Lights, Camera…

Sometimes half the thrill is in the chase. I’d travelled across the globe to the northernmost tip of Sweden to hunt down the elusive northern lights and my expectations were high. We were in a ‘solar max’, the peak of an 11-year cycle when solar activity is more frequent and intense, so the odds of success were stacked in my favour.

About 200 kilometres north of the Arctic Circle, Abisko National Park is the mecca for aurora borealis hunters. The Aurora Sky Station, perched high atop Mount Nuolja, provides an awesome front-row seat for the unpredictable sky show, but I have to get there first. Cocooned in a full-body suit that minutes earlier seemed excessive, I endure a blustery 20-minute ride in an exposed chairlift to the top. The subzero conditions are so severe visitors are warned against wearing water-based moisturisers due to frostbite. The remote station has no electricity or running water and, for those who dare to bare, there is an ice-crusted drop toilet.

A detailed science lesson on the chemistry on the aurora borealis ensues. Put simply, it’s the result of sun particles colliding with the gases in the earth’s upper atmosphere. I’ve settle in for a potentially long and fruitless wait when my guide hollers that the lights are outside playing. I clamber back into my cumbersome gear and rush outside in a tangle with my tripod. Through the slit of my balaclava, I desperately search the sky for my first glimpse. While easily confused as just bright cloud, the wispy white ribbon of light traversing the sky is unmistakable by its movement. Whoops of excitement ring out from my fellow sky watchers and I realise I’ve hit the jackpot on my first night. Lying back out of the punishing winds, my eyes soon adjust to the green tinge in those ‘clouds’. Continually in motion, the sheets of light separate and swirl like oil poured onto water. An intense pillar of light sways toward the ground like a belly-dancing tornado and luminous curtains of colour morph into countless formations before seeping away into the darkness. The performance is exhilarating yet all too fleeting.

A four-night stay equals four chances to witness the no-guarantee phenomenon and plenty of daylight hours to explore this winter wonderland. I sign up to mush my own dogsled through the vast national park. With no optional comfy passenger seat, I’m the captain of four hyperactive dogs stuck in overdrive. I clumsily manoeuvre each wriggling husky into its harness before clipping them onto the towline. Their excitement escalates as the team forms, culminating in a deafening chorus of impatience. A daunting tutorial outlines my responsibilities: avoid obstacles, don’t run the sled into the dogs, and under no circumstances let go. As soon as my foot releases the straining brake, induction is over and we fly into the woods. Juggling the icy footholds and braking system, I soon fall into rhythm with my four-legged ensemble.

Wrestling the sled through the rollercoaster-like terrain in a hammering blizzard is tough, yet the dogs never stall. Their long tongues flap back around their cheeks as they huff along, occasionally snapping a quenching mouthful of snow. The dogs’ passion to race is confirmed with the many indignant looks shot my way when I break their pace. We anchor for a short break and the pups promptly knock me into the powder in a scramble for affection. Each husky is as adorable and unique in personality as their decorative markings. As we sip hot lingonberry juice, the restless bundles are poised for any sign of departure.

That night I return to the sky station hoping for a repeat performance, however by the time I arrive the night sky has deteriorated into a white frenzy. After four hopeful hours napping by the fire, the weather nemesis declares it game over. It’s a taste of the frustrating, yet common, side of the aurora chase.

The key attraction of this region is the original Icehotel, located in the village of Jukkasjärvi beside the Torne River. This natural watercourse provides the 2000 tonnes of ice needed to rebuild the hotel every year. Each winter, commissioned artists transform blank rooms into original masterpieces in just three weeks. The entire set-up is a breathtaking organic art gallery. Every surface has been designed with purpose, stability and aesthetic in mind. Inside it feels surprisingly safe despite being devoid of any conventional materials, and I’m astounded by how many textures and hues are achieved from one resource.

With no shortage of inspiration, I try my hand at ice sculpting, led by a professional artist who guides the class through the basics of transforming a chunk of ice. Armed with only a chisel and my imagination, I find it quite therapeutic whittling away in the silence. But my attempts at a masterpiece are a miserable failure and I soon discover carving frozen water is a unique talent.

I’m left to drown my sorrows surrounded by the artistic brilliance of others at the Icebar. Everything, even the seats, is carved from ice, yet all is surprisingly comfortable in –5ºC. Psychedelic light installations add another dimension to the room, yet, together with the old-school music, it feels reminiscent of an underage disco. My ice glass, chilling a vibrant vodka cocktail, melts in my hand and fuses to the bar. There’s plenty more where it came from though; almost one million ice glasses are carved every year.

Warm, cosy hotel rooms with all the regular mod-cons are available, but I’m in the depths of the Arctic and hardly about to pass up the opportunity to brave a memorable night on the ice. The survival briefing: don’t overdress as sweat will make you cold, any belongings in the room will freeze and avoid drinking before bed. My designated suite is Rain of Memories, a dreamlike space with raindrops decorating the floor and glass straws suspended from the ceiling like an elaborate wind chime. My bed on ice, adorned with a few reindeer hides, seems absurdly inadequate. Dressed only in thermals and a beanie, I scramble into my sleeping bag and pull the drawstring tight. It’s eerily silent within the naturally insulated walls, even if the room is minus a door. While my body remains surprisingly toasty, my exposed face feels like it’s stuck headfirst in a freezer. The burning cold wakes me regularly during the night. My relief in the morning fades when I remember the chilled snowsuit that awaits. It may not be the most peaceful night’s sleep, but sleeping amid 3D frozen art is a whimsical adventure not to be missed. Very few get to join the exclusive club, as soon my suite will melt and flow back to the river.

It’s a harsh environment better suited to the Sámi, the indigenous people of Sápmi, an ancestral region spanning Norway, Sweden, Finland and Russia. Their nomadic culture revolves around herding reindeer, however traditional methods have steadily succumbed to modern influences, like the snowmobile. Reindeer Lodge is the only place in Sweden where you can handle your own traditional sled in open terrain. The enchanting Rudolf icons, with their branch-like antlers and steaming fluffy noses, prove deceiving. As I patt my reindeer, Skivdngi, it rewards me with a feisty sidewards kick – a timely reminder these beasts were originally wild creatures.

The reindeers’ handler, Nils, demonstrates how to bellow directions and be firm on the reins, insisting I assert myself as boss. But I’m not fooling Skivdngi, who ignores my not-so-gentle attempts to rouse him. The old-world mode of transport jars the joints over each bump, even at the maximum pace of a trot. As we track through woods beautified by waist-high snow, it’s surreal to be in the presence of such a fabled animal. I’m captivated by his ornate antlers, which, like a unique fingerprint, regrow identically every year. Nils prepares a traditional lunch inside his toasty lavvu (tipi) while discussing Sámi beliefs and traditions. The trip finishes with a delicious meal of tender smoked reindeer slathered in lingonberry jam, and comes with pangs of guilt as I spot Skivdngi resting just outside.

