My face is centimetres from lethal jaws. Only a mesh barrier separates me from the teeth of a great white shark, whose body stretches twice the length of my protective cage. Even a little nudge against the metal enclosure hits with tremendous force. I regain footing and hold my position. Alone, and in patting distance of a killing machine, I should be petrified. Instead, I’m in awe.
I’m staying on the Princess II for a four-night Rodney Fox Shark Expedition, cruising around the Neptune Islands – otherwise known as one of the best shark restaurants in the southern hemisphere. The isles, 70 kilometres from Port Lincoln, are also home to Australia’s largest fur seal colony. Peak breeding season is over summer, an opportune time for great whites to fill their bellies. From April, seal pups learning to swim make for tasty shark treats. It’s a twice yearly smorgasbord locked into a great white’s feeding calendar.
The cage protecting me from the shark’s powerful jaws was designed 50 years ago by Australian conservationist Rodney Fox. At the age of 23, Rodney survived a near-fatal shark attack during a spear fishing competition, and the ragged wounds coursing across his chest, right arm and hand had to be sewn closed with almost 500 stitches. The encounter left him with a fear fed by the prevailing ideology of the times – that the best shark is a dead shark. It also imparted a fascination for these creatures that he’s not yet been able to shake.
Rodney devised a plan to create a two-man cage that would keep him safe while he attempted to capture the first ever underwater footage of a great white. It worked. But as his 1965 documentary Attacked by a Killer Shark screened around the world and he dedicated more time to observing great whites, Rodney’s perception of these “man eaters” started to shift closer to curiosity. Even so, when Steven Spielberg’s production team came calling with a request for live recordings for their 1975 blockbuster thriller Jaws, Rodney obliged.
Realising he had unwittingly helped to turn ravenous great whites into the stuff of urban legend, Rodney set to work debunking myths about sharks. On his mission he created the world’s first shark cage tours to help divers meet them in the flesh. Today his son Andrew continues his advocacy work, taking travellers out to meet great whites on Rodney Fox Shark Expeditions. Over 15 years, Andrew has collated an extensive catalogue, identifying great whites through a renowned identification program that gathers behavioural and biological data, and monitors human impact as well.
Rodney Fox Shark Expeditions offers the only liveaboard shark tour in Australia, and it’s the only one in the world to also winch a cage to the ocean floor. PADI-certified divers who opt for this encounter lounge on the sea floor with front-row seats to the shark show. Non-divers like me get first dibs on the surface cage, which hangs in the water and offers speedy entry when the great whites turn up.
Actually spotting a shark comes down to luck and the good grace of Mother Nature. Andrew warns that we might have to wait hours, scouring the ocean’s waves for a teasing slice of a fin. Within seconds of the first sighting a wall of cameras materialises and the frantic race to kit up begins. I squeeze into a full-body wetsuit and booties, pull on a painfully tight hood, and finally don my gloves and mask. It’s a laborious process, but essential if you want to withstand the frigid temperatures of the water off Australia’s southern coast.
The tours operate with a berley permit allowing them to pique the sharks’ interest with bait. It’s standard practice, but not without controversy, as common belief holds that chumming and cage diving fosters human habituation. Andrew argues that scientific evidence indicates the outcome is quite the opposite; and a morsel of dead tuna makes an insignificant impact on a great white’s intake of teenage pups and vulnerable newborn seals. Time and time again, I witness circling sharks simply ignore the bait that lands in the water, and it’s roped back in unscathed.
Laden with a 20-kilogram weight belt, I bite onto the regulator and gingerly step into the cage. Swell surges over the top, rocking it out of sync with the boat. I brace at the bottom and take a few moments to adjust the breathing aid, trying to tap into some inner calm. My senses are on high alert, and every sound seems amplified. The only noise louder than my regulator’s Darth Vader-esque wheeze is the boom of the cage bashing against the boat. It’s a turbulent ride, exacerbated by my buoyant wetsuit. With my feet straining to anchor under the foothold I’m locked in a comical struggle. It’s as though I’m a human teabag being dunked vigorously in the ocean, infusing the waves with my scent, and I’m acutely aware of rogue limbs escaping the safety boundary.
I expect sharks to flock in an instant, but for now there’s nothing but water to be seen. I do a double take when a dark mass finally looms into view, growing rapidly in size. With a twisted grin this behemoth swimmer appears more like Bruce – the friendly great white vegetarian from Finding Nemo – than a human-eating machine. It slips past with little recognition or interest in the cage’s contents, propelling forward with what can best be described as a sashay of non-existent hips. I feel as though I’m gliding, too. Instead of the panicked, heart-racing encounter I expected, it’s a calm and magnificent affair.
The aluminium provides a surreal sense of security, easing any fear of becoming tonight’s dinner. As hours pass and new visitors swing by, noticeable personalities emerge. Some glide past with nonchalance, others stalk the bait without fail, their lips peeling back and jaws cracking open to reveal a conveyor belt of teeth and fluted gills. One even has me “gooing” and “gaahing” as though it’s an adorable puppy.
Cage diving is most commonly experienced on day trips that shuffle through dozens of tourists. But cruising around on the Princess II means we’re free to take our time, and every second I spend underwater fosters a deeper appreciation for these creatures. It’s addictive, and I’ll gladly accept numb extremities and pruning skin if only for one more glimpse.
When Dan Jones’s father returned from the 2004 Tour de France with some amateur film footage and a bunch of stories, he unknowingly ignited a passion that would kickstart a career and – in no small measure – change cycling’s public image for the better.
Dan, a freshly graduated filmmaker at the time, developed a keen interest in cycling after watching his father’s videos. They served as inspiration for him to “tell human stories in the sporting world” using his own videography and production skills. Fast-forward a year and he’d scored the dream gig of making a feature-length documentary on the 2005 Tour de France, a project he repeated in 2007.
Despite feeling like “a shell of a man” by the time the race finished in Paris, Dan’s love affair with the tour continued. He covered the race for Fox Sports News between 2008 and 2011, but it was the birth of Australia’s own Orica-GreenEDGE team in 2012 (now Orica-Scott) that gave Dan his most significant break.
“I was friends with team owner [and founder] Gerry Ryan, so he approached me to come on board and film the journey with the team from its inception. He wanted to take fans along for the ride from the beginning,” Dan says. “I wanted to make content that appealed to not just your hardcore cycling fans but the wider audience, particularly those who know nothing about cycling.”
The pair rolled the dice and decided to do what no other cycling team had ever done – give their fans full behind the scenes access. The result was Backstage Pass, a distinctly Dan-Jones-flavoured YouTube series that doesn’t hold back on the laughter, the swearing or the silly jokes, but also captures the raw emotion and tension that comes with life on tour.
For the first time, Backstage Pass gave the public a glimpse beyond the secretive veil of cycling and into the lives of athletes who are not only determined and meticulous, but also down-to-earth, relatable and often very funny. In a sport whose public image has been so marred by doping controversies, these human stories provide a welcome breath of fresh air.
As an integral part of the team, Dan has spent between 150 and 200 days a year – or “a lot of hotel rooms”, as he describes it – on tour with Orica-Scott. His work has taken him to a host of countries in South America, Africa, Asia and across Western Europe. He’s spent a lot of time in Spain, where he was based with the team from 2013–16, and Brazil, with its aromatic food and frenzied passion for sport, remains a standout destination for him.
If he ever needs some extra inspiration for his work, Dan doesn’t have to look much further than Orica-Scott’s lead rider, Esteban Chaves. The fresh-faced Colombian with the cheeky grin had his promising career interrupted in early 2013, when a disastrous crash left him in a coma for two weeks. His injuries included a compound fracture of the collarbone, a smashed cheekbone and extensive nerve damage in his right arm. Nine of the 10 doctors consulted said Esteban would never ride again.
