We are in a basement below the streets of Quito. A guard stationed at the door of the shopfront keeps an eye on the street outside. The grandmotherly Manuela Cobo stands before us, telling us about her white powder problem. She only buys the best, and finding a trustworthy supplier poses a challenge. Sometimes dodgy dealers cut the good stuff with corn flour to boost their profits. You can usually tell if they are trying to flog a bad batch – the colour is wrong and the texture is off – but to be completely sure she gets hers checked in a lab.
The powder in question is a starch called arrowroot, a key ingredient in Manuela’s quesadillas, famous among those in the know in Ecuador’s UNESCO World Heritage-listed capital. Made from the achira plant, which grows throughout South America, arrowroot costs far more than other starches, but Manuela doesn’t take shortcuts. She sticks to a recipe passed down through the family for generations, and after 80 years in existence the San Juan Bakery has loyal customers.
Heat pours from a brick oven in one corner and the metal blades of a massive electric mixer tussle in another. We watch bakers roll out pasta-like dough, paste on tart cream cheese filling and craft the pastries into pentagons. In this little shop in the San Juan neighbourhood they shape, bake and sell a thousand quesadillas a day.
Pablo León, my guide on this Urban Adventures gastronomic tour of Quito, sampled quesadillas all over the city in the hopes of finding ones like those he devoured in his childhood. Back then, when the clock struck five, everyone would ditch their games and dash to their grandparents’ house for a snack. The pastries marked a daily reunion. “Forget about Mexican quesadillas,” he says. “It’s got the name but it’s completely different.” The Spanish brought the ancestor of the dish over in the seventeenth century, and its outer shell morphed into pasta with the arrival of Italians. Ecuadorians possess a voracious sweet tooth, so it is fitting that the local adaptation is a dessert.
Back above ground, we set to work consuming a delectable basket of baked goods. Mugs of Ecuadorian hot chocolate and slabs of something that look like butter are set on the table. Pablo explains it’s a cheese similar to mozzarella and we plonk it into the brew. The slices list on top like ships in distress, before sinking into the drink. The first sip is delicious – the chocolate is sweet and slightly textured – but the cheese hasn’t made much of an impression. Plunging in a spoon, I pull a gooey blob into my mouth and the saltiness balances the blend perfectly. A quesadilla trumps the spoon for the remainder of the mug, its crispy edges and aerated centre adding more layers of texture.
“Chocolate for us is like breathing air,” says Pablo, pointing out raw disks of the confection as our tour takes to the undercover walkways of the Santa Clara market. Little shrines sit on the walls honouring the saint who oversees the trade. “This is the old-fashioned way. The way our grandparents used to buy,” he explains as he snaps off an edge of the chocolate for me to try. It’s smooth, without a hint of the bitterness I expect from something so dark. The next step is to melt it down and beat the molten syrup into milk spiced with cinnamon and clove.
Ecuador is renowned for its cacao. Archaeologists have discovered evidence that people living in the Amazon consumed it 5000 years ago. The country’s high-quality Arriba beans, with their healthy fat profile and fruity and spicy flavour, are a prize export. Local companies have started producing their own luxury confectionery in recent years, and I palm off a couple of dollars for a bar of Pacari chocolate blended with Andean rose. A stall nearby sells bananas in colours I’ve never seen before, and I watch as a lady blitzes naranjilla, a fruit that looks a lot like a persimmon, into a pulp. “You’re not a good Ecuadorian unless you own a blender,” declares Pablo. “We’ll make juices out of anything!”
Pablo drives us past candy-coloured buildings to our final stop on the tour – a local home where we’ll take part in a cooking class. In the Old Town we spot stalls selling ponche, a slightly alcoholic barley drink, others plying tamarind and coconut juices from under rainbow umbrellas and another proffering snacks of haba (broad beans). Entering the central courtyard of a Spanish colonial-style home, Pablo promises Graciela Campaña, who is welcoming us into her kitchen, makes the city’s best empanadas de morocho (corn dough stuffed with savoury mince). Her son Louis sells them to markets and restaurants, but we’re here to sample them fresh from the source.
We try our hand at rolling out dough and patting on fat with our fingers, as well as folding pristiños, a doughy dessert, into the shape of little hats. Our efforts are rewarded with a feast and we settle at the table in the living room, surrounded by photos and porcelain figurines. It’s like stepping into my grandmother’s house, except an upbeat mix of accordion, maracas, drums and piano – Latin American cumbia music – mingles in the air with the appetising smells wafting from the kitchen. Like a local, I slather my empanadas with aji, the hot sauce made with tamarillo you find on every dining table in the country. Graciela’s boasts roasted peanuts from the markets and they add creaminess to the chilli and onion kick.
A jug of thick, fragrant tamarillo juice sits on the table. I drain a glass before munching on a tamale, a steamed bundle of maize flour, chicken and raisins. Even at room temperature, the juice is refreshing. It might not be possible to buy Ecuadorian-style quesadillas and empanadas back in Australia, but I’m sure I can find a blender.