My final night of aurora hunting finds me going full throttle on a snowmobile as I test out the region’s third curious mode of transport. I fight against the powerful machine as I try to direct its defiant skis through the winding tracks, following a chain of red tail lights snaking through the woods. Restricted to a tunnel of light and deafened by the engine roar, my senses are on high alert as I keep a lookout for any darting reindeer. Eventually we stop at a desolate wooden hut to defrost and stretch our tense bodies. Teases of green dance high in a sky where the cloud refuses to clear. Over a hearty dinner of reindeer and moose stew, we all concede the magic has eluded us tonight.

In the morning on board the airport shuttle, everyone has a tale about the legendary lights. But at least half of the passengers missed out on seeing them in action. The aurora borealis is quite the tease and lives up to its legend. I was one of the lucky ones, yet the addictive spectacle left me wanting more.

Ransom Notes

Naked, blindfolded and beaten, Nigel Brennan felt the barrel of an AK-47 pressed to the back of his skull, heard a click, and shuddered. “If you run again, we’ll kill you,” hissed one of his Somali captors.

“There’s that constant fear that you live with as a hostage, that this could end at any moment,” says the former photojournalist, who was held captive by Islamist insurgents for 462 days after being kidnapped outside Mogadishu in 2008.

Brennan was eventually freed in November 2009, after his family raised a $650,000 ransom, risking prosecution for ‘financing’ a terrorist organisation. His period of captivity was the longest suffered by an Australian outside a prisoner of war scenario.

In some jobs, no amount of training can substitute for real-life experience. No classroom can replicate the utter terror of being ambushed at gunpoint, threatened with death, tortured, shackled and held in isolation for months. And that is why Brennan decided to channel his harrowing experience into a new career path.

Today, he is a kidnap and ransom specialist, employed to train high-risk travellers in counter hostage skills before they deploy to some of the most hostile countries on earth. Brennan’s also the go-to man when travellers find themselves on the wrong end of an AK-47. He’s the kind of man you hope you never have to call on abroad.

“People say it’s quite a strange job I’ve found myself in, and I guess it is a bit of a niche market,” Brennan, 40, says. “But I guess to have that knowledge base and to not use it would be such a waste. It’s good to help other people.”

Brennan is a consultant for crisis and risk management firm Dynamiq, which, in partnership with Accident and Health International (AHI), is the only Australian-owned company to offer travel insurance underwriting and response for kidnap and ransom, detention and extortion. AHI is the underwriter and Dynamiq the 24/7 duress dynamo. When an Aussie is in strife overseas, be it a health emergency, kidnap, terrorist attack or natural disaster, it’s Dynamiq’s team of ex-commandos that leaps into action.

Dynamiq has assisted with the release of hostages in Mexico and Papua New Guinea, rescued clients in peril during the Mumbai terrorist attacks and Bangkok riots, chaperoned journalists to war zones, and led the search and recovery operation for the Sundance Resources plane crash in the Congo, which killed the entire board of directors in 2010.

Part of their brief is helping prevent clients from getting into trouble abroad in the first place. Dynamiq runs a series of travel safety and hostile environment training courses to wise-up high-risk travellers on personal security. Brennan takes the hostage and ransom module, and realises now how “green and naive” he was going into Somalia to report on the humanitarian crisis in 2008. He says there were several ‘red flags’ that should have rung alarm bells in his head, like a last minute change of driver on the day he and Canadian journalist Amanda Lidhout were ambushed on their way to a refugee camp.

Other warning signs he teaches travellers to attune to are unexpected changes to travel plans, and an absence of people on the street, which could foreshadow a looming ambush or bomb blast.

Then there is old-fashioned gut instinct. “We all have this animal instinct,” Brennan says. “An hour before we actually left the hotel (on the morning I was kidnapped) my instinct was telling me that something was up. It felt like I had a squirmy stomach. I just had this massive knot in the bottom of my stomach, which I think was my instinct saying ‘something’s not right’.”

There’s a misconception that kidnapping is a random, opportunistic crime. In fact, they are usually carefully planned and premeditated, with victims sometimes flagged as a target the moment they touch down at the airport. Brennan, who was “sold out” by a trusted local, says travellers should avoid setting routines, and keep their travel plans quiet.

Brennan also teaches hostage survival tactics. They’re skills he hopes his students never have to use, and are a toolkit for not only staying alive, but building mental resilience.

“From the first day, I was like, ‘I need to make these people like me as quickly as possible’,” Brennan says of those dark days held hostage. He talked about his family so that he would be seen as a human being, not a commodity: “If they’re threatening to kill you, it’s going to make it harder,” he says. He tried to build rapport with his captors and show empathy, asking them about their lives, teaching them yoga poses, sharing food and even engaging in humour. Brennan converted to Islam, believing they were less likely to execute a Muslim, and voraciously read and recited the Koran.

Half the battle is in your head, he says. Setting a routine, including prayer and cleaning chores, helped lift him out of a drowning swamp of despair. “That sort of stuff [is important] because boredom is such a horrific thing when you’re trying to fill 14 hours of your day under constant threat, thinking ‘are they just going to walk in today and shoot me?’ Living under that constant fear and stress is pretty demoralising.”

Each year around the world there are between 15,000 and 20,000 reported kidnapping cases, and most occur when the victims are in a vehicle. Nick Berry, a former army captain who heads Dynamiq’s kidnapping and ransom division, says in 65 per cent of cases a ransom is paid and the victim freed. A fraction are released, rescued or escape, while nine per cent die – often from medical complications.

The global kidnap danger hot spots are Somalia, Venezuela, Afghanistan, Nigeria, Pakistan, India, Kenya, Sudan and the Philippines, with Papua New Guinea on a ‘watching brief’. Clients with kidnapping and ransom cover are mostly in the mining, oil and gas industries. There is also demand within the education sector, sport and recreation groups, and humanitarian organisations.

When the panic button goes off at Dynamiq HQ in Sydney, a team is swiftly mobilised to hit the ground within 24 hours. Brennan’s role is to either liaise directly with the hostage’s family or fly out to the kidnap zone to be part of the ransom negotiation and extraction team.

He’s a rookie in the industry, but life experience counts for a lot. And in the tumult of a kidnapping, victims and families draw comfort in dealing with an insider: someone who has been there, stared terror in the face and survived.

“I’ve met quite a few hostage survivors,” Brennan says. “Emotionally we’re all quite normal people considering we’ve gone through one of the most horrific things you can go through in life – where you have the simplest of human rights taken away from you, which is your freedom.”

Designer Dreaming – A Design Hotel Visionary

In the late 1980s, Claus Sendlinger was booking DJs and staging rave parties. In this guise as event producer and budding travel agent he sensed the people filling his dance floors were also looking for an alternative to the predictable offerings of large hotel chains. Equipped with a passion for architecture and inspired by the opening of the Philippe Starck redesigned Paramount Hotel in New York, Sendlinger began piecing together the business that is now Design Hotels, a company representing about 280 hand-picked 
hotels in more than 50 countries from Poland to Panama.