Not only did Esteban get back on the bike, but he made a mockery of his setbacks in 2016 by claiming podium finishes in both the Giro d’Italia and the Vuelta a España. Dan was there to film his entire journey.
“He defied the odds and has become one of the best riders in the world, but never lost the common touch,” Dan says. “He always has time for the fans and is super courteous to the staff and his teammates. A true legend both on and off the bike.”
Esteban’s story proved one of the main drivers behind Dan’s biggest project to date: the 2017 release of his first feature film, All For One.
“After Esteban’s breakthrough 2015 Vuelta, where he won two stages and held the leader’s jersey for a number of days, I knew the time was right to start work on a feature film,” he says.
All For One further showcases Dan’s ability to walk the line between humour and gravity. It traces Orica-Scott’s journey from its infancy up until the 2016 season, when the team celebrated some of its most iconic moments. Dan and his colleagues received recognition for their countless hours of work when the film won the Audience Award for Best Documentary at this year’s Melbourne International Film Festival.
“The reactions we have had to the film have been unbelievable,” he says. “I’ve received a huge amount of messages from people who have been touched by the film and the stories of mateship, determination and courage in a sport that had been tainted by controversy for so long.”
After 12 years on the bike, Dan’s involvement with cycling has just come to an end, with the 2017 Vuelta his last tour with Orica-Scott. His attention is now firmly focused on his newborn son, William, and his wedding later this year.
There are plenty of possibilities on the horizon, however. Dan is looking forward to “mixing things up a bit” and is considering making a tennis documentary in the future. But for the moment, his goals have “shifted from professional aspirations to being the best father and husband I can be”.
Because in the race of life, family always comes first.
“Clear prop!” The words ring out like a golfer’s “fore” as the microlight’s engine grumbles to life. It’s a sweet sound, made sweeter by the fact that I am about to get a bird’s-eye view of the temples of Angkor.
It’s also my first time back in a cockpit after a four-year hiatus. Since leaving a life of weekend aviation adventures, the only thing I have truly been pilot-in-command of is my laptop. I am playing passenger today, but sightseeing in a microlight on the outskirts of Siem Reap is enough to scratch my flying itch.
American pilot Eddie Smith breaks my reverie and tells me to hop in. Strapped securely in the back seat, I feel like a novice facing the complexities of an aircraft for the first time. There’s no yoke; the simple cockpit is crude and communication with air traffic control is via a handheld radio. It’s a bare-bones plane, somewhat reminiscent of early flying machines and quite fitting for an adventure around Cambodia’s ancient edifices.
With more than 3500 hours on the trike, Eddie accelerates effortlessly down the dirt airstrip, and with slight forward pressure on the microlight’s control bar we break from the ground. After a brief climb to 180 metres, Eddie banks the flexwing east, passing the remnants of an ancient prasat (temple) shrouded by a thick grove of trees.
We press on, cruising low and slow over countryside where the rice paddies form a patchwork of emerald green. As we near Bakong, an imposing pyramid-shaped temple, Eddie launches into a history lesson about the Roluos Group, a set of three Hindu monuments dating from the late ninth century AD. While air law prevents us from flying directly over, we’re close enough to have a spectacular view of what remains of Hariharalaya, the ancient capital of the Khmer empire.
We soon head north towards the splendour of Angkor Wat. Outfitted with only a Plexiglas windscreen between pilot and rushing wind, the microlight offers a gripping perspective of the immense scale and complexity of ancient Khmer civilisation. My scenic tour has effectively become a trip back in time, when kings once ruled, warred and constructed vast waterways and temples.
My head is still in the clouds when the trike’s wheels touch down on terra firma. Eddie shuts down the little beast and asks how my flight was. My response? “We’re definitely doing this again.”
Waves collide against basalt cliffs, sending a cloud of salty spray into the air. Battered by wind and rain, it’s not an entirely pleasant day to be bumping across the North Atlantic, but I’m determined to reach Mykines, the westernmost isle of the remote Faroes and a paradise for migratory birds.
Although known for its breeding colonies of northern gannets, black guillemots and kittiwakes, it is the sweet and inquisitive stares of the puffins that have drawn me to the edge of the archipelago. With two unsuccessful scouting missions already behind me, I’m hopeful that today may be the day I spot these chubby little birds.
Twitchers aside, this remote and windswept cluster of 18 volcanic islands anchored between Scotland, Norway and Iceland remains largely under the radar, even as the popularity of Iceland soars. In my eyes though, it’s every bit as enticing.
Cruising alongside a slate-grey wall dressed in moss, I can see why these rugged landscapes are woven with legends of epic Viking voyages and whimsical folklore. It’s only my fourth day here and I am already acquainted with the tale of the seal woman who cursed local men and the greedy Icelandic giants who stand as spires of rock fixed in the landscape after trying to steal an island.
After 40 minutes of rocking and rolling on the ferry I’m relieved when a tiny marina wedged in a gap in the cliff comes into view. Scarcely more than a dozen inhabitants live in the island’s tiny settlement, a quintessentially Faroese village of manicured turf roofs and white window frames. A mosaic of dewy green fields carpets the way to the western peninsula, where puffins are known to nest. I march along the ridgeline under the watch of grazing sheep. Blades of grass poking through their teeth make them look like a scruffy gang of cowboys.
As I round a bend, a tornado of birds comes into view. Flashes of crimson speckle the horizon and I realise I underestimated the enormity of this spectacle. Puffins flounce through the air, furiously beating their wings in an attempt to keep portly bellies aloft, while thousands more ride the inky waves, their white bodies appearing like stars in a night sky.
After a series of loops in the aerial velodrome, several puffins land clumsily with glassy-eyed sardines drooping from their beaks. They disappear into burrows to feed expectant pufflings. At the westernmost point of the island a cackle of seabirds carries on the wind, rising from those breeding in the cliff walls. The stench of guano is almost unbearable.
A lighthouse pokes from the earth in the distance, kept company by a red-roofed keeper’s hut. To work out here, at what seems to be the end of the world, must be a beautiful but exceedingly lonely existence. Ferries to Mykines operate solely during summer, after which a helicopter is the only way to reach the isle. During harsh winters, storms can leave inhabitants stranded here for days at a time.
Looking back along Mykines toward the fjords undulating into the distance is tremendous. Rivulets have carved waves into the jet-black rock face over millions of years. I can’t ever remember setting foot anywhere more wild or at the mercy of the elements.
The days slide by in a blur of curious sheep, spectacular coastal roads and homes that would fit in the pages of any children’s fairytale. Although rain is almost constant and sombre skies unabating, it only seems to intensify the allure of the islands.
I marvel at the waterfall at Gásadalur that tumbles from a precipice toward the ocean, only to be whisked away by the wind, and wait for the incoming tide to flood the bay of Saksun and form a mirror of the sky. Later, I explore the medieval ruins of St Magnus Cathedral and contemplate indulging in the 17-course tasting menu at Kok, the only Michelin-starred restaurant in the archipelago. As I watch a tall ship with lowered sails pass narrow fjords and pinnacles of rock being assaulted by the northern seas, I wonder if perhaps they are the central characters of another local legend.
One surprisingly sunny day I venture north on the island of Streymoy along a serpentine road that delivers me to charming Tjørnuvík. Sat in the valley, this unassuming hamlet is hugged by a brilliant blue bay one might expect to find in the Caribbean rather than a moody archipelago so close to the Arctic Circle. Marking the horizon are the petrified figures of Risin and Kellingin, that sneaky giant and his wife, a witch, who unsuccessfully attempted to steal the islands and were transformed into sea stacks for their sins.
