique microclimate that provides top flying conditions year round.
But for me, it’s the effortless beauty that’s hard to beat.
Our pilot, Max Duncomb, points out explorer and adventurer Mike Horn’s house as we glide over chalets made from local pine and sun-tanned like Italian retirees. At our highest point we glimpse the sapphire sparkle of Lake Geneva. Yesterday I sat beside those waters, sipping a jubilant chasselas made by fourth-generation winemaker Jacques Joly among the terraced vineyards that spill down the south-facing slopes of UNESCO World Heritage-listed, French-speaking Lavaux. Today I can see from the peak of Jungfrau as far as Mont Blanc.
“We never know where we’re going, that’s the beauty of ballooning,” Max tells me. “We’re influenced by the mountains.”
Originally from Cambridgeshire, Max started visiting Château-d’Oex 15 years ago and reckons it’s the best place in the world to get high. In 2015 he decided to move here permanently. “I’ve flown in 32 countries, but this is home to me,” he says.
We’ve been airborne for around an hour when things get interesting. While flawless Swiss sunshine is beaming down on us, the light northerly we were riding on has completely carked it. We’re drifting, moving ever closer to a rock quarry that doesn’t look so cushy.
I’m practising the brace position Max demonstrated before lift-off and trying to will the basket down onto a lush green patch in the Sanne Valley below, while our calm leader works his mastery manoeuvring the vent line.
Like it or not, this landing is going to be unconventional – we’re heading straight for a line of fir trees. I close my eyes and brace for impact. A rush of branches, a thud and it’s over. Peering over the side of the basket, I marvel at Max’s skill; he’s managed to land us neatly – and safely – to one side of a barbed wire fence. Our cascading nylon rainbow, that up until a minute ago was keeping us afloat, had luckily deflated just enough to avoid impalement.
The unromantic side of hot-air ballooning no one tells you about is the all-hands-on-deck pack-down – made all the more interesting when you’re in an emergency landing site inaccessible by road. Adrenal glands juiced, I’m calling time for fondue.
At Le Chalet, I regroup with L’Etivaz cheese – a dairy delicacy made by hand in the high alpage (alpine homes) between May and October each year. It’s only my second day in Switzerland and I’ve already come to realise any exertion (already rendered enjoyable in stupefying landscapes) is really just a warm-up – an excuse to enjoy the finer things in life. Seeing the locals’ penchant for slow living, good food and even better wine, it’s little wonder Zurich residents call this region the Greece of Switzerland.
Sufficiently refuelled, I’m now ready for a high of a different kind. I ascend from the banks of Lake Thun to the 1950-metre summit of Mount Niederhorn, this time soaring into the skies by gondola. We whiz past mountain bikers taking the more challenging route to the humble mountain lodge up top, with a front-row seat to the splendour of the snow-dusted Bernese Alps.
Standing on the edge of a paragliding platform that juts out over the Justistal Valley, I meet Pierre, the owner of the lodge, who has lived here for 25 years and admits he prefers it when the clouds are low and only the peaks are peeking out. “You have the feeling here you are in the middle of nowhere and there is nothing,” he says. Sensing he prefers it that way, I leave Pierre in peace with his panoramic view and continue to the summit to bathe in the sherbet-hued sunset.
Early the next morning, I join guide Urs Grossniklaus to hike the backbone of Niederhorn in the hope of meeting some of the locals. Within a few steps we strike gold – a male ibex, teetering on a precipitous ledge. During winter, Urs tells me, the tougher of the ibex can be found on top of the mountain waiting for the snow to blow away so they can get to the grass. Mostly, however, they stay down in the valley near the forest edge. The snow is starting to melt away in the spring sunshine and, as we walk on, we spot three chamois nibbling the grass and speckled snow chickens pecking around purple enzian flowers as golden eagles wheel overhead.
It would be easy to linger here, squirming with awe and jealousy in equal measure as paragliders launch themselves off Niederhorn to surf the thermals down into the spectacular valley below, but I’ve got a date with a celebrity chef on the banks of turquoise Lake Brienz.
Sonja Schilt and her family are fourth-generation farmers in the small village of Iseltwald. So when Sonja was handpicked to appear on the Swiss equivalent of My Kitchen Rules – called Landfrauenküche – and won, it was big news. Although softly spoken Sonja admits she would prefer to just make cheese.
“There were so many journalists and interviews – I don’t like pictures of me,” she says as she serves a platter pile with beef that’s been hot-smoked by her father who lives nearby, mountain cheese from their cellar, and a brioche-like bread called züpfe.
They’ll leave later this week with their 18 cows on an annual pilgrimage to the mountains, where they’ll spend the coming months making up to six wheels of cheese per day. This kind of workmanship has its rewards: my tastebuds can happily vouch for that.
Waving goodbye to Sonja, I sink into a meditation with nature, walking along the lake for a few kilometres to the Grandhotel Giessbach. Repaid by the sight of the foaming, five-tiered Giessbach Falls tumbling down the mountainside to the foot of this grand historic hotel, I sit below an ancient walnut tree and feel the magic the Swiss master painters who ‘discovered’ these falls in the eighteenth century must have felt.
That Switzerland is roughly two-thirds the size of Tasmania, offers 65,000 kilometres of walking trails and is serviced by a rail system that embarrasses most other urban public transport planners, this whole effort-vs-reward ratio is skewed in my favour.
In Lucerne, I ride the world’s steepest cog railway to the 2133-metre summit of Mount Pilatus to hike its trails, then watch teenagers tackle the high ropes course with a panorama of 73 peaks surrounding me as I eat forkfuls of chocolate cake.
On another day I experience a brief affair with the town of St Gallen, before collecting an e-bike at the train station and pedalling part of the perimeter of Lake Constance and across the border into Bregenz, Austria.
Reclining on the banks of the Rhine in the culture capital of Basel on my last day, I watch locals converge with charcoal grills and beer cans, while others brave the first swim of the season, jumping into the Rhine and letting the current carry them along.
It cements my theory that the natural beauty of Switzerland is easily enjoyed for just the price of admission. It’s a place where I’ve received more than my just reward, without any effort at all, really.
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