Two decades on from tapping into a youth culture with discerning tastes, Sendlinger’s journey from the clubs of Berlin has deposited him on the sands of the Caribbean. The Papaya Playa resort, situated at Tulum on Mexico’s Yucatan Peninsula, bears little obvious resemblance to New York’s Paramount Hotel. Established on a half-kilometre beach, a number of its 85 rooms come equipped with quite basic amenities and, in some cases, shared bathrooms. Yet Papaya Playa is perhaps the distillation of Sendlinger’s vision of what a hotel can be. He calls it an “alternative community by the sea”. It started life as a pop-up hotel in 2011, constructed with the assistance of what the hotelier describes with fondness as a “total freakshow from Berlin”, a visiting rag-tag bunch of “actors, butchers and carpenters” connected by their love of dance music. This collective, regulars at their home city’s Bar25, designed and built the hotel’s bamboo cabanas with local craftsmen.

It should come as no surprise that the result has been described as a playground for adults. With Berlin’s counterculture providing inspiration, it is fitting that furniture from the German city’s flea markets features in the rooms looking out over the Caribbean.

Between December and April each year, the site draws the international creative class. Sendlinger likens it to 1950s St Tropez and the Ibiza scene 30 years ago on account of its popularity with “global influencers”. One study of the venture described 
it as “a curious mélange of underground club and boutique hotel, art and commerce”.

Papaya Playa is now Sendlinger’s home base, but he is on the move for six months of each year; spending summers in Europe, commuting between his “triangle” of Berlin, New York and Mexico, and venturing to South America and Asia to meet with existing and potential hoteliers in the Design Hotels stable. He is a regular visitor to Australia and professes to be very excited about one of the newcomers to his group, Hotel Hotel in Canberra. Located within the Nishi building on the shores of Lake Burley Griffin, it bills itself as a vertical village where no two of the 68 rooms are alike. It shapes as a very different experience for regular visitors to the national capital. “I haven’t seen a hotel like it in years,” says Sendlinger, extolling the unique approach of its owners and their focus on detailed artisanship.

His other tip for the region is a new hotel scheduled to open in Bali in 2014. While the pace of development on the island and other Asian destinations such as Phuket saddens him, Sendlinger says it also “pushes the boundaries for new concepts”. One such venture is Suarga, a resort situated on the cliffs overlooking Padang Padang on Bali’s Bukit Peninsula and constructed from 95 per cent organic and recycled materials. Having visited recently, he was more than impressed: “I was blown away.”

What does a budding hotelier need to join Suarga and Hotel Hotel in the Design Hotels collective? Sendlinger says he scouts for well-travelled hotel owners with a cohesive concept that will succeed in the chosen location. Architecture and interior design still play an important role, but it is no longer enough for hotels to be well designed. “Good design is a minimum requirement, not a competitive advantage,” says Sendlinger. Instead, what he now focuses on when sifting through the raft of applications he receives are “local interaction” and sustainability.

A certification program named EarthCheck, operated by a Brisbane-based firm, is deployed to keep tabs on the latter but it is the former requirement – interaction with the local community – Sendlinger values most. What is the role of the hotel in its neighbourhood? How well does the owner understand the neighbourhood? These are questions Sendlinger considers crucial for hotels and he openly doubts the ability of large international chains to answer them.

For the team at Papaya Playa, integration with the local community means connecting with Tulum. With its Mayan ruins and stunning beaches, there is no lack of incentive to become embedded in a locale that has become an increasingly fashionable destination for what Sendlinger refers to as the creative class. He eyed off the site for a number of years before striking a deal with the owner to engineer its transformation. After weeks in transit, sleeping and eating in luxury hotels intent on securing his seal of approval, Sendlinger willingly returns to his family and his beachside home. It marks time for this perpetual traveller to play at being host for a while.

Pay Your Way

The shudder of the stopping train wakes you from your sleep. It is a frosty Siberian morning and Russian border guards are rapping on the door of your compartment. There seems to be a problem.

A short walk through the cold morning air to a dingy basement storeroom reveals what the problem is. There, behind a wooden counter, is the bike you’ve been travelling with for three months. Through broken English and a Russian phrasebook you discover there is a ‘special fee’ you’ll have to pay to retrieve your bike from customs. You ask what the said ‘fee’ is and the guards shrug, talk quickly among themselves and determine it is US$50. They are struggling to conceal their smirks. From outside, you hear your train preparing to depart. You quickly pay, wheel your bike back to the train, and rattle on into Russia, pissed off: that ‘fee’ was your daily budget. At the same time, you’re happy to have your bike.

While this scenario is relatively black and white – pay the bribe or kiss your bike goodbye – many travellers find themselves in situations not so cut and dry. For travellers from western democracies, such as Australia, journeying overseas is often the first time they will be confronted by a demand to pay a bribe. But for many locals in developing countries in Asia, Africa, South America and elsewhere, bribery is part of life. For westerners travelling to those destinations, the decision whether to pay a bribe often presents an ethical dilemma.

Swati Ramanathan, founder of online Indian anti-corruption platform www.ipaidabribe.com, says there are a few key things foreign travellers should keep in mind when confronted with a bribery situation. “I think the first judgement call that one has to make as a tourist is, ‘How risky is it for me to stand up for my principles?’ Because it’s never about the $20, it’s about the principle of it.”

Ramanathan says tourists should consider the safety of the situation first. “And I think you should never compromise personal safety, because you have to live to tell the tale. I think the prudent thing to do is to get away from the situation safe and intact, but then make it public.”

ipaidabribe.com provides a platform for Indians to report on the nature, location and cost of corruption they experience. Ramanathan says creating a snapshot of bribes occurring across the country – listed by city and government department – thereby quantifying the scale of the problem, pressures governments to improve governance systems and reduce the scope for corruption. The organisation has established websites in other developing countries such as Kenya, Zimbabwe and Pakistan. Ramanathan encourages travellers to also use the sites to record any bribes paid.

The Bangalore-based social campaigner says foreigners can play a role in highlighting corruption in the countries they visit. Ramanathan says now, more than ever, ordinary people have the power to raise awareness of corruption. “If you have had an experience, then I think people need to know about it,” she says. “There’s no point in hiding it.” Ramanathan says while mainstream social media, including Facebook, Twitter and travel blogs, can play a role, www.ipaidabribe.com has the potential to actually influence authorities. “I think that is the value of our platform. You are sharing stories which are specifically to do with this kind of corruption,” she says. “Policy makers look at this, anti- corruption fighters look at this.”

Ramanathan says there are, however, times when tourists should think about making a point. She says in situations that are simply annoying, rather than dangerous, foreign travellers should consider standing up for their principles and letting corrupt officials know they are not happy with the situation. However, she cautions tourists to remember it is more often the system, rather than the individual, which is inherently corrupt.

Melbourne-based social entrepreneur Lisa Zheng says as visitors to foreign countries, travellers are often not aware of the complexities behind particular bribery situations. Having grown up in China, and as founder of Australian not-for-profit Hand Up Australia – which runs cultural exchanges for students to developing countries including Ghana, Kenya, Ecuador and Nicaragua – Zheng has firsthand experience of bribery in developing countries.