INGREDIENTS
1 litre full-cream milk
1 cinnamon stick
3 cloves
5 tbsp unsweetened cocoa powder
85g high quality dark chocolate, grated
4 tsp sugar, add to taste
120g mozzarella cheese, sliced into four pieces
METHOD
Put the milk, cinnamon and cloves into a heavy saucepan and heat to just below boiling point. Remove spices and whisk in cocoa and grated chocolate. Add sugar to taste. Beat until frothy and almost simmering. Serve in warmed mugs with a slice of mozzarella on the side.
It may be slowly emerging from financial crises, but one Motor City scene has thrived for more than 30 years. Sophia Softky digs into the history of techno and feels its force.
A first-time visitor to Detroit, Michigan – it’s pronounced DEE-troit by locals – might expect to find a city broken following decades of socio-economic strife and a 2013 declaration of bankruptcy. But what the fear-mongering headlines so often fail to capture is the city’s radical beauty and the incredible cultural vibrancy that thrums just below the surface.
Since the 1960s, the Motor City has been a musical powerhouse, having not only birthed Motown, but also a slew of world-class artists, from Diana Ross to Eminem, across all genres. Few, however, realise it’s also the birthplace of techno music. Three teenagers – Juan Atkins, Derrick May and Kevin Saunderson – began producing an electrifying new sound in the early 1980s, and continue to sell out festivals and club shows around the world today.
Even as the popularity of electronic dance music has spread, it is impossible to understand techno without getting to grips with the history of the city itself. “To really understand the depth of dance music you need to understand a lot of un-righted wrongs in Black and Latino communities,” says DJ Peter Croce of local record label Rocksteady Disco. “Detroit is exhibit A for a place that decided to leave a bunch of people for dead, but those people refused to die and [instead] they made techno.”
There is indeed plenty of un-righted wrong in Detroit, which shows during any drive (because at 370 square kilometres, the city is hardly walkable) beyond the ‘rejuvenated’ Downtown area, to where thousands of crumbling houses, abandoned shopfronts and empty blocks are returning to prairie. But while Detroit might not boast the glistening club districts of New York or Berlin, there is a dynamic nightlife culture to rival any metropolis… if you know where to look.
Given Detroit’s hard-scrabble, lawless reputation, it is fitting that the best, most exciting music is played in anonymous-looking buildings scattered throughout the urban sprawl. A prime example is Tires, a converted warehouse on the east side whose plain exterior is at odds with the weekly parties soundtracked by an impressive roster of world-class DJs happening within. Recently, hometown heroes Juan Atkins, Jay Daniel and John Collins have spun sets accompanied by sophisticated light shows and live performance art. If that doesn’t sound cool enough, the dance floor doubles as a skate ramp.
Marble Bar is another hidden gem: a windowless brick building on an otherwise abandoned block, with a surprisingly luxe interior – all polished wood, shining brass and, true to the name, swirling marble. In a classic illustration of how the dance music scene in Detroit is not restricted by age or even by genre, DJ Stacey ‘Hotwaxx’ Hale, who has been spinning records for more than 30 years, recently played at her own sixtieth birthday party here, accompanied by live classical musicians Nyumba Muziki (the name means house music in Swahili) and internationally renowned DJ Minx. That show, like almost every other event in the city, was attended by an astonishingly diverse cross-section of Detroiters, with twenty-something weekend warriors tearing up the dance floor alongside grandmotherly women in sensible shoes.
For dance music to suit all tastes, there is Temple Bar, a small, no-frills venue in the Midtown area, and likely the only club where you will be greeted at the door by a dog and a cat (they belong to owner and beloved local personality, George Boukas). It is also, by popular consensus, the favourite of both punters and DJs. “It has become a symbol for where Detroiters hang,” says Jon Dones of resident duo Haute to Death, which specialises in a mix of house, disco and all-eras pop. “It’s not the new, shiny, suburban tourist trap or craft cocktail soiree. It’s where a whole mix of people from the city’s various cultures collide. It’s unpretentious but with a healthy dose of sass.”
Andrew Schireson, aka Dretraxx, hosts the monthly party Body Worx at Temple Bar. “It’s home base,” he says. “I know so many people there. George is always there slinging drinks and mingling. His father used to own the bar. It’s just a piece of history. You can’t listen to techno in Detroit without being aware of being in Detroit.”
That sense of place is a unique aspect of the city that local musicians do their best to honour. Super fans and novices up for a challenge should seek out Exhibit 3000. Run by legendary DJ collective Underground Resistance, this ‘secret museum’ explores the history of techno. Then there’s Assemble Sound, a converted Lutheran church that serves as a collaboratively run recording studio and venue, and Paramita Sound, a new-era vinyl store and label dealing exclusively with Detroit and Michigan-based artists.