The scent of waffles pervades the centre of town, flowing from an open-air stand run by a couple who sit yammering on a wooden bench. Now that high season is over I may be today’s only customer. In this rare moment of warm autumn sunshine, waffles topped in cream and served with a side of jovial company are a welcome afternoon treat.
On the isle of Vágar sheep wend along the mossy banks of Sørvágsvatn, the largest lake in the islands, to a final incline leading to a ragged bluff. From here the curved lake appears to hover above the ocean, an optical illusion that has captured the imagination of keen photographers in recent years.
Leaning over the edge sends a bolt of adrenaline down to my feet. The Faroes are home to some of the tallest sea cliffs in the world, and although this one is more than high enough to send me trembling as I stumble away from the brink, it doesn’t even come close to qualifying for the top spot.
Later, Johannes Hansen, a local adventure guide, invites me in for a traditional feast. In his singsong accent, he relays the isle’s dark history, reawakening my sense of vertigo. According to legend, as a punishment for laziness or simply falling ill, slaves were tossed over the cliffs and into the angry sea. In a blissful daze after a few tots of homemade schnapps it’s hard to imagine these modern-day Vikings, with their cheerful, rosy cheeks, could possibly have ancestors – even fantasy ones – capable of such cruelty.
Conversation turns away from tales of malevolence and Johannes shares yarns about houses that have been transplanted between villages over the centuries, carefully shifted brick by brick, and explains why the Faroese always wear oversized hats jutting to the left – it’s so they can easily remove them when shaking hands with their right.
Famished, I work through a spread of unfamiliar meats. Skerpikjøt, a tender, wind-dried mutton that’s been hanging in Johannes’s shed for almost two years, gives off the funk of blue cheese. Dried flakes of fish and pilot whale blubber and flesh also feature on the menu. Although the annual grindadráp (whale hunt) is controversial on the international stage, locals fiercely defend the tradition. On these remote, rugged islands it’s difficult to survive on agriculture alone, and so whaling has sustained the communities through many harsh winters.
Overnight, mist envelops the homes of the 40,000 people living in the capital city of Tórshavn – almost the archipelago’s entire population – and I wake to a sea of white lapping at my window. Intent on embarking on a multi-isle road trip, I push on to the east along Highway 10. A bridge carries me over the sound between Streymoy and the isle of Eysturoy, where a sub-sea tunnel connects me to Borðoy and a ferry karts me to Kalsoy, a narrow island resembling a knobbly witch’s finger.
As is the case in many Nordic nations, the building philosophy seems to be “if we can’t go over it, we’ll have to go through it”. I lament the all-too-dim headlights guiding me into an unlit passage leading into the belly of a mountain. It spits me out at the village of Trøllanes, where I swap wheels for feet to reach my final destination. Perched by the Kallur Lighthouse, which stands sentinel on the emerald tip of the island, I watch the fog roll over the end of the earth.
Driving back between the fjords beneath a blanket of grey, I’ve come to realise that the melancholy skies lend well to the islands’ stark beauty and sinister legends. And yet, as if on cue, the clouds part and a halo of golden light spills across the landscape. Perhaps it’s a sign that I should do as the Faroese do and transplant my house brick by brick into this fabled landscape.
We are gliding like a troupe of figurines in Swan Lake: one minute cautiously, quietly pointing a foot, planting it toe to heel, before skating across the stage, spectators gawping in anticipation of a blunder. The next minute we are allegro: springing and bounding and leaping like a tornado. Our backdrop may be pure blockbuster, but this is no extravagant production. We are frolicking in mud, our Kmart plimsolls tacking to the ground, a glistening centrepiece of sweat gracing our foreheads, surrounded by a halo of humidity-induced frizz. It is glorious.
The Cook Islands might be known for its Listerine-blue lagoons, but the interior of rugged Rarotonga is unexpectedly inviting and practically tourist-free. And although the rains may have dampened our trail, punctuating it with portions of sloping quagmire, they’ve not dampened our spirits.
On a cross-island trek we plod from montane forest through cloud forest to the craggy tip of Te Rua Manga (the Needle), in the company of local hiking protégé Bruce, the nephew of Cook Islands’ medicine man Pa. “The air conditioning has come on,” he chuckles, stopping and grinning as the trade winds rush through chestnut trees dressed in moss. Having just climbed a near-vertical staircase of tree roots it’s a welcome relief; a cool lick slicing through soupy climes. In only three kilometres – and numerous lungfuls of air – we rise some 300 metres up this ancient volcanic cone. The slopes are so saturated in lusty greenery they feel primeval – like a T-rex could poke its head through the foliage at any given moment.
That these parts are so sparsely occupied is the legacy of the missionaries, who swept onto Rarotonga’s shores in the 1820s. “Everything changed in an instant,” notes Bruce. “They converted the chiefs then brought all the natives out to live by the coast.” Tattooing and Cook Islands Maori (the local language) were among the other cultural assets targeted by the colonists, although both survived the battle and have been revived by locals with increasing verve. The foreign intrusion has bestowed Raro with one gift, however: this relatively undisturbed primary montane rainforest is now one of the most pristine in all of Polynesia.
As the trail reaches a clearing we can finally survey the lavish layers of green unravelling towards the ocean in 360-degree technicolour, fairy floss clouds engulfing the serrated peaks adjacent. In the distant shadows we spy flat-topped Mount Raemaru, whose name means ‘empty shadow’. Legend has it warriors from Aitutaki, who were envious of Raro’s ample mountains, chopped off its crown while villagers were sleeping and sailed home with it. Curiously, islanders will tell you, Aitutaki’s highest peak today looks a lot like the stolen mountain.
With our ‘cardio’ session now complete, Bruce leads the vertigo-immune among us up the final stretch. Soaring some 413 metres into the heavens, the Needle demands a light dose of rock climbing and abseiling to reach its stony walls. Akin to a (leisurely) Cook Islands take on a via ferrata, we clutch chains and ropes and find our footing in hollows the size of eggs, hoisting ourselves up to the lichen-speckled crest of this rock pinnacle, where a 60-metre drop awaits below our toes.
The downhill ‘yoga’ portion of the trek transpires to be the most deceptively perilous, the coffee-brown soil now a viscous material, ever-encroaching on limbs. We crisscross streams where ferns bow over the water, curling up like musical notes, and wind down trails peppered with hibiscus flowers that glow like flames. We even chance upon a lesser-spotted pasty, naked Dutch man in a natural pool who was not expecting company. Bruce has been privy to some much more eye-opening encounters on these walks, he says.
With tourism still in its infancy here compared to several neighbours, some can afford to be bold with their life choices and get away with it. In 2016 the Cooks received some 146,000 travellers, compared to almost 800,000 in Fiji. But things are changing quickly, warns Bruce. “The last 10 to 15 years have gone boom here,” he says. “Right now there’s a good balance – it’s still not too touristy. The people that come here are typically looking for a smaller, less commercialised destination.”
Down by the littoral lowlands that typify the Cooks, people are wearing decidedly more clothes. Local men on scooters sporting basketball singlets and shorts warble as they zoom past us on the island’s single main road, Ara Tapu, listening to tunes through their wireless headphones. Women in flower crowns and vivid floral dresses steer with one hand as they balance stacked polystyrene packets of food in the other, like an offering to the gods.