“For example, when I was travelling in Sri Lanka last year with my husband and parents-in-law, we were asked to pay a bribe by traffic police who stopped our vehicle and told our driver we were going over the speed limit,” Zheng says. “The penalty was either for our driver to go to the police station and pick up an official fine or to pay a ‘small fine’ to the cops there and then, and be on our way – the price was 500 rupees [AU$4]. The driver paid the police off and we continued on, with the understanding we would pay the driver later.” While the situation annoyed her, an explanation by her driver made Zheng realise how complex the situation is for many locals in developing countries.

“The thing with driving in Sri Lanka is the infrastructure has largely not been upgraded since the 25-year civil war ended in 2009, so following the road laws means you would not get anywhere. Breaking the law is a necessity to get efficiency, so the norm is to pay bribes. I was annoyed by this obscure norm that people with power have created to get money off civilians, but when I asked why do the policemen do this, I was told that they get paid very little so they use a broken system as an excuse to extract money.”

Having lived in China and travelled to many developing countries, Zheng admits she would probably pay a bribe if it ensured her safety and sanity. “Often it’s petty, driven by inequality in a political or social system, so I think it serves everyone to do what you have to do and move on,” she says.

But Zheng’s advice for tourists is to deal with each situation on its own merits. “The strongest emotion for me from these situations is that I am thankful I live in a country with a robust and equitable public system,” she says.

In the end it often boils down to a simple question: how much do you value your bike?

Making Waves

It’s 14°C in New York, and I’m struggling to stay warm as I walk from the subway to catch up with Jon Rose. I’m already 15 minutes late, and Rudolph the Reindeer wasn’t the look I was hoping for when meeting the former pro surfer and Waves for Water founder for the first time.

Rose is sitting at the bar of the Gansevoort Hotel in a baseball cap, hoodie and jeans. As we chat, I notice he has none of the typical parlance you might expect from a California-bred surfer. His speech is not drawn out, nor does he bounce around words like ‘dude’ or ‘brat’; instead he sounds like an eloquent, street-smart 34-year-old man on a mission.

Rose became a professional surfer at 17, competing in competitions around the world. By the time he was 20, he already had stamps in his passport from Thailand, the Philippines, Australia, France, South Africa, India, Japan and Indonesia, to name just a few.

At 22, his rugged good looks landed him a Banana Republic campaign, and he was featured in spreads for Esquire and Maxim.

Not content with surfing and modelling, he also dabbled in photography, publishing a book entitled Towards Miles, a photo diary of his soul-searching road trip through the USA.

But Rose knew surfing wouldn’t last forever. He began to notice something that would have scared any sportsman: the younger generation was better. “I’m 34 and I could still be surfing,” he tells me. “But there’s a shift. It’s so clear. I’m not the guy any more.”

So at 30 he retired, without a clue what lay ahead in life.

At the time, Jon’s father, Jack Rose, was working in Africa through RainCatcher, the nonprofit organisation he started that helps educate villagers on catching and cleaning water using a filtration system. Inspired by his dad’s work, Jon found inexpensive, portable water filters online that could be used to clean not just rainwater but any water available, no matter how filthy. He realised by harnessing his status in the surfing community, he could bring the technology to surf regions around the world.

“I thought, ‘I’ll do charity on the side. I have a name in surfing, a voice and an audience.’ I figured I would get all the boys engaged and go fishing and surfing,” he says, taking a sip of whiskey. “I was going to go back to all the places I like to surf and drop off filters. It was totally selfish.”

And thus Waves for Water was born. Rose embarked on his first mission, dropping off 10 filters on a surf trip to Bali.

But what started out as a pet project took on a larger significance when tragedy struck. Rose was aboard a boat off the coast of Sumatra when he felt a rumble; it was an earthquake. He and the crew headed to shore and were confronted by complete and utter devastation. Realising the people of Padang urgently needed help, Rose made his way through dying children and decimated buildings to get water filters to those who needed them most – rescue workers.

“I went to Red Cross relief Centres. All they were doing was collecting bodies and the wounded. I came in and said, ‘I had these water filters.’ We took contaminated water, filtered it and I’m like, ‘You can drink it, now.’ And they’re like: ‘We don’t need it to drink. We need this water to clean the wounded.’”

The filters Rose originally thought would aid hundreds were soon helping thousands of people who may have died without access to clean water for their injuries. The experience changed his life. He realised Waves for Water could no longer be a hobby.

Rose realised he could have a huge impact during natural disasters, more so than just during routine visits to developing countries. From flooded parts of Pakistan to post-earthquake Chile and Haiti, Waves for Water has assisted in clean water efforts, working with NGOs like the UN, or corporate sponsors like Nike or Quiksilver.

Using these organisations as financial partners, Rose hits the ground with a few guys who work with him distributing filters, assessing people’s needs, and developing projects. However, Rose himself takes a back seat, seeking out local leaders and teaching them how to use and distribute the filters. “There should never be a foreigner having the power,” he says, humbly. “I don’t know the nuances and the dynamics of that whole region.”

Unlike many other non-profits, Waves for Water does not take gaggles of people on volunteer trips. There are no matching T-shirts with a group leader telling everyone what to do. Rose’s style is decidedly more punk rock.

“That thing that people say, ‘I’m one person, what can I do?’ – it’s bullshit,” he says fervently, eyes blazing. “I’ve watched thousands of people’s lives saved because of our efforts.” He calls it ‘guerilla humanitarianism’.

With millions of people travelling all the time to underserved areas, all you have to do to help out is purchase a few filters and drop them off in the appropriate locations. You can do this by purchasing a filter from Waves for Water, or by signing up to be a clean water courier.

Clean water couriers post their trips on the site to raise money for a set number of filters. It’s an ingenious idea that’s simple to implement, but can impact thousands and empower locals as well as travellers. Even if you’re not travelling to an impoverished nation anytime soon, you can still help out by sponsoring a clean water courier.

Though Rose has dedicated his life to bringing clean water to primitive disaster zones, there is one area that is neither poor nor in need of water that he felt compelled to help: the US Eastern Seaboard. The surfing communities of Long Island, Queens and New Jersey were hard hit during the devastating storm that was Hurricane Sandy. Having friends who lost everything, Rose knew he had to mobilise.

He stretches and pulls his hat off revealing his wavy salt-and-pepper hair. “It’s worse than Katrina. There’s mould you can’t see from all the flooding. It affected 220 miles. It’s 60 billion dollars worth of damage.”

Using Waves for Water as a means of funneling support for affected surfing communities, Rose has distributed more than five million dollars in supplies and goods, written more than 35 grants, and restored homes. Even artists like the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Q-Tip have gotten in on the action, performing at benefit concerts.

Although the hurricane relief effort is unlike other projects Waves for Water has been involved in, Rose is committed to helping the surf communities so close to his heart. “You know what, we’re an established organisation,” he tells me. “I have a good network and I’m leveraging the hell out of this shit. I’m just going to go for it and provide relief. I know what to do.”

Beats Working

It’s 2am and we’re on a breezy hotel balcony overlooking the South China Sea. While many people have long entered the land of dreams, Niall Macaulay is still winding down. The sound engineer has just finished another long day at the Rainforest World Music Festival in Sarawak, Malaysia, so it’s time for a Tiger beer and a relaxed debrief with his wife, photographer Maria Bakkalapulo, who is checking the images she shot from the photo pit. She’s got a good one of a Korean dancer mid-cartwheel.