While Detroit still faces clear challenges, culturally it is a city on the rise – and there are far too many excellent venues (TV Lounge and Populux for big-name out-of-town acts, Motor City Wine for low-key jazz and soul, The Works and Doug’s Body Shop for hard-hitting, grungy late-nights, UFO Factory for eclectic programming and decor), local DJs (Erika, Monty Luke, Ryan Spencer, Joey TwoLanes and Mother Cyborg, to name-check just a few) and broad-genre up-and-coming ‘it’ bands (Shigeto, Gosh Pith, Flint Eastwood) to experience in a weekend, a month or even a year. “The music scene is exploding right now,” says Schireson. “It seems like for every old venue closing down, there are two opening up. I feel very positive about the future. I know it’s in good hands.”
“Should have grown that mo,” I think to myself. “A thick fat caterpillar on my top lip. And I should have worn a Hawaiian shirt.”
Our replica Magnum PI helicopter has just taken off across one of Turtle Bay Resort’s two golf courses. The iconic eighties TV show soundtrack is blaring through our headphones and, as the chopper lurches upwards over the disappearing North Shore, I grip the handles above me and check my seatbelt for the fifth time in five minutes.
Our pilot, whom I call TC (he tells me he’s heard it before), points out the famed surf breaks of Sunset Beach, Waimea Bay and the treacherous Pipeline. From this height they don’t seem so nasty. TC banks sharply inland and, as the helicopter leans, I’m looking directly down at the coast. It isn’t the first time in this hour-long circumference of Hawaii’s O’ahu that I question asking for the “no doors” option.
We fly south over vast pineapple and farming plantations. In the distance the rims of ancient volcanoes jag upwards. Within minutes we can see the south coast and Pearl Harbor’s collection of battleships. From our high vantage point directly overhead it looks like a young boy’s bedroom, an enviable collection of toy ships waiting for playtime. TC circles the USS Arizona, sunk by the Japanese on 7 December 1941 leading the USA into World War II. The silhouette of her hull is still visible through the clear Pacific waters.
Ahead commercial airplanes take off and land as we dart through Honolulu International Airport for a quick pit stop. TC picks his route and, as a United Airlines flight departs, we skim across the runway, rising up and out over a forest of skyscrapers shadowing Waikiki Beach from the morning sun.
Circling the imposing Diamond Head we make our way north along the west coast. I can’t help but look back. This ancient volcano stands like a naturally formed colosseum about one kilometre wide. It is a perfect example of the stunning landscape of Hawaii’s islands and is even more impressive from this perspective.
The west coast is dotted with small communities among soaring peaks and islands poking through the ocean’s surface. It is obvious why this island was chosen to film the Jurassic Park series. All that’s missing is a pterodactyl gliding alongside us. TC points out the house where Magnum lived (in the series) then darts inland to Kaliuwa’a (Sacred Falls). We hover above the 330-metre cascade for a few minutes before a final pass over the North Shore surf breaks.
Still shaking as we walk from the chopper, I suggest to TC a Ferrari to take us back to the hotel would be the perfect finish, and he smiles a wide grin. I get the feeling he loves the experience as much as I have even though he’s flown it hundreds of times. He must surely be sick of that theme song though.
We’re being followed. Fifteen metres below the ocean’s surface, off the Thai island of Koh Kradan, a remora won’t leave us alone. It resembles a tiny upside-down shark, and I first notice it circling my head, body and legs at the start of our dive. As I swim on, sunlight brings out the autumnal colours – yellow, green, brown, orange, red, even purple – of ornate fan corals. Then our aquatic friend is back, vying for attention as we check out a moray eel peeking from a hole. I haven’t seen this kind of persistence from a fish before. Towards the end of the dive, it even gives me a nip.
“Remora fish, or sucker fish, usually attach to sharks or whales or very big fish,” dive instructor Suriya Hadden, who goes by the name Yad, tells me when we’re back on the longtail boat, explaining it’s a symbiotic relationship. “Maybe it thought we were big fish.”
Whatever the explanation, this kind of nuisance behaviour is entirely out of character for Trang, a sprawl of about 44 islands off southern Thailand’s west coast. Normally, on land and in the sea, peace and calm reign. Other Thai islands, from Phuket to Koh Samui and Koh Tao, sometimes feel overrun with the 30 million international visitors who hit Thailand each year, but fewer than 200,000 foreigners come to the little known, sparsely populated Trang Islands. Their residents are largely Muslim and I’d heard the region was more like the Thailand of old, the country as it was 30 or 40 years ago. There are no big chain hotels, no drunken Full Mooners, no stalls selling ‘same same but different’ t-shirts, no sleazy bars. Instead there are just beautiful beaches, forested hills and clear blue seas, as well as one of the world’s largest populations of the endangered dugong. Here, the pace is slower, the prices are (generally) lower and, most appealing of all, there are no crowds.
Unless, that is, you accidentally arrive, like me, slap bang on Songkran. Thai New Year is celebrated across the country from 13 to 15 April each year, and many of the locals take the opportunity to hit the beach. “The Trang Islands are usually very quiet, compared to Phuket or Samui,” local tour operator Ekkachai Binwaha tells me, as, at Pakmeng Pier, we board a boat heaving with celebrating Thais. “We have beautiful islands, but people focus on other places. Many don’t know about Trang.”