The road is lined with endless palms and salmon-pink breeze block houses, but peer between the two and you’ll spot surf-shack-style coffee shops that dispense velvety flat whites a Melburnian barista would be proud of. There are also wooden beach bars that serve up fish sandwiches the size of your head, shops fashioned out of shipping containers, and independent breweries doling out growlers full with amber nectar. Add to them the tropical hues that adorn shopfronts and low-rise buildings, and the resulting vibe feels more Caribbean outpost than stereotypical South Pacific resort town. But that’s not to say the island lies stagnant and stuck in the past. One global trend islanders are taking to with zeal is environmental TLC and, as the only remaining industry in the Cooks, tourism needs all the caretakers it can get.
Ikurangi Eco Retreat is one of Raro’s principal pioneers, delving into upmarket glamping territory as well as directing focus away from the beach and back into the hinterland. Open since mid-2015, these luxury safari tents bathe in a sea of shrubbery and trees, and look like something plucked straight off Africa’s plains. There are free bicycles for pedalling around the quiet back roads, where chickens, dogs and stray goats roam around the crumbling remains of ancient marae, sacred ancestral places used for tribal ceremonies. Breakfast materialises on your private deck each morning, replete with Mason jars of granola, toasted coconut and plump berries, or fluffy pawpaw muffins, tropical fruit skewers and fresh juice, all locally sourced. From the plant-based toiletries to the saltwater swimming pool and composting toilet, everything is designed with sustainability in mind.
It’s a similar philosophy on Storytellers Eco-Cycle Tours. We leave almost no trace on our four-hour trip as we traverse taro plantations, where families yank the bulbous root from the ground, and climb old roads built from coral while piglets doze under nearby bushes. The outing revolves around the island’s history and heritage and 10 per cent of all profits are reinvested back into the local community.
But the most monumental step of all in the fight for sustainable tourism is Marae Moana. Covering an area similar in size to the landmass of Mexico, this ocean sanctuary was declared by the Cook Islands’ parliament in July. It’s said to form the largest multi-use marine park in the world, meaning these pristine waters will be safeguarded for generations of locals and visitors to come.
With land comprising less than one per cent of the Cook Islands’ territory, it’s little surprise most travellers come for the country’s surreal seascapes. And there’s no better place to wallow in its waters than at Aitutaki. Often lauded as the world’s most beautiful lagoon, the water is the clearest and boldest I’ve ever set my retinas on. So vivid are its greens and blues, it looks almost radioactive. So pure are its depths the entire contents of the ocean floor unfold before you in plain sight. You don’t need to don scuba gear, or even a snorkel, to admire the local marine life here – you can spot it with ease from the bow of any boat. Watch schools of giant trevally cruise through the water like underwater buses and small fish in shades of graphite dart to and fro, ogle blinding-white sandbars that suddenly materialise out of tranquil waters, and gaze at palm-drenched, uninhabited motu (islands) that dot the horizon in almost every direction.
Although it takes almost an hour’s flight to reach, a surprisingly vast chunk of Aitutaki’s visitors are day-trippers. But a flying visit means missing out on all the little features that make this tropical isle a big charmer: the street signs scrawled by hand in red paint, the main township with its one ‘superstore’ and two fish and chip joints, beachcombing its deserted shores, devouring dense slabs of coconut cake at Tauono’s ramshackle garden cafe. It may be around a third of the size of Rarotonga, but Aitutaki is so sparsely speckled with houses that it somehow feels bigger and driving barefoot around its lengths with the windows down is surely one of life’s greatest pleasures.
Aitutaki’s staunchly loyal locals – and resident expats – love to bend your ear on what makes their island home the best. “It’s packed in Raro now,” a mustachioed gent tells me over NZ$4.60 whisky served in plastic cups at the Aitutaki Game Fishing Club, a greige concrete structure hidden among the shipping containers by the island’s docks. “Everyone’s always on the go and has no time to chat,” says another playing pool under the strip lighting. “Whenever we can we try and get the first flight out of there. It’s a zoo.” To call the Jamaica of the South Pacific a zoo makes me think he must have also had a run-in with that same pasty Dutch man.
Small fires line either side of the street in one of the oldest sections of Montevideo. Men circle each, their brilliant blue robes and wide-brimmed hats standing in contrast to the flickering light. They’re warming the leather stretched across their wooden drums in preparation for a long night.
I pass a dancer in a bikini covering only the most essential real estate. After chatting with friends all wearing similar ensembles she takes one last drag of a cigarette, smoking down to the filter, carefully making sure the embers don’t ignite the enormous scarlet and gold tail feathers fastened to her back.
The usually sleepy neighbourhoods of Palermo and Barrio Sur are burning with life.
“Tonight is bigger than all of us!” declares a man to a troupe dressed in metallic zebra-print robes. “Tonight, you’re not just playing for yourselves – you’re representing your neighbourhood, your country and, most importantly, you’re representing Valeria. Play harder than you’ve ever done before.”
The rallying cry belongs to Juan Ramos, a battering ram of a guy who looks more like a rugby player than a musician. He’s covered in shadows, but the dim streetlights reveal a faded tattoo on the side of his shaved head that reads Mi Morena, an affectionate term loosely translating to ‘my dark-skinned girl’. It marks his allegiance to one of the city’s most respected comparsa (groups of drummers, dancers and flag-bearers) that represent different regions of Montevideo. And the Valeria mentioned in the pre-show sermon used to be one of their dancers.
Tonight is the second night of Desfile de Llamadas, a parade through Montevideo and a cornerstone of the Uruguayan carnival celebration. Each February, comparsas march in wave after wave, for the viewing pleasure of thousands of spectators lining the streets. Beautiful women shake their tail feathers to the beats of candombe, drum music that has grown from African roots and been infused with a Uruguayan flavour along the way.
Las Llamadas has a precarious duality. Today, it’s the landmark celebration of Afro-Uruguayan culture, but just a few generations ago the political climate was quite different. Then the drums were used as a means of defiance – a way for African slaves ripped from their families to hold on to their culture; a culture slave traders attempted to extinguish. Playing the drums allowed those slaves to call out to their homeland and to each other. It represented a refusal to forget their identity and a refusal to go quietly into the night.
As the group separates following Juan’s pep talk, I feel a hand clasp my shoulder. “You’re part of our family. Do not forget.”
Through hours and hours of rehearsals over the course of many years, comparsa becomes like family, experiencing the ups and downs of its members’ lives together. Together they laugh; together they grieve.
A week earlier, my phone received a WhatsApp message from an unknown number.
“If you want to experience what candombe is all about, come to the Cordón neighbourhood. We’re having a protest.”
Organised by Juan, the rally was in honour of Valeria. The former Mi Morena dancer was murdered by her police officer husband and the government is refusing to launch a formal investigation. Juan asked me to photograph the event.
“By joining, you’re becoming a part of this family,” he explained. “This is a time when we need all of our family to band together.”
A few hundred people – members of the troupe, Valeria’s family and media – gathered in the largest and most important street in Uruguay. Pouring down the road like an avalanche, they amassed more and more protesters along the way until they numbered in the thousands. Traffic stopped in both directions. Drums led the way as the heartbeat of the movement, growing louder and louder until the swell arrived at the city hall. The message pounded out by the candombe was as clear as it was back in the nineteenth century: we will not forget.
The spirit of that march is with us again at Las Llamadas tonight.
Everyone takes their position – leading the way are the flag bearers, brandishing fabric almost eight metres long. Next are the dancers, some wearing jade, full-length dresses and others adorned in gold bikinis and, finally, the drummers, clad in the silver and white suits and hats, complemented by black and white face paint.