Macaulay’s home base is Glasgow, but it’s not somewhere he and Bakkalapulo spend a lot of time. Last week they were trekking through sleet in the Scottish Highlands. This week they’re in the Borneo rainforest. Another day, another continent.

For the past 10 years, Macaulay has been the live mix engineer with folk bank Shooglenifty, worked for the BBC and designed and overseen music events in the UK, Canada, Asia, Europe, Russia, Cuba, the USA and South Africa. He’s recorded live concerts and produced albums for the likes of Tuvan throat singers and English folk artists. He met Bakkalapulo in the rainforest – at this very festival, in fact – back in 2005. “Maria was working for [US radio station] NPR, seeking to plug in her Marantz recorder to grab some of the show while I was mixing the sound,” explains Macaulay. “We clicked, and kept in touch online. After a year in separate hemispheres, I finally travelled to Bali where we had our first free time together.” Journalist and ethno-musicologist Bakkalapulo was house-sitting a veritable Shangri-La there – infinity pool, moat, staff, the works.

The pair married five years later, and has been on the road almost constantly. The lack of routine and sometimes challenging assignments have helped them refine a travel routine – well, almost. “We tend to leave a trail of items behind us, not all of which we manage to recover,” says Macaulay. “We store bags of cables, extra shoes, toiletries, motorbike helmets, coffee makers and boogie boards in various places awaiting our next visit. Our journalism work can be fast-moving and unpredictable, and the kit bag for each event or interview can vary wildly. Keeping track is difficult and long-haul flights can make you incredibly fuzzy-headed. Last year I left a brand new laptop on a self check-in machine in Heathrow. Thankfully, it was still there 10 minutes later when I noticed it missing.”

Macaulay calculates he has clocked up 110,000 kilometres in the air in the past year (he offsets the carbon emissions through Climate Care), but as any traveller is well aware, you can’t fly everywhere. “We had a recent experience with a Jakarta taxi driver falling asleep at the wheel and running into the kerb, thankfully going too slowly to cause serious whiplash,” Macaulay recalls. “We once also had to abandon our tiny car that couldn’t make it up the steep sides of Mount Kinabalu. And Maria was practically dragged up the side of Bali’s Mount Batur by an extremely fit Coca-Cola vendor, if that counts as a mode of transport.”

Between work gigs, Macaulay takes time for inspiring side trips. In Gunung Mulu National Park near Sarawak it was treetop walks, exploring caves and observing orangutans, insects, bats and birds. On the nearby Talang Talang Islands, he and Bakkalapulo participated in the Turtle Conservation Project. “Having friends in many countries gives you an off-the-beaten-track experience,” he says. “The general chaos of humanity rushing past can be overwhelming; the unpredictable is always happening. Sitting for hours waiting to see teenage girls in a trance balancing on 20-foot-high poles one day, buying overpriced cocktails at a swanky city jazz club to fit in with the crowd the next. We are truly blessed with a wealth of experiences.”

Often, though, these don’t happen spontaneously. You have to be open to all the possibilities on offer. “Follow your own nose,” advises Macaulay. “Forget guidebooks. The time spent reading them is better spent asking a local. You’ll likely find out more and faster, and make a friend in the process. You never quite know who you’ll meet or what connection they’ll lead you to. Be kind and polite to everyone along your way and tip good service. Your taxi driver or bellboy could one day be your prime ‘fixer’ to meet a local celebrity or find a great restaurant.”

As well as their independent projects, Macaulay and Bakkalapulo also work together on a number of assignments. In 2014, 10 years after the Indian Ocean tsunami that killed an estimated 275,000 people in Asia, more than half of them from the Sumatran province of Aceh, the couple completed a documentary about Aceh’s punk scene. Hard-line Sharia law had grown post-tsunami, with an ongoing crackdown driving punks, whose work includes social activism and fundraising for orphanages, further underground. During one interview, the filmmakers attracted the attention of police and military and were taken in for questioning. But it’s all in a day’s work.

Back at the rainforest festival the next day, artists dance and jam together for the finale. After final bows are taken, Macaulay sends Sister Sledge’s ‘We Are Family’ through the speakers. It’s become something of a tradition to play this song at the event’s end, and the punters cheer, embrace and dance on. What will be best about getting home to Scotland? “Not grovelling inside a suitcase to find things, cooking our own food and having reliable high-speed internet,” says Macaulay without hesitation. “After two weeks of that, the feet start to get itchy again.”

The Green Thrills of Wales

Of all the reasons to jump off a cliff, a good cup of tea may not seem like the most logical. Nevertheless, as I stare down to where the waves crash over the rocks below, my thoughts keep returning to tea. I brace for the leap on the small ledge and with a quick thrust of my legs I spring up and out, hurtling down towards the ocean.

While tea was not the reason for my jump, the sport known as coasteering – a blend of rock climbing, potholing and cliff jumping – owes its origins to the British desire for tea. In the mid-eighteenth century, extortionate customs taxes meant that tea, chocolate and brandy were luxury items. However, local fisherman and sailors were not going to go without their daily cuppa. Under the cover of darkness they would sneak illegal shipments from their boats to the water’s edge, traversing the Pembrokeshire cliffs to seek out sheltered caves and coves in which to hide their contraband.

There are no longer taxmen to avoid, but like the smugglers before us, our small gang of intrepid coasteerers is clambering over rocks, squeezing through watery passages and willingly diving into jellyfish-infested seas. Chris, our instructor, is next up onto the ledge and, after guiding more than 200 coasteering groups along these cliffs, a simple feet-first jump is no longer a big enough thrill for him. Instead, he performs a showy back flip off the rock, gracefully entering the water with barely a ripple. The rest of the group takes turns to plunge into the waves. Once everyone has received a decent dunking we swim on, seeking out the next test of our nerves.

Coasteering has become popular all over the UK, but here on the scenic St Davids peninsula in southwest Wales, conditions are especially suited to the sport. As Chris explains, the area boasts cliffs facing to the east, south and west, so there’s always a coasteering route sheltered from the wind or, alternatively, for the more adventurous, a course that takes the full brunt of the weather. West Wales also experiences one of the largest tidal ranges in the world, which means routes across the cliffs change by the hour and a fissure that is high above the waterline in the morning can be submerged by the afternoon.

After a few more rock climbs and jumps from increasingly higher ledges, Chris discovers a tight underwater sump. With barely enough room to squeeze through when dry, now that it is underwater it offers a lung-bursting trial. Several members of the group back down from the challenge, but I step up to the narrow opening, take a deep breath and dive down. The salt water stings my eyes, making it hard to scan ahead. With my buoyancy aid and climbing helmet adding bulk, the channel is also a tighter squeeze than I’d first thought. I kick my legs hard in an effort to struggle forward, but my lungs quickly begin to burn, begging for air. A chunk of light comes into view, marking the end of passage, so I grab the walls of the cave to propel myself forward. Tiny, razor-sharp barnacles lining the cave walls slice into my palms, but I pay no attention to the pain and, with a final shove, power forward and upwards, breaking the surface for some welcome air.