One reason Trang isn’t famous, Ekkachai suggests, is because the islands and mainland coastline are a protected part of Hat Chao Mai National Park, meaning it’s difficult to build hotels and resorts. “People come to Trang looking for a quiet place – they don’t like Phuket and crowded places,” he says. “They’re explorers. It’s more adventurous here.”
It’s easy to see the charm of these islands as our boat chugs slowly across the rolling blue Andaman Sea and past longtail fishing boats and limestone karsts jutting from the water. The first stop is one of the area’s most popular day trips: Morakot Cave (also called Emerald Cave) on Koh Mook. There’s a logjam of boats at the entrance, and the cave is suffering the Songkran effect. Tourists form long lines in the water, clutching the life jacket of the person in front, each guide then pulling the human chains of 40 or 50 people through the 80-metre tunnel. It’s dark, crowded and chaotic inside. We reach daylight on the other side, where there’s a small greenish pool walled in by steep cliffs. “Local people come here first for the birds’ nests, which are used for soup,” Ekkachai tells me. “They’re very valuable.”
We rejoin the boat and motor on, stopping to snorkel off Koh Kradan, where the coral swarms with bright yellow, blue and silver fish. But the Songkran effect is here, too, with up to 150 people overloading the small stretch of water.
It’s only when the boat drops me at Koh Ngai for the night and the day-trippers head back to the mainland that the islands start to work their magic. I take a walk along the quiet beach in the evening. Resting longtail boats bob in the shallow water. Local men take kayaks out to fish. As the heat and light of the day fade, the sky turns soft pink. A beach bar’s sign reads, “Kick back, relax!” As if you could do anything else.
In the morning, I board a pink speedboat from the beach and race at 30 knots across the ocean to Koh Rok, an island split into two tree-covered sides, with a whole lot of beach on both. “I love this place,” Ekkachai says, smiling. “The water’s so green and so clear.”
We don snorkels on the Koh Rok Noi side of the island and take a leisurely swim over the coral along with fat parrotfish and yellow snapper. Foot-long sea cucumbers rest on the sand far below. The long tentacles of bushy anemones sway on the current.
After lunch onshore at Koh Rok Nok, the other side of the island, I walk the length of the beach. It, too, is popular with Songkran day-trippers, but, with its white sand and warm ocean, it is impossible not to like anyway.
Days here begin to take on a rhythm. Each morning we head out to explore, coming back in the evening to gather with locals and the few other tourists to watch colourful, calming Trang sunsets. A longtail ‘taxi’ takes me across the silvery water to Koh Mook, where I’m met by guide Taord Bangjak, nicknamed Ood. We ride a motorbike taxi across the little island to Farang Beach, pick up a pair of kayaks and head straight out on the open choppy water. “Yesterday we had very big waves: boom, boom, boom,” says Ood. “Today is better.”
Waves bash against barnacle-encrusted rocks as we paddle along the island. We pass the entrance to the Emerald Cave and, further along, empty Sabai Beach. Sun beats down on the island’s limestone crags and forests. Ood seems to know all the local boatmen, stopping often to chew the fat and ‘borrow’ cigarettes.
After two hours of paddling, we reach Koh Mook pier and stop for lunch in the little village, which is busy with locals running errands on motorbikes. The women and girls wear headscarves, and the men are in white taqiyah (prayer hats). As we tuck into spicy prawn curry and rice, one of the daily calls to prayer sounds out.
The next day I get a longtail with Yad to Koh Kradan. In the afternoon this is a popular snorkelling spot, but in the morning there are no other boats to be seen. This is no-frills diving; we’ve got a couple of tanks each and just roll into the water, warm enough for a short wetsuit, off the side of the longtail. Long rope-like sea plumes rise up from the ocean floor. We swim over vase corals and fans, startling a stingray that zooms off along the sandy ocean floor. As well as the pesky remora, the water is teeming with colourful residents – there are bannerfish, parrotfish, pufferfish and thousands of small silver fish that look like drops from a heavy rain shower. Yad points out a big stonefish camouflaged against the coral.
Afterwards, we motor across to Hin Nok, the calm ocean mirroring the pale blue of the cloudless sky. Seabirds bob up and down on fishermen’s buoys. Now and then, we pass a longtail boat, but there’s no tourist traffic out here.
We put in the anchor at a cluster of black rocks poking just above the ocean surface, the summit of a coral bommie. Fishermen with multiple rods each sit in a boat nearby, a good sign there’s plenty of fish below. Under the water, a pair of moray eels stares at us from a crack in the coral. I see two big pufferfish and big schools of bannerfish and clownfish (this is definitely the place to find Nemo). Yad points to a large squid hovering in the water – it seems a shame to make fried food from such an elegant creature.
There are no sharks, or any mantas, turtles, octopuses or the other big stuff divers like to tick off. Instead, underwater exploration here is, like the islands, gentle and laid back. There are no other divers at either site – not something you could often say of Koh Tao or many other Thai islands. There’s just a whole lot of fish. The numbers are incredible. Seemingly never-ending shoals of thousands of yellow snapper move along the coral.