A man sporting an official-looking badge, wearing an official-looking polo shirt motions to Juan. The comparsa in front of us has just left the staging area, and it’s almost time for us to go on.
“This is our moment! Let’s go!” Juan booms, clapping his hands three times. The gates open and we’re live.
The high timbre ‘chico’ drums in front rush in fast and hard to set the tone, and are met by the thunder of the ‘piano’ bass drum. The beat touches on something primal in the spirit, making the hair on the back of my neck rise. It’s not as elegant or refined as an orchestra, but I feel ready for action, like I could run through a brick wall. The drum beat surges through the air, travelling through our bodies into the cobblestone street.
The music hits like a tidal wave and the crowd roars to life. Dancers pull locals from the audience to join in the parade, and kids reach out, trying to touch the flags as they fly overhead. Each member of Mi Morena performs with a purpose bigger than themselves.
In the chaos I catch a glimpse of a family of small girls, all holding up photos of Valeria and a sign with our name, Mi Morena. Las Llamadas, one of Uruguay’s oldest and most significant cultural gifts, is alive and fighting, just as it has done for the past hundred years.
Swooping out of the lush green hills of Spain’s north coast into the wide valley around Pamplona, I’m struck with the feeling that this is the spot where sun-blessed Spain first conquers the drizzly north.
It’s difficult to imagine that just 40 minutes to the south there’s a landscape of shimmering desert plains and wind-sculpted natural monuments. That’s Navarre for you. This tiny province would fit into Tasmania six times, yet it’s among the most diverse regions in the country. Few visitors, however, ever see beyond the tangle of alleyways that is the setting for the world’s greatest fiesta.
By ancient royal decree this desert region – known as Bardenas Reales National Park, or the Badlands – is governed by the seven villages within its boundaries. One of only a handful of deserts in Europe, it’s so remote that the US Air Force has paid to use the area for target practice in fighter jet training.
But there are no fighter jets to slice the dawn haze as we unload our mountain bikes early this winter morning. Within an hour the Spanish sun has burnt off the mist and we’re cruising along a wide sandy trail. This camino real was once an ancient route for nomadic shepherds, but the only tracks I spy belong to a wild cat and, inexplicably, a set of bare human feet. Perhaps we’re following a hippie hiker or penitent pilgrim.
Our trail climbs steeply to a plateau that looks across a desolate valley and into much of Navarre. With dust under our wheels and desert sun on our backs we already feel a world away from the lush valleys of the Pyrenees and the twisting alleyways of old Pamplona.
I first came to the city in 1989 and developed an addiction to the place I wasn’t able to shake for 17 fiestas. But this normally sleepy city, an easy train ride from Barcelona, has a peacetime charm all its own. These days I return regularly to visit my teenage daughter Lucia, and to explore an even more fascinating side to this historic city when there isn’t a bull in sight.
Peering from an arrow slit in the battlements that protected the Portal de Francia (Gateway to France), it’s easy to imagine the awe early pilgrims must have felt as they approached these rearing walls from the wild passes of the Pyrenees.
“We call this area Caída de los Amantes,” Spanish author Javier Muñoz tells me. “It means ‘lovers fall’. Young couples come up here and occasionally they get a bit carried away and roll straight off!”
Javier is not only an expert in Pamplona’s secret corners, but also in Ernest Hemingway’s celebrated love affair with Spain. So much so, he recently published a book on the subject called Eating with Hemingway. In The Sun Also Rises (the book that established Pamplona’s fiesta as the “hell-raising capital of the world”), Hemingway wrote of the empty plains that, at that time, still stretched from the foot of the city’s walls, and the twinkling lights on what he described as “the fort”.
These days the abandoned fort is almost unknown, even among locals, and the pot-holed road that winds up the mountainside to it seems like a fast track to wild Spain. My guide, Stephanie Mutsaerts, eases our car to a halt to let a flock of sheep cascade around us in a fluffy white avalanche. Stephanie left her home in Canada 20 years ago and, after cultivating her Spanish in Barcelona, found outdoor adventure calling her to Navarre.
“Here, we’re only 15 minutes from the city, but many of the townspeople are not even aware the old fort exists,” says Stephanie’s friend Ángel Ozcoidi, as we walk onto the summit of San Cristóbal Mountain. “Others refuse to come here. There’s such a brooding history around this place and some consider it bad luck.”
Now abandoned for decades, Fort Alfonso XII was built on the hill in 1878 following a series of civil wars. It served as a notorious prison until 1945.
Ángel grew up at the foot of the hill and still walks or cycles up here most weekends. He’s the perfect guide, leading us through secret passageways to forgotten dungeons and old gun emplacements. Skulking through dark rooms that once housed hundreds of revolutionaries and thousands of political prisoners gives me the spooks, so I’m grateful when we emerge into the sunlight to gaze down on the walls of Pamplona and the 450-year-old star-shaped citadel that’s considered one of the best-preserved medieval fortifications in Europe. Only in a city with as much historical wealth as Pamplona could the massive granite fortifications remain almost unnoticed up on this mount.
Forty minutes’ drive north-west of Pamplona you find the Bidasoa Valley, an area that is culturally Basque. And in towns such as Lesaka, you’ll rarely hear Spanish spoken in the streets. Lucia and I drive over to meet my friend Juan Carlos Pikabea, who comes from a Basque-speaking Lesaka family that can trace its roots back 500 years. The son of a timber merchant, Juan Carlos is now one of Navarre’s most celebrated artists and a man whose enthusiasm for local traditions seems almost limitless.
“Our fiesta falls in the same week as Pamplona’s,” Juan Carlos tells me. “Hemingway came here too but, luckily for us, he didn’t make it famous and Lesaka’s fiesta has remained pretty much as it was centuries ago.”
There can be few towns even in Spain where history is as spectacularly concentrated as in Lesaka. As we walk the streets Juan Carlos points out mansions, watchtowers and armouries that date back a thousand years or more. Without his guidance I’d never have noticed the demonic faces peering out from the corners of some of the houses, sculpted as guardians against the evil eye. Near the church he points out a torture post where criminals and those accused of witchcraft were once hung up, with spikes driven through their tongues. Lucia is horrified to hear that children who stole fruit from the orchards were slathered in honey and bound to the post, where they were left to be tormented by the sticky feet of thousands of flies and ants.
These days life in Bidasoa Valley is more peaceful, and people enjoy a quiet, rural existence that is closely linked to the changing seasons. The foothills of the Pyrenees seem to bleed colour in autumn, when the immense Irati Forest – Europe’s best-preserved beech and fir forest – explodes with flame-coloured foliage.
“This is when I get inspiration for painting,” Juan Carlos says, smiling as he guides Lucia and me through a masterclass in the studio above his family home. “Throughout the summer the landscape stays mostly green, but in autumn it seems to change almost by the hour.”
Lesaka lies just 20 minutes from the Basque coast and enjoys a mild climate that makes these forested valleys particularly rich. Even today the people of these villages seem to have remained inveterate hunter-gatherers.
Juan Carlos’s wife and daughters were out at dawn in a secret glade searching for setas, the wild mushrooms that are a local delicacy. It is only when we gather at the family table to sample the harvest with fresh-baked bread and robust Navarran wine that I realise why so many locals are dedicated to mushroom hunting.
Far up on the mountaintop above Lesaka a group of ‘fishermen’ also gather each day before dawn to spread their nets in a province that has no sea. They hoist their giant webs between a channel of soaring trees to catch the migrating pigeons that will end up in the asadores, or rotisserie restaurants, across the region – often served with chocolate sauce.