Our cliff run ends with a climb up an old smuggler’s trail to the clifftop, where we settle to assess the damage the barnacles have inflicted on our shoes and hands. The views here are spectacular, stretching far out over the Atlantic Ocean. The entire area is a protected national park and one of the best locations in Britain for wildlife spotting. Colonies of seabirds, including puffins, kittiwakes, gannets and guillemots, nest here before flying to warmer climates for the winter. Peregrine falcons swoop down the cliffs after small prey, Atlantic grey seals patrol the coastline and, further offshore, porpoises, dolphins and whales (including minkes, pilot whales and orcas) are often spotted making their way towards the Irish Sea.

The region’s wildlife has as much appeal as the adrenaline of its adventure sports. TYF, the organisation that runs the coasteering trips, recognises this with its strict environmental policy. Chris reports to us that all of TYF’s activities, including sea kayaking, rockclimbing and surfing, are conducted well away from breeding areas and sensitive wildlife zones, and close enough to the TYF headquarters that they can be reached by walking rather than driving. Battered shoes, chopped up by the barnacles, are kept and offered to future adventurers; old equipment is sold off or donated rather than thrown out; and upon returning to the base we discover TYF’s packed lunches are stuffed full of Fair Trade chocolate, locally grown apples and organic cheese sandwiches.

TYF’s eco-policy stretches further than its adventure activities. The group runs a store on St Davids high street selling eco-friendly gear and also operates Wales’s first organic-certified, carbon-neutral hotel, Twr Y Felin. The hotel, which inspired the organisation’s name, is a converted windmill that has retained its spiral staircase up to the peak of the original mill tower. Guests here have wind-up radios in their rooms, the bar is stocked with organic beers and wines and discounted room rates are offered to anyone who arrives by bicycle.

The founder of TYF, Andy Middleton, has also made it his mission to spread a green vibe throughout St Davids. He heads the eco-city project – an endeavour to make St Davids the UK’s first carbon-neutral city. St Davids has a head start over other cities in this enterprise. With a population of less than 2000, it is, in reality, a small village, complete with pastel-coloured cottages and a village hall. Rather than the smog of petrol fumes, the only smell hanging in the air is the tang of real ale wafting from the local pubs. St Davids’ status as a city is due to its cathedral – an imposing building that dates back as far as the twelfth century, built from vast blocks of stone hewn from nearby quarries. It was created in honour of Dewi Sant, the patron saint of Wales, who established a religious site here in the sixth century.

Despite its small size the city already boasts several green initiatives that would be the envy of larger cities. Drivers can fill up at a local bio-diesel fuel pump, the local surf cafe is powered by solar panels and wind turbines, restaurants and delis serve organic meat and veg, and a free minibus service, nicknamed the Puffin Shuttle, hauls surfers and tourists down to the beaches. It is this service that I take to head down to the nearby Whitesands Bay to experience another of St Davids’ green firsts – a trip on a bio-diesel-powered jet boat.

With the afternoon sun still high in the sky I wade knee-deep into the water to clamber aboard the banana yellow RIB – the same type of boat used on river adventures in New Zealand. After everyone has claimed a perch on the edge and donned vital waterproofs and lifejackets, we set off towards Ramsey Island, a wildlife reserve a couple of kilometres from the mainland. As soon as the boat hits deep water the skipper throws the throttle open and the jets blast. The only thing preventing me from flying overboard is my white-knuckle grip on a small plastic handle. After just a couple of minutes and several soakings from the high-octane twists and turns, I’m already as wet as I would be if I had fallen in.

Aside from a little fun, the purpose of our trip to the island is to spot some of the seals that dwell in the area. As we close in on a small cove, we hear the seals before we see them, their barking calls echoing off the cliff face. Thanks to the RIB’s onboard motors the skipper is able to glide close to the rocks without the risk of a propeller injuring any seals beneath the surface. My fellow passengers’ yelps of delight signal our first seal has been spotted. The mottled grey head peeks out above the water, staring at us with as much interest as we have in it.

Like TYF, the boat crew has a strict policy of not disturbing the seals, especially during the breeding seasons. As we tour the nooks and crannies of the island, the skipper provides a short lesson on marine life, natural history and wildlife conservation. Before we return to Whitesands Bay, we stop to meet the Bitches – a cauldron of bubbling, churning rapids that stretches between the island and the mainland. While the Bitches were so named on account of the high number of shipwrecks they have caused, kayakers and surfers now seek them out to test themselves on waves of up to seven metres. Such is their power the annual Bitches Rodeo has become one of the UK’s most demanding whitewater events. The channel may yet serve as the site of Britain’s first tidal power generator – a possible solution to the clean energy desires of St Davids.

I arrive back on shore with the prospect of kitesurfing, cycling and hiking ahead of me. I’m not alone. St Davids has become a magnet for green thrill seekers and the city’s population swells each summer with adrenaline hunters. The eco-friendly theme isn’t restricted to the west coast. It may only be a few hours from London, but the proud country of Wales is establishing itself as a clean and green adventure playground for all ages. St Davids is a great place to begin your Welsh ecoadventure. You will also have considerably less trouble pronouncing its name than the town of Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

Crossing the Andes on horseback

We spurred our horses onwards in an effort to get to shelter before nightfall. Palm-fringed beaches lay only 160 kilometres to the north, but the Caribbean trade winds had chilled dramatically as they reached the steep Andean slopes. It was easy to appreciate the feelings of fear and respect this mountain landscape, with its eerie swirling mists, evoked in the first Venezuelans. The high sierras were seen as the domains of evil demons and the phrase pasar el páramo – to cross the highlands – is still synonymous, in local slang, with death.

From up ahead, I could hear the shouts of the muleteers as they drove the cargo animals over the ridge. The remainder of our motley mule-train straggled down the winding trail. Far below, I could just make out the red jacket of Paul Coudenys, riding a ‘rearguard action’ against the rising afternoon mist. As the owner of the strangely, if memorably, named Hippo Trek, Paul has ridden in 50 countries. Yet this was to be his first Andean crossing. At around 4400 metres, we were probably the highest horsemen in the world at that moment and we were almost certainly the first foreign riders to follow this route since the Spanish conquistadors blazed this trail in their quest for the mythical El Dorado. We did, however, have the benefit of 500 years of hindsight and, to give ourselves time to acclimatise to the altitude, we were making the ride in reverse, uphill direct. Where the conquistadors had the only horses on the entire continent, our ‘pioneer column’ was able to hire teams of more than 20 fresh mounts and cargo animals for every new section of the trail, so there’d be no need to force lowland horses into activity at dangerously high altitudes. I quickly discovered it felt safer on these steep mountain trails, often lined with sheer drops, to be leaning forward over the horse’s neck rather than lying back over the swaying rump. We also had the guarantee of a warm bed – or at least a sleeping bag on the verandah of a ranchito – and a nightcap (of even warmer Venezuelan rum) at the end of each day’s ride.