It’s mesmerising to watch. And maybe it’s my imagination, but it seems in these waters, where divers are a rarity, the fish are less shy than usual and happy to swim closer. A pair of pufferfish, for example, comes within a metre, almost eyeballing me. “Krabi and Koh Phi Phi, Koh Tao… Places like that are much busier,” Yad agrees, back on the boat. “This is normal here. Very quiet.”
Yad drops me at a small resort of beachfront bungalows on Koh Libong, Trang’s biggest island, where I spend an afternoon reading before joining other travellers and local families on the beach to watch the sun go down over the ocean.
The following morning we hire a couple of motorbikes and set off around Libong, turning off the main road onto a dirt track, following signs for Point Dugong. It’s quite an adventure to get to the top of White Rock (or Batu Puteh). First we hike along a forest trail then through a cave system where the rock walls have turned green with moss, before climbing stairs and ladders up rocky cliffs. “Be very careful. This part is dangerous,” Yad warns me, pointing to the jagged volcanic rock we clamber over on the final section before reaching the wooden viewing platform, 150 metres above the ocean.
From up here, we have a wide view of the sea, the forests covering the island, the pier at Ban Na village jutting into the water, and the surrounding islands like Koh Lao Liang and Koh Petra.
We scour the surface below us. From up here, a lot of dark shapes and shadows on the water seem as though they could be dugongs. “We’re looking for a brown colour, like this,” says Yad, patting the wood of the platform.
The waters of Thailand’s west coast, especially those around the Trang Islands, are one of the best areas in the world to see endangered dugongs. Here, the seagrass on which they feed is plentiful. “There are about 100 dugongs around Libong and the Trang Islands,” Yad says.
Swifts flutter and swoop around the limestone cliffs as we wait patiently at the lookout for about half an hour with no luck. It’s only a minor disappointment; the fun climb and the outstanding view make it time well spent. And like so many parts of Trang, we have the place to ourselves.
We hike down and, unexpectedly, from a ledge at one of the cave openings, Yad spots a dugong far below. From up here, it’s just a brown speck – not exactly the world’s greatest wildlife experience, but a sighting nonetheless.
Yad shows me around the rest of the island, riding into the village, with its stilted houses close to the waterfront and local mosque. At the pier, women in headscarves sit shelling tubs of crabs. A thin trail leads through the forest to a ‘secret’ beach. There are a handful of fishing boats out on the water, but the sand itself? Deserted.
The call to prayer goes out in the evening. There’s usually a small gathering of tourists and locals on the beach for sunset, but tonight it’s almost empty. With a nearly full moon out above me, the sky turns pink and red. It’s hard to think of another Thai island I’ve seen this quiet. Tomorrow, I’ll catch a longtail back to the mainland, but I’m going to miss these little islands, where life’s as simple as a cold beer, a good fish curry and the sound of waves breaking softly on the beach. Just like Thailand in the old days.
Outside the taxi the traffic is insane. Men pedalling prehistoric bicycles while balancing loaves of flat bread on their heads weave between several lanes of cars, scooters and apparently suicidal pedestrians. Despite the density of vehicles we’re still somehow moving fast. High on Cairo’s energy (and perhaps its pollution), I’ve begun adapting to the craziness. So instead of praying for survival, I’m happily chatting to the driver while listening to the most famous rock band in town.
Cairokee (appropriately the name means sing along with Cairo) melds poetic local lingo, inspiring vocals and catchy western rock logic. The band was also instrumental in depicting the solidarity of the Egyptian people during the 2011 revolution.
As we arrive in the suburbs, the streets become calmer and leafier. To the delight of the driver, one of the millions of local Cairokee fans, the group’s singer and songwriter 32-year-old Amir Eid appears wearing his signature black attire and a relaxed smile as we pull up outside the band’s HQ in Maadi.
Eid welcomes me and gives me a tour of his studio and office, where I meet the management, permanent office staff and a friendly old man who offers me a kicking Turkish-style coffee. We take a seat on the couch and dive into the essentials.
In 2011, after the success of the Jasmine Revolution in Tunisia, young Egyptians began taking to the streets to protest poverty, high unemployment, government corruption and the rule of President Hosni Mubarak. At the time, Cairokee was an underground local band, but the video for its song ‘Sout El Horeya’ (The Voice of Freedom) became one of the most-watched clips on YouTube seemingly in a flash. The video, set in Tahrir Square, depicts a passionate community coming together to defend its rights and dignity. It projected a positive image of the protestors and shot the band to international fame.
“We had no idea the clip would have such a success,” says Eid, five years later. “I wrote a song about what I saw and what we felt – the Egyptian people coming together to stand up for basic rights, freedom and dignity.”
“Our voices reached those who could not hear them. And we broke through all the barriers. Our weapon was our dreams. And tomorrow is looking as bright as it seems,” Eid’s lyrics went, followed by the refrain, “In every street in my country, the sound of freedom is calling.”