The first-known record of la palomera (the pigeoning) tradition was 640 years ago, when the people of the mountain town of Etxalar complained to the Catholic Church about a local priest who was holding morning mass at 4am so he could go pigeon hunting by daybreak. Since then, the pigeon-netters of Etxalar have honed their skills into a science. During October and November, flocks of up to 100,000 migrating pigeons pass daily through trees that form a narrow corridor where France meets Spain. When the birds get close, hunters in watchtowers lob wooden decoys (whitewashed ping-pong bats work a treat); thinking the flashes of white are hawks on the prowl the pigeons dive, aiming for the safety of the trees. Their evasive flight directs them straight into the waiting nets. One of the chaps blows on a brass horn to signal to the other hunters that they can now open fire with their shotguns, snuffing out the unfortunate birds.
Playing our part to support local tradition Lucia, Stephanie, local guide Alfonso Bermejo and I head to a typical mountain asador to dine on roasted pigeon. One of Spain’s great underrated traditions, sobremesa (over the table) means to extend a meal through the pleasures of coffee and liquor and, most importantly, conversation.
“Navarran rural cuisine, as you know, is among Europe’s best,” says Alfonso as we ponder life over a glass of herbal liquor. “But San Sebastián [just an hour’s drive away] has overtaken us in the eyes of the world. Our wine is just as incredible but, through clever marketing, the region of La Rioja has become a worldwide name. We also have world-class olive oil, but most locals don’t even realise it. Navarrans in general aren’t good at promotion.”
It does seem strange the only tourists who visit Navarre come for either San Fermín, which was promoted initially by an American writer, or for the Camino de Santiago – of which only five or six days are spent in the province. Yet this tiny region is slowly becoming known as a modern-day place of pilgrimage for tourists who want to sample the real Spain. The word is finally out on what the world’s hell-raising capital does in its downtime.
Home to the glittering Bollywood film industry, Mumbai, aka India’s City of Dreams, is a place where everything – the crowds, the noise, the traffic, the smells – is dialed up to 11 then bumped up another notch, just for the hell of it.
It’s a chaotic, intoxicating and often confronting corner of the globe crammed with more than 20 million people (and that’s just the official count), where the extremes of wealth and poverty are more intense than almost anywhere else on earth. There’s no hiding from these extremes, which lie at the heart of life in Mumbai and are your key to understanding the city. Especially once the sun has dropped below the Arabian Sea and the cricket games have been packed up, when the city’s hundreds of thousands of homeless settle onto the footpaths to sleep, just as the moneyed step out for a night on the town. So throw on your best pair of chappal (Indian sandals), practise your namaskar (a greeting in Hindi) and prepare for a night of wonderful calamity in India’s ‘maximum city’.
5.30pm
Colaba, the old British quarter at the southern tip of the city, is where most of Mumbai’s night-time action happens. And because it can take up to two hours to cross town in a black and yellow taxi to other hip areas like Bandra or Lower Parel, it’s probably best to stick to SoBo (South Bombay) tonight. Wander along bougainvillea-lined Strand Promenade to the Gateway of India, Mumbai’s most iconic monument, built to commemorate King George V and Queen Mary’s first visit to India in 1911. Beneath this monolithic stone archway on the edge of Mumbai Harbour you’ll meet chai sellers, women wrapped in glittering saris and a monkey or two, and you’ll probably be asked for a selfie with a group of local teens. This is a sign it’s time to head a couple of blocks back, past the famous Taj Mahal Palace Hotel, to Colaba Causeway. Officially known as Shahid Bhagat Singh Road, this strip is lined with a rumpus of street vendors selling everything from bongos and crystals to incense, vegetables and leather sandals. It’s the spot to flex your haggling muscles before ducking into Leopold Café. Yes, this is the bar that features heavily in the novel Shantaram. And yes, it is clichéd. But it also dates back to 1871 and is a great spot to meet other travellers. Leopold Café 116 Shahid Bhagat Singh Road, Colaba leopoldcafe.com
6.45pm
When the sun starts to drop, you’ll want to plonk yourself above the chaos in one of Mumbai’s many rooftop bars. Dome, the swanky all-white affair at the InterContinental Hotel, is one of the city’s coolest rooftop establishments, and it’s just a quick taxi ride away. Here you’ll find shut-the-front-door views of the sea and cocktails guaranteed to make your head wobble (the cucumber gimlet is particularly tasty). Once the glittering lights of the crescent-shaped Marine Drive boardwalk below have flickered on, it’ll be time to wander down to Chowpatty Beach. Come sunset it becomes a bit of a seaside carnival. You’ll find fairy floss, people selling giant balloons and glow sticks and food stalls churning out everything from fresh fruit juices to pani puri – deep-fried pockets of pastry stuffed with chutney, potato, herbs and spices. Wade into the shallows with giggling locals, then find a rubbish-free spot on the sand to watch the chaos pass by as your pants dry out. Dome 135 Marine Drive, Churchgate intercontinental.com
7.30pm
The National Centre for the Performing Arts (NCPA) has been dishing up plays and recitals to Mumbai’s culture hungry since the late 60s. Grab a drink at the alfresco cafe then head inside to see a classical Indian dance or music show. If you’re after something more chilled, head to Regal Cinema to catch the latest Bollywood flick. Mumbai has one of the largest concentrations of Art Deco buildings in the world, and this edifice, dating back to 1933, is no exception. Even if the flick is in Hindi, chinta mat karo (that’s ‘don’t worry’ in Hindi). They’re really more about the bling-laden singing and dancing – and escaping the city’s intense heat – anyway. Just be prepared to stand and attempt to sing the national anthem, which happens in every Indian cinema before a movie is screened. National Centre for the Performing Arts NCPA Marg, Nariman Point ncpamumbai.com
9.30pm
By now you’ll need to refuel. The sexy, string light-draped upstairs terrace of Indigo, a restaurant housed inside a renovated turn-of-the-century bungalow just around the corner from the Gateway of India, is one of the hottest spots in town. Settle in with some za’atar-spiced grilled king prawns, or maybe black pepper-crusted rare yellowfin tuna, with a whiskey from its single malt list or the Mount Makalu cocktail – basically a coffee version of a frozen margarita. And keep an eye out for the Bollywood stars who supposedly hit up Indigo on the regular. Indigo 4 Mandlik Road, Colaba foodindigo.com
11pm
By day Colaba Social is a clever co-working space where, for a monthly membership fee of about AU$100 – which can be redeemed against food and drink – freelancers and creatives get a work space, wi-fi, a locker, mail service and use of a conference room. But come 6pm, it morphs into an excellent bar, open until 1am. Bottles of spirits hang from the ceilings alongside bare bulbs, there’s eclectic upcycled furniture scattered around and the walls are bare brick, giving it a rugged warehouse feel that’s perfect for downing a couple of Kingfisher beers. Colaba Social 24 BK Boman Behram Marg Apollo Bunder, Colaba socialoffline.in
12.30am
Slide in behind one of the narrow tables inside Cannon Bar, a dingy late-night haunt on Colaba Causeway, order a Kingfisher and watch a key feature of Mumbai’s underbelly unfold before you. Women in saris will be lip-syncing Bollywood tunes, occasionally shooting smouldering looks at the men in the room until one of them holds up a chunky wad of rupees. The woman will then saunter over, pulling the notes out of the man’s fist one by one and holding his gaze until he draws the remaining notes away. For this – just looking at a man in a way that makes him feel like he’s the only one in the world – these women can apparently earn twice as much as a high-class stripper in a New York bar. It’s surely the most disappointing strip show on the planet. Afterwards take a wander down Colaba’s laneways, following a nightly wedding parade or one of the chintzy, psychedelically lit horse-drawn carriages that cart tourists around town. Cannon Bar Donald House, Shahid Bhagat Singh Road, Colaba