Horseriding is a great leveller. There is much less class difference apparent between a rider and an arriero (muleteer) than there is between a trekker and his porters. The isolated villages we were passing through survive only because of the mule-trains that ferry produce and goods along the mountain trails. The animals are crucial to survival here and, despite the fact that we were ‘rich tourists’, the mountain people were able to relate to us because of our mutual reliance on the animals.

We already seemed an entire world away from the eden we’d ridden through earlier in the week. We had left the swampy cattle-country of Los Llanos and within three days had climbed into the virgin rainforest that shrouds the branch of the Andes known as Sierra Nevada. The Canagua River, rushing to join the mighty Orinoco, began to tumble with increasing ferocity and we often had to dismount to lead our horses across a chain of swaying suspension bridges.

I had ridden in much faster and tougher conditions in other countries, but soon realised, despite the lack of galloping space, horseback was the ideal way to experience these mountain trails. Compared with stumbling wearily over slimy trails under the weight of a loaded backpack with eyes fixed on the root-strewn track, horseback jungle trekking can seem like an almost sinful pleasure. Even along the cloud-forest trails of Venezuela, I was able to see more jungle life than I could ever remember seeing on foot. “There are no handles to a horse,” the author of an early riding handbook advised his readers, “but the 1910 model has a string to each side of its face for turning its head when there is anything you want it to see.” I let the horse take care of the walking and kept my eyes occupied with the quicksilver flight of hummingbirds and orchids I would never have noticed on foot. As an added bonus, I had a mobile stepladder from which to pick wild guava.

We spent a whole morning on a steep, slippery climb through the cloud forest but, at mid-afternoon on day five, rode out into a region of wide grassy meadows where the horses broke into a cheerful canter. We suddenly realised we’d left the treeline and were on the high páramo. Spiky-headed frailejón plants and lichen-covered rocks replaced the dripping lianas and moss-shrouded trees of the tropical forest. We were now more likely to see a wheeling condor than a flock of bickering parrots. The countless hummingbirds that had buzzed around us in the steamy valleys below were replaced by a single hardy and unique species that hibernates every night to survive the cold.

After several days cocooned in the forest, the wide-open spaces of the mountains were vaguely intimidating and we initially spoke in hushed tones. The muleteers knew the narrow trail that zigzagged endlessly upwards as la carretera (the highway). Our previous steady but slow progress provided as much opportunity for exploration as for contemplation, but we now enjoyed short, exciting canters across flat Andean meadows. During one such gallop my highland mare was accompanied by her stallion (a pack horse) and their yearling foal that dashed in front, kicking up his heels like a gangly bronco. I whooped and waved my hat as my private stampede charged across the meadow.

Many historical horseback explorers looked upon their mounts as no more than expendable pieces of equipment. One nineteenth-century adventurer won a $1000 bet by riding 1300 kilometres from New Mexico to Missouri in less than eight days. He killed three horses and two mules in the process. The famous Central Asian explorer, Sven Hedin, took it almost as a matter of course that a single expedition cost nearly 300 horses. Today’s horseback travellers and most horse-related tourism operators are doing their best to put the animals first. Even the careless outfits in the developing world are, to some extent, being forced to cater to the foibles of animal-loving tourists who complain about mistreated horses. Reputable operators like Hippo Trek are always careful to make the welfare of the animals paramount. We changed to fresh horses every day. An unexpected advantage of this equestrian promiscuity was that we had the opportunity to meet and travel with muleteers and guides from almost every village in this part of the Sierra Nevada. Each of these little bands had an intimate knowledge of the dangers and highlights of their own section of the ancient trail.

The conquistadors found nothing to keep them in this area and the local population has waned in recent years. One in three Venezuelans now lives in the capital and, in every village we rode through, boarded-up houses stood testament to a growing exodus of campesinos toward the slums of Caracas. The town of El Carrizal was an extreme example of what is happening all over Venezuela, once one of South America’s richest countries. Founded 150 years ago, El Carrizal quickly grew to become a successful farming village with rich harvests of bananas, avocado and coffee. While everything that the town required – chairs for the schoolroom, an organ for the church, a flushing toilet for the headman – had to be carried for three days on a mule, only a few decades ago this was a thriving community of a hundred families. Today it is home to just six people.

A Venezuelan foundation, Programa Andes Tropicales (PAT), promotes sustainable tourism in the area in the interests of tempting the campesinos to stay in the campo. The philosophy is that Don Rafael, patriarch of El Carrizal’s last family, should be able to make about half of his annual income through offering accommodation to travellers like us, while other people in the area work as guides or provide food or mules. The inability to live entirely from tourism should preserve the traditional lifestyle.

We bathed en masse in the icy river that runs past El Carrizal. As we wandered back through the deserted village, Don Rafael proudly showed us around the church he hopes will one day warrant a visit from the mule-riding priest who once attended every Sunday. Eating hot pisco andino (fish and egg soup), slices of wonderful smoked cheese and arepas (corn cakes) with homemade custard-apple jam in Don Rafael’s kitchen, it was easy to feel pity for the ‘refugees’ from remote El Carrizal now subjected to the desperation and violence of life in Caracas. That evening, Don Rafael’s courtyard saw its first nightlife in some time with the muleteers producing a guitar and singing a chain of joropo ballads. Many of the songs dealt with the exploits of their hero Simon Bolivar who, during the course of his campaigns against the Spanish, is said to have ridden the equivalent of three times around the world and fallen in love 50 times.

Our little expedition was never destined to become the subject of the next generation of joropo ballads. However, by the time we crested the highest point of the páramo and began our descent towards the bright lights of Mérida, I had ridden four horses and three mules, worn the seat right out of a brand new pair of corduroy trousers and done irreparable damage to my salsa technique. We felt that after eight days on the trail we had earned the right to celebrate with a night or two in this big city.

Eden’s Pool

The ferocious Texan heat could crackle the skin off a Scot’s back. Even after almost 20 years living in the Lone Star State, I still struggle when the mercury tops 40 degrees.

During one particularly oppressive summer, the record heat drives me away from home in search of cool, refreshing water. About 50 kilometres west of Austin, on the edge of the rolling Texas Hill Country, I find a small pocket of watery paradise cut by a meandering subterranean river: the Hamilton Pool.

Thousands of years ago, the roof of a water-eroded grotto collapsed, exposing an underground lake, which is now half shadowed by a dramatic crescent overhang. The jade-green pool is like a mirage; enveloped by an amphitheatre of limestone and moss at one end, while lapping at a sandy beach at the other.

Before plunging into the surprisingly deep pool, I feel the cool air beneath the overhang. It’s refreshing but somewhat unnerving, with the weight of all that limestone hanging precariously over my head. Still, the lure of the cool, invigorating water works its magic and I slip into its refreshing embrace. Overhead, the Hamilton Creek tumbles over the rock precipice and down a 15-metre drop into the pool, creating a singularly beautiful waterfall. After a swim and an hour of lazing on the small beach, I almost forget about the heat, ready to take the shaded walk along the creek’s bank to the Pedernales River and head back home.