Along for the Cairokee ride are Sherif Hawary (lead guitar), Adam El-Alfy (bass guitar), Sherif Mostafa (keyboard) and Tamer Hashem (drums). Most of these guys were childhood friends and played in a band that covered material by Dylan, Metallica, Coldplay, the Beatles and Pink Floyd. When Cairokee formed and began to develop, so did their voices. Eid took his time to write “exactly what I really felt and find the best way of expressing that through music and words”. Using the local dialect, the words mirrored those of many in their community. Never did they attempt to mimic a foreign coolness, and they soon found an authenticity the public applauded.
After ‘Sout El Horeya’ came another song ‘Yal Midan’, a collaboration with singer and oud player Aida El-Ayoubi – it was the most watched video in the history of Facebook – and the album Matloob Zaeem, which topped the Egyptian charts for months. Collaborations with Algerian singer Souad Massi and the late Egyptian poet Ahmed Fouad Negm, followed by tours to Jordan, Poland and the Cannes Film Festival, expanded both the band’s audience and its influence.
That success allowed the group the time and means to work on songwriting and producing videos and albums, as well as tour extensively. “Music is what we do now every day from morning to night,” says Eid with a smile. “With our fan base we don’t need the media to support us. Everything is via social media and this gives us the freedom of expression we believe in. We love our jobs.
“We do owe our success to the revolution,” he continues, but that doesn’t mean the band believes everything is political. “We make music about issues that touch us.” Often that is a variation on the theme of freedom. Since the revolution Eid and his fellow Cairokee musicians have broken down barriers, but he questions if history is now repeating itself and sings about the importance of thinking freely and without fear of being monitored and controlled. “The old man lives in the past but wants to control the present,” are the lyrics in ‘Akher Oghneya’ about the region’s renowned struggles between the generations. The words express a generation’s feeling of being stifled and it’s deep need to think, to dream and to be different.
“If this is my last song, I’d keep on singing about freedom” is the chorus. “Sing along with me loudly – freedom.”
Walk along Lower Broadway, downtown Nashville’s main strip, and you’ll hear the songs of country legends spilling out the doors of honky-tonks. You’ll also stumble across the Ryman Auditorium, known as the mother church of country music and the original home of the Grand Ole Opry.
But it is possible to have fun here even if your appreciation for the likes of Johnny Cash, Dolly Parton or George Jones is somewhat limited. Be warned though: music is hard to avoid in Nashville at night. Everyone you meet seems to be a writer or a musician (or both) looking for their big break. The arrival in the city of Jack White, the Kings of Leon and the Black Keys, other indie bands like JEFF the Brotherhood, and even bands that cross the rock–country divide – the Cadillac Three and Old Crow Medicine Show, for example – means there’s now a lot more to the scene than songs about pretty girls, pick-up trucks and whiskey. The other staple of a night out in Nashville is booze, so pull on your best boots, download the Uber app (it’s the only way to get around) and prepare to meet some interesting characters.
4.45pm
There’s no better way to get your bearings than on a tour. Unless it’s on a tour complete with beverages. The Nashville Pedal Tavern takes off several times a day on a number of different rolling pub crawls. Pedal away on the Midtown tour and you’ll see Music Row – home of record labels, publishing houses and recording studios – and stop at bars where the locals drink, including neighbours, Winners Bar & Grill and Losers Bar. It’s not all necking shots and skolling beers though, because you’re powering the tavern through the streets. Getting it going is the hardest part, and there are plenty of traffic lights, stop signs and hills with which to contend. Drinks can be downed on the pedal tavern too, but you have to bring your own (no glass). A couple of cans of beer will work, although boozy iced tea, a Southern staple, poured into gallon milk jugs isn’t unheard of.
7pm
After two hours cranking that moveable bar around, you’ll need to refuel. Right at the bottom of Broadway is one of the city’s coolest venues. Acme Feed & Seed is spread across three floors in what was Nashville’s first reinforced concrete building – it has housed all sorts of businesses, from a flour mill to the Acme Feed and Hatchery, which operated here for more than five decades, before the whole lot was closed up and left to sit vacant. Now, the ground floor has good food, beer on tap and live music, a lounge area on the second floor is home to regular events like the Geeks Who Drink Wednesday trivia night, and there’s an event-slash-music space up top. There’s also a rooftop bar, with views right up Broadway and over the Cumberland River. Watch the sun set with an Acme Rooster Brew (created by local Fat Bottom Brewery) then grab some pulled pork tacos, a beef brisket sandwich or slow-roasted short ribs downstairs.