2am
Mumbai’s real culinary magic happens in the hole-in-the-wall dhabas (roadside restaurants) like Bademiya. One of the most famous street stall eateries in India, Bademiya has been operating since 1946 and buzzes with the city’s frenetic energy until 3am every night of the week. In a grotty laneway, just around the corner from Colaba Social, you’ll find office workers and millionaires in Bentleys lined up alongside street kids and stray dogs, all waiting for the charcoal-grilled seekh kebabs, which many say are the best in Mumbai. Grab a spicy veg, butter chicken or mutton kebab for the equivalent of about AU$3, pop a squat on the gutter – or on the closest car bonnet – and get chatting with the Mumbaikars. Bademiya Tulloch Road, Apollo Bunder, Colaba bademiya.com
3.30am
Head to Dr DN Road in nearby Fort precinct to see dozens of newspaper vendors gathered outside the printing factory near the Empire Royale Hotel. Under milky yellow streetlights you can watch the men stack their trucks, bicycles and motorbikes full of newspapers in 18 languages to deliver to hotels, restaurants, hospitals and shops around the city. If you can summon a final burst of energy, jump in a black and yellow taxi and head 20 minutes to Dadar, where you’ll find Mumbai’s biggest flower market. As the sky starts to brighten you’ll weave through the already heaving alleyways of the market, filled with more than 700 kaleidoscopically coloured stalls. Each is stocked with woven baskets overflowing with bright orange and yellow marigolds, roses, jasmine, hibiscus and pink lotus flowers, which the temples and hotels buy for their shrines and decorations and locals use for ceremonies, rituals and protection. The stall owners will no doubt point and laugh at you, the firangi or foreigner, and offer flowers to tuck behind your ears and poke into your pockets: a keepsake of this unforgettable night spent in India’s City of Dreams. Dadar Market 302 Senapati Bapat Marg, Dadar West
The North African heat hits like a wall as I step out of the airport. A grey-bearded man wearing a knitted kufi (Islamic prayer cap) ushers me towards a washed-out yellow taxi, a vintage Mercedes-Benz. The driver asks where I am headed in French, thick with an unfamiliar accent. “Riad Jardin Secret, s’il vous plait,” I respond, melting into the seat. Arabic music blares from the crackling radio and the scent of diesel permeates the air. I lean out the window and the hot air blows my hair back as motorcyclists speed past in their billowing djellabas (traditional robes).
“There are certain places on the surface of the earth that possess more magic than others, and one of those places is Marrakech,” said Paul Bowles, an American writer who resided in Morocco for more than half a century. I’m only here for a couple of days but I intend to discover the allure that has long enchanted foreign writers and artists.
Once a caravan town along sub-Saharan trading routes snaking north from Timbuktu, the Ochre City has a history stretching back nearly a thousand years. The Almoravid dynasty founded the city in 1062, when the region served as a Berber gateway to the Sahara Desert. Salmon-pink rammed earth was crafted into a mosque, fortified citadel, ramparts and the monumental gates that laid the foundation for modern Marrakech, one of the great cities of the Maghreb.
Wide, tangerine tree-lined boulevards, cafes and Art Deco buildings create a backdrop for Marrakech’s Ville Nouvelle (New Town). We cruise through the Gueliz neighbourhood, built during the French protectorate of the mid-twentieth century, rolling toward the medieval-plan medina for which the city is famed.
Bustling, ramshackle streets replace orderly avenues and soon the taxi can go no further. I’m left to delve into the maze-like lanes on foot. Before I have time to get my bearings, my luggage has been hauled onto a rickety wheelbarrow by a group of young boys. Seeing my alarm they assure me, “It’s okay, we’ll take you to Riad Jardin Secret”. I pursue, weaving and winding into the disorientating tangle of alleyways.
It’s a relief to finally stop before the heavy door of the riad (traditional house). One of the boys stands on his toes and raps the brass doorknock. The housekeeper, Youssef, creaks it open. He’s tall with startling green eyes and there’s something solemn and almost mystical about him; he seems to float in his robes. Handing over my suitcase, the boys’ expressions harden. “500 dirham,” they demand. Youssef points in the direction of a familiar looking gate at the end of the derb (alleyway) where the taxi had originally pulled up, silently revealing the scenic-route scam.
An emerald green-tiled fountain laced with fairy lights bubbles in the middle of a courtyard overrun with towering palms. Riad Jardin Secret is a haven complete with palatial interiors – bright yellow tadelakt (plastered) walls, stucco arches, stained glass windows and filigreed balustrades. Unlike the medina just beyond the walls, there’s silence, except for the burbling fountain and teeny, chirping birds.
Youssef presents me with a silver pot of mint tea and a near-toothless smile. For the uninitiated, Berber whiskey, as the brew is sometimes called, is the cornerstone of Moroccan hospitality. I sink into the lounge and sip on the infusion of green tea and fragrant spearmint leaves, sweetened with lumps of sugar while a curious kitten paws the tasselled pillows beside me.
The property is one of hundreds of riads – centuries-old Moroccan mansions, typically with an interior courtyard and a sun-soaked rooftop terrace. These splendid guesthouses are inherently romantic, concealed behind ornate doors and set in the earthy walls of the medina.
Revived by the liquid sugar, I venture back into the thrum of Marrakech. The souks, scarcely changed in centuries, are deeply rooted in the city’s rich heritage. A treasure trove of shopfronts lines the jumble of passages, and golden light pierces through the thatched-roof of the marketplace. The main artery is Souk Semmarine – a market piled floor-to-ceiling with pottery, fabrics, carpets, antiques and pastry shops laden with honey-slathered Arabic treats so syrupy they buzz with bumblebees.
Craftsmen ply their trade across town. I’m drawn by the clanging chorus of iron hammers towards the blacksmith’s quarter. I meander through lanes lined with butter-soft leather and handcrafted rugs. I stoop between the skeins of richly dyed wool hanging in the dyers’ souk in shades of burnt orange, saffron yellow and poppy red. I trail the heady path towards the spice square, where the scents of amber, musk and orange blossom linger in the air.
It’s here that I step inside a herboriste (apothecary), drawn in by the display of jars filled with all things weird and wonderful. “Come in!” calls a man in a white lab coat, swooping out from behind a counter. He pushes a googly-eyed reptile in my direction, seemingly plucked out of the air by sorcery. “Would you like to see the chameleon change colour?” he asks. I shake my head.
He shifts tack. “I see that you have a cold,” he notes, reaching up to pull a jar containing shards of white crystals off the shelf. He removes the lid, gesturing for me to inhale. A cool sharpness invades my nose clearing my airways. Before I know it, I’ve parted with a few dirhams for a small pouch of eucalyptus crystals. When he offers to concoct a potion to improve my love life, it’s time to go.
Leaving the souks behind I make for the nineteenth-century Bahia Palace – a kaleidoscope of cobalt, saffron yellow and peacock blue – which, at the height of its excess, housed a harem. For a glimpse into the world of Saadian sultans, who ruled the country in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, I seek out the El Badi Palace where storks have constructed colossal nests in the remnants of the rammed-earth walls. An impressive marble mausoleum, the Saadian Tombs, is a stone’s throw away.
I flop down in a booth at Café Clock – a laid-back cultural hub a little off the beaten track in the Kasbah district. It’s decked out with eclectic furnishings and walls that flaunt bright pops of artwork. I’ve missed one of their regular hikayat (traditional storytelling) sessions but feel appeased after sampling the legendary camel burger and a creamy date milkshake.