The number of people permitted into the pool is strictly controlled and I’m grateful this tranquil spot is not teeming with swimmers. I leave, knowing I’ll return. And when I do, I’ll be prepared for friendly locals, spectacular scenery cold, clear water – along with a desire to swim, hike and luxuriate in this hidden paradise for an eternity.

Southern Comforts

This is how I come to meet Nick Bishop, owner of Hattie B’s Hot Chicken. Having spent the morning gorging on biscuits, country ham and fried green tomatoes at the Loveless Cafe, pitmaster George Harvell and brand manager Jesse Goldstein ask about other quintessentially Nashvillian dishes I’ve tried. There’s barbecue and meat ’n’ three, sweet tea and grits.

“What about hot chicken?” asks George.

“I’ve had chicken-fried chicken,” I reply. “Is that the same thing?”

At which point they laugh, shake their heads and point me in the 
direction of Hattie B’s. “Don’t order anything hotter than the medium,” Jessie offers as a final piece of advice.

At Hattie B’s the menu – basically chicken, with five levels of heat from Mild to Shut the Cluck Up, and sides – is written on a board. The chicken arrives in a basket, sitting on a piece of white bread with two slices of pickle on top. Dishes of mac ’n’ cheese and coleslaw come as the sides. The medium chicken is hot. Damned hot.

Satiated for the second time in about three hours, I drop my empty basket at the return station and head out. A man is standing in the sun.

“How was your meal?” he asks.

“Absolutely delicious,” I tell him without a word of a lie.

“That’s great to hear. Y’all have a good day.” About to walk off, I twig that this man probably isn’t just a random well-wisher. It turns out he owns the establishment and, sure, he’d love to chat about hot chicken.

“Hot chicken has enjoyed a resurgence in the past four or five years,” says Bishop. “Local people have always eaten it, but it’s got a lot of publicity lately. Here’s what you’ll find in the States: things that were old are now new. People want old, they want tradition, they want the way things used to be.”

That’s what he gives them, albeit with some tweaks. Most southern-fried chicken is soaked in buttermilk, breaded then fried. Not hot chicken. Some places soak it in hot sauce; at Hattie B’s the chefs make a blend of cayenne pepper, dried habanero and other spices. “Then it’s mixed with oil to make a type of demi-glace,” says Nick. “Depending on the level of heat it’s either brushed on or dunked into the infusion. The Shut the Cluck Up has some extra spices shaken over it.” Those extra spices include scorpion powder, made from the hottest chilli in the world. “It puts people in a euphoric state,” he explains, then laughs.

It’s not hard to feel on top of the world in Nashville. The capital of Tennessee isn’t a huge city – the population is about 600,000 – and still has a down-home charm. The Loveless’s Jesse Goldstein, a born-and-bred Southerner, isn’t surprised. “I always say folks know they’re in Nashville when they get to the four-way stop signs – people are so nice here, they’re often waving everyone else on to go in front of them,” he explains.

While parts of the city are changing rapidly, you don’t have to go far to taste tradition. At Monell’s in Germantown, guests sit at communal tables and platters of Southern classics – fried chicken, corn pudding, biscuits – are passed to the left with everyone helping themselves. The rules are thus: take as much as you can eat but eat what you take, and never answer your mobile at the table.

This combination of tradition and hospitality wins hearts. Four years ago Matt Farley moved from New York, and in 2011 he became executive chef at The Southern. The updated Nashville classic on the menu is meat ’n’ three. “I had no idea what a meat ’n’ three was before I moved here,” confesses Farley. It’s basically a protein – anything from pork chops to meatloaf – with three sides. Mac ’n’ cheese is popular, then there’s mashed potato, fries, coleslaw, baked beans and collard greens.

“It’s comfort food,” he explains. “It’s heavy and warm and makes you want to go to sleep. If we want to lighten it up in the restaurant we do, especially when it gets warm – and it does get hot here.”

His cooked-to-order meat ’n’ three is quite different to the traditional version served buffet-style at spots across the city, some of which, like Arnold’s Country Kitchen, still pack them in. The Loveless Cafe is another original. Its former owners, Lon and Annie Loveless, started selling chicken and biscuits from their home in 1951 to travellers driving along Highway 100 between Nashville and Memphis. They converted rooms into dining areas before the Interstate eventually bypassed them. “By the time that came about the Loveless was already doing really well,” explains Jesse. “There’d be nights after the Grand Ole Opry when they’d call and say ‘Keep the kitchen open, we’re coming out’ and they’d all pile here and take over.”

The Loveless is famous for its buttermilk biscuits, salt-cured country ham, fried chicken and, of course, barbecue. George Harvell arrives at 2.30am to start his 12-hour(ish) shifts. First he shovels out the pit and gets a fresh fire started using indigenous hickory wood. He cooks pork butts for nine hours then wraps them in foil and puts them back in the pit overnight. The process takes about 21 hours. As we talk he’s ‘pulling’ the pork – separating the meat you eat from what you don’t – while it’s hot. “It’s gotta hurt when you’re doing it,” he says.

He’s been barbecuing for almost 30 years. “I learned from a friend who owned a catering business,” he explains. “He taught me how to do it his way and I’ve added little things. And I listen. You know, there are some old country boys in bib overalls who walk through here who’ve been doing this all their life and they’ll give you little tips. You don’t learn anything when you’re talkin’ all the time.” He laughs, and continues pulling pork, greeting people who walk by his barbecue shed: “Morning y’all. Welcome to the Loveless.”

Hot Chicken

You can create degrees of hotness by choosing the sauce in the marinade wisely. 
If you want a milder flavour, go easy when you brush the spice mix over at the end.

INGREDIENTS
8 cups water
½ cup hot sauce
½ cup salt
½ cup sugar, plus extra ½ teaspoon
1½ kilogram chicken, quartered
2 litres vegetable oil for deep-frying
1 tablespoon cayenne powder
½ teaspoon hot paprika
¼ teaspoon garlic powder
2 cups plain flour

METHOD
In a large bowl, combine the water, hot sauce, salt and sugar and mix until the salt and sugar have dissolved. Add the chicken pieces, cover and marinate in the fridge for about an hour.

Make a spice mixture by heating about 3 tablespoons of oil in a small saucepan. 
Add the extra sugar, cayenne, paprika, garlic powder and a pinch of salt. Cook until fragrant (about 30 seconds), remove from heat and set aside.
In a large bowl, season the flour. Remove the chicken from the marinade and dredge each piece in the flour, shaking off the excess. Rest on a wire rack.

Get yourself set up by placing a wire rack over a baking tray and warming the oven to about 100ºC. Heat the oil in either a deep-fryer or a large heavy-based saucepan on the stovetop to 180ºC. You need to keep it at this temperature to ensure the chicken pieces cook through without burning. Dredge the chicken pieces in the flour again, shaking off the excess. Put half the chicken in the hot oil, and cook until it’s a deep golden colour and the chicken is cooked through (about 25–30 minutes). Transfer the chicken pieces to the tray in the oven, and repeat with the remaining chicken. When all the chicken is cooked, brush with the spice mixture. Hot chicken is traditionally served on top of thick slices of white bread with a couple of slices of pickle.