8pm
There’s just one way to kick Nashville at night into high gear and that’s with a bushwacker. “This is the best place to do it, and Wednesday is the best day to do it,” says the barkeep at Edley’s Bar-B-Que. (If you’re wondering about Wednesdays, it’s because prices drop from US$8 to $5.) A bushwacker, which is thought to have originated somewhere in the Caribbean, has somehow now become something of a Nashville tradition. It is basically a frozen milkshake made with two types of rum, including Bacardi 151, “which is what gives it so much kick”, and two liqueurs in coffee and chocolate variations. A squirt of Hershey’s chocolate syrup decorates the glass, which is then filled from a slushie-style machine. It doesn’t taste too boozy, but there are actually almost four shots of alcohol in each serve. One bushwacker will give you a quiet buzz; a second might just put you on your arse.
9pm
If you were to say to us “bar with bowling lanes” we’d want to permanently reserve a spot. But that’s just one of the reasons to love Pinewood Social. It’s all a bit industrial-hip and represents a newer Nashville where acoustic guitars are far from everyone’s minds. The Social has plenty to recommend it, including a pool and bocce court outside, a restaurant, cocktails and coffee bar inside and some outstanding people watching (yes, Jack White has been seen here). Our tip, at this time of night, is to grab a jug of Tennessee Brew Works Southern Wit Belgian white ale and lace up your shoes. There are six vintage lanes reclaimed from an old Bowl-O-Rama in Indiana, and each can host up to six players for just US$40 an hour. That’s what we call a strike. (And tomorrow morning, if you’re feeling under the weather, drop back for a dip and breakfast of chicken and biscuits.)
10pm
Not surprisingly there are music venues everywhere in this town, representing every genre from straight up-and-down country to jazz. The High Watt sits beside two larger sister venues (Mercy Lounge and the Cannery Ballroom) in an old industrial site that once ground coffee, then was a factory making jams, mustard and mayo. There’s no pinpointing a definitive style for this intimate venue. You might see an alt-country duo like the Contenders playing a warm-up gig for a national tour, a local soul band or an about-to-break trio pumping out rock tunes. Grab one of the tables in an elevated section to the left of the stage, sink a couple of PBRs and simply enjoy being in what one Uber driver described as “a drinking town with a music problem”.
11.30pm
Lower Broadway is the home of the honky-tonk, which is really just another name for a bar with music. And do they have music here. It starts at about 10am each day and kicks on well into the evening. Unfortunately a lot of venues along Broadway feel like they’re catering to tourists and hen parties. Not Robert’s Western World where there are neon lights, cowboy boots along one wall and a guy making burgers on an open grill. On Friday and Saturday nights the house band, Brazilbilly, offers something a little different. Fronted by Robert’s proprietor, Brazilian-born Jesse Lee Jones, the band puts a Latin spin on classic country tunes by the likes of Waylon, Willie, Johnny and Hank. Regardless of the time of week, though, there’s music playing till 2am. Grab an icy Coors or a partner and get your Tennessee two-step on. If you’re starting to feel a bit peckish, order the Honky Tonk Grill’s specialty, a fried bologna sandwich.
1am
“No beer. No cussin’. No cigarettes.” So reads the sign on the stage at Santa’s Pub. OK, so it’s not exactly a stage – more a spot with a microphone, karaoke machine and rogue Christmas tree. A woman called Taylor, who encourages her drunk mates to come and sing with her, has the music cut. They’re carrying drinks. “We work hard selling $2 beers to get this expensive equipment for you,” says Mrs Santa. The crowd begins chanting: “Let her sing. Let her sing.” But the owner’s wife holds firm. As you may have guessed, Santa’s (owned by the big guy with the white beard, if you’re wondering) is no ordinary karaoke venue. Located in a double-wide trailer it’s a proper dive bar. There’s a legend about why the place only sells beer: something about liquor, an altercation and a man getting shot. Who knows if it’s true? The standard of singing, however, is incredibly high. A couple of older guys give ‘Elvira’ a crack, another young woman cranks through Alice Cooper’s ‘I’m Eighteen’ and the crowd goes wild when Byron, with his short, blond ponytail, dances through the drinkers and over tables as he smashes Edwin Hawkins Singers’ ‘Oh Happy Day’ out of the park. Put down your name only if you’ve got the chops.
2.30am
Nashville’s night owls held their collective breath when it was announced the Hermitage Cafe, one of the city’s only remaining old-school diners, was getting an update courtesy of Food Network show American Diner Revival. Thankfully, when all was revealed in October last year, it hadn’t changed that much and, most importantly, cheap, plentiful food still filled the menu. The Hermitage opens at midnight every day (except Sundays) making it popular with the few-too-many, going-home crowd. French toast with bacon, bacon cheeseburgers and the Texas breakfast (ribeye, bacon, eggs, fries and biscuits with gravy) are all on the menu. Tuck in and plan how long you’re going to sleep for in the morning.
Promises have been made: hike to the top of a huge rock called Nyasura in the distance and be rewarded with spectacular views over the plains. After about 15 minutes or so, it isn’t the vista that proves to be the most magical element of the climb: we can hear men singing. Since we’re in the middle of nowhere, Kenya, this comes as a bit of a surprise, but it does provide the impetus to get moving a little faster towards the summit.