To escape the intense heat I jump in a taxi uptown to find sanctuary under the shady palms of Jardin Majorelle. Beyond the electric blue facade and Art Deco residence are grounds bursting with bright bougainvillea and sky-scraping cacti. French painter Jacques Majorelle spent 40 years creating this dreamy setting, which was later acquired by Yves Saint Laurent. The fashion designer found the botanical oasis and the wider city a source of inspiration. He is often quoted as saying, “Marrakech was a great shock to me. This city taught me colour”.
In the evening I find myself dining at an expat hangout with bohemian babes and artistic types I’d met earlier in the galleries of Gueliz. We mingle on the balcony of Nomad, with sweeping views over the city. Palm trees and minarets punctuate the cloudless sky and the snow-capped Atlas Mountains fringe the horizon. I tuck into my tagine studded with apricots and dates, mounds of pillowy-soft couscous and flaky pigeon pastilla (Moroccan spiced pie). Wicker lanterns strung up along the terrace glow in the dimming light and the medina transforms under the cloak of moonlight. When the shutters close for the evening the souks are unrecognisable. The darkened alleyways are empty, save for a stray cat or the glimpse of a cloaked figure disappearing into the shadows. I’m slightly relieved, yet again, when Youssef swings open the riad door.
The next day begins with a typical breakfast served on the rooftop. Freshly baked bread accompanies baghrir (semolina pancakes), homemade jam, yoghurt and seasonal fruits, which I can’t quite do justice as I’m off to a half-day cooking class at La Maison Arabe. The historic riad was the first to open a restaurant for foreigners, entertaining the likes of Winston Churchill, Charles de Gaulle and Jackie Kennedy. Moroccan cuisine is a melting pot of Berber, Jewish and Iberian influences and I set to task, learning how to whip up a traditional, slow-cooked, chicken tagine. Lifting the lid of the earthenware pot releases a billow of steam, tangy with preserved lemons and olives, revealing a richly spiced stew.
After class I head for La Maison de la Photographie, a gallery in a former fondouk (merchant warehouse) showing an incredible collection of vintage Moroccan photography. I continue onwards to Ben Youssef Medersa, once the largest Qur’anic school in North Africa and still the most splendid.
As I step outside the threshold a young man approaches me to suggest I visit the tannery. “It’s the Festival of Colour today,” he coaxes. Despite the fact there is no such festival, as I soon discover, it’s worth clambering up the terrace to look out over the sea of dye-filled vats and soaking skins. A worker hands me a posy of mint to mask the acrid odour of pigeon excrement used in the age-old tanning process.
The afternoon shadows grow longer and I realise it’s my last chance to watch the sunset over Djemaa el-Fna. I slip back into the warren, hastening my pace. Following the beat of Gnawa drums towards the dizzyingly chaotic pulse of Marrakech, I crash in the carnival-esque main square of the market. At dusk, there are over a hundred makeshift food stalls blanketing the square. Street-side vendors sell delicacies from fragrant grilled meats to camel spleen, broiled sheep’s head and snails in saffron broth. The smoke billowing from the grill stings my eyes as I slip past the touts beckoning me to their booths, the soothsayers, snake charmers, magicians, henna tattoo artists and the blaze of fire-eaters. I sidestep the circus of cobras transfixed by the pipe, mischievous monkeys and wild-eyed horses pulling gypsy carriages. I narrowly avoid colliding with a man performing a rudimentary tooth extraction, as I dive between the drumbeat dancers and airborne acrobats.
I race up the stairs of Le Grand Balcon du Café Glacier. Doubled over and breathless, I manage to order a pot of mint tea and slide into a seat overlooking the open-air theatre. I’m just in time for the performance – streaks of orange, cerise and indigo paint the sky. The shimmering gas lamps from the stalls illuminate the square and a muezzin’s call to prayer echoes across the warm night from a mosque. That’s when I find it – an inescapable magic among all the madness.
It’s 3am. From my 12th floor room at the Four Seasons I can see the Nile snaking past and lights shimmering over the expanse of Cairo. It might be known as a city that’s on the go 24 hours a day, but it appears rather subdued from up here. In fact, I seem to be the only one not sleeping. I wish it was just jet lag so I could bounce about the luxurious suite, coming up with intriguing tales à la Agatha Christie; dive onto the plush bed and into a classic Egyptian film; or kick back with the view. But I’m feeling off.
An hour earlier I’d decided to try a bath to relax. I tipped a jar of Red Sea salts into the warm water and sank in, inhaling deeply from a bag of lavender I’d found in the room. Cairo is terribly polluted and my flight here was long. This fresh air was luxury in itself. Steam whirled therapeutically around the marble and I felt my body begin to unwind. Half an hour later I climbed out, pulled on a dressing gown and rolled into bed.
But before I can slip into comfort and enjoy a restful slumber, the nausea returns.
I get up and pace the suite. I call reception about a doctor and I’m told he’ll take an hour to arrive. In an hour I may be fine, I can’t tell. I’m probably just exhausted. I’d arrived from the other side of the planet only a couple of days ago and immediately started teaching tap dance workshops on both sides of town while battling a punishing case of jet lag. Inside me, an overload of sensory stimulation tussles with the need to relax.
It doesn’t compute that I possibly need antibiotics, but my body does realise that something’s up and kicks itself into revival mode. I need to move, to circulate my blood.
I throw on some clothes. I have to run. Somewhere. Anywhere. I grab my door key and head into the hall. I take the fire exit. I run down the 12 flights of stairs, stopping at intervals to tap. There are frenetic rhythms coming out of my feet onto the concrete landings. It’s frenzied, fierce and staccato. It builds and I begin to breath more deeply. For a moment I am swept into the scene and almost feel better. But no. There’s this unbearable feeling of internal pollution.
I dash downstairs and come out into the tearoom. No one is to be seen. I can’t stay still. I run into the bathroom and start jumping like a kangaroo. I have to get this energy out and keep my circulation going.
I run on, now down the waiter’s corridor. I get to a food station. Strawberries! I need fruit. I grab one and suck on it immediately. A young chef looks at me with surprise, I say shukran (thank you) and move on.
Then I arrive in the main kitchen. There are several chefs at work, preparing tomorrow’s breakfasts. And it dawns on me. It’s not sea salts and lavender my body wants. I need garlic. Now. I greet the head chef like a long-lost cousin. He listens to me and starts chopping a bulb. I also need parsley, olive oil…
A night manager appears and tells me it’s strictly staff quarters. But I’m locked in with the chef. I’m certain I need the garlic to boost my immune system, to get the blood flowing and counteract the levels of lead I’m not dealing with.
The heat of a flame draws me in further and the next thing I know I’m behind the stove cooking my sauce, the chef obligingly sprinkling in ingredients. The night manager keeps going but it’s as though he’s tuned into another channel. I’m cooking with gas and all that matters now is my garlic sauce. The blaze is soothingly warm, I look up and catch the eye of the pastry chef who’s glancing over from his task of transforming butter into croissants. He’s smiling. It feels good to be backstage, behind the scenes.
I’m not sure how to tell the night manager to get lost, so I yell in French it’s an emergency and I won’t be long. The chef coolly finishes my sauce with me.
I sit alone in the restaurant and eat my garlic creation with bread, then play myself a lullaby on the grand piano under the chandelier. The elixir kicks in and I feel slumber approaching. I return to my room as the sun begins to rise, draw the curtains over awakening Cairo and finally fall asleep. Thanks to the chef, and to the garlic.
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