Suddenly, we happen upon three Samburu warriors by a small rock pool. Each of them is washing his clothes in the water. It’s hard to say who is more startled to see the other, but pleasantries are exchanged and we eventually continue on our way to the vantage point overlooking the Ewaso River and Laikipia landscapes.
There’s no denying the appeal of taking an Ewaso River Walking Safari. This gentler, quieter approach to exploring the African wilderness offers the seasoned visitor to the continent another avenue to exploration.
Words can’t describe the feeling of walking through empty Laikipia landscapes. On a well-worn elephant trail we bump into an old man who has nothing but a spear in his hand. He speaks briefly to the guides and trackers and is on his way once more. At other times I’m acutely aware of the levels of life in this landscape. Without a vehicle to separate me from the environment, I can appreciate even the smallest of insects and flowers. But, this being November and the beginning of rainy season, there is plenty of other animal action. The acacia bush country is home to giraffe, zebra and impala, as well as monkeys and birds. Elephants, who like to bathe in the muddy stretches of the Ewaso Ng’iro River, can also be spotted.
One of this walk’s unique aspects is its guides. Hailing from the Samburu tribe, who live mainly in north central Kenya (they’re related to, but distinct from, the Maasai people), they lead the safaris dressed in traditional attire. This includes shoes made from old tyres – and if you doubt the effectiveness of such footwear, I’m here to tell you those old Bridgestones seemed to offer better footing than my hiking boots. They lead camels – a strange sight on the African plains – which carry food, water, cameras, camping gear and, whenever needed, weary walkers.
The guides are kind and knowledgeable. Walking alongside them or sitting around the campfire in the evening allows for easy conversation. I learn about their culture and customs, traditions and lifestyle, and in just a few short days they go from being the people who show me animals to fast friends.
Each day is a little bit different on the safari. I’ve opted for the luxury option and the tent has a bed with a proper mattress and linen, robes, lanterns and chairs out the front.
Every morning begins with an early wakeup, as one of the guides pours warm water into a bowl so that I can wash my face while looking out over the landscape lit with the soft sunshine. Considering the camp is packed up and moved each day, the standards are remarkably high.
Each afternoon we explore the area around the camp, only to find one of the staff members hiding behind a tree with snacks and sundowners ready to go. Even the tonic water for the G&Ts is icy cold. Dinner is cooked over a fire on the ground, then, after the talking is done, there’s nothing to do but head for bed where the sounds of the bush surround my canvas home and act as a wild lullaby.
You’ll hear one phrase again and again in West Bali. Adeng adeng. It means ‘slowly slowly’, but more comprehensively it could be said to sum up a relaxed tropical lifestyle that’s fast disappearing on the rest of the island.
If you drive out this way you’re sure to have had a solid introduction to the adeng adeng philosophy long before you even arrive. If your first introduction to the so-called Island of the Gods was back in the Bintang-and-beach-blanket bedlam of Kuta, there’ll come a point in the three-hour drive when you suddenly realise you’re breathing slower, sinking deeper into the car seat and the tension in your shoulders has eased for the first time since you dragged your kitbag or surfboard off the baggage carousel.
Welcome to West Bali.
Since I first visited this region 14 years ago I’ve driven this road more times than I could possibly count. For me, this ritual adeng adeng moment always arrives when the road curves across the lower slopes of Batukaru.
Bali is famous for its paddy fields but there are few other places on the island where such immense rippling landscapes can still be found. The green waves of the paddies descend from the slopes of the volcano until they seem to be on the point of blending with the thundering waves that roll onto the wildest beaches in Bali. Fifty kilometres of unbroken beach lie to the west of this point and, with the exception of a few fishermen, they’re almost completely deserted. Inland from the road, mist-draped rainforests rise in a mountain range that runs all the way to the north coast and remains virtually unknown to all but a few trappers and hunters.
Bali is one of the most densely populated islands in Indonesia, but here a single chain of small villages clings to the coastal plains. A sign in a Balian beach bar – “Attention: You are now entering a flip-flop zone” – epitomises the laid-back beach vibe for which this village has become known. Sleepy as it is, this easy-going little strip is the busiest tourist town on this entire coastline.
Balian is where the real beauty of rural West Bali begins, yet surprisingly few people take the time to travel any further west, even though Medewi is just 30 minutes away. While Medewi village itself stretches northwards into the paddies, the visitors who do make it here tend to confine their visit to a hundred-metre radius around the beach road. Invariably, they’re charmed by the addictively relaxing and welcoming island way of life that is hard to find anywhere in the world these days. The friendly hot shots of Medewi Boardriders are always happy to share a wave and while there’s zero in the way of nightlife, it’s been said sunset at Made’s Warung, taking in that unforgettable view of the volcanoes of Java, has been a cause of countless abandoned trans-Indonesia travel plans. Stay more than three days in Medewi, catching Bali’s longest wave or working on your yoga moves, and you run the risk of never wanting to leave. I know; it happened to me more than a decade ago.
Medewi is a predominantly Muslim village in an area that is rich in culture, even by Balinese standards. Traditional Hindu villages and temples, like the famous Rambut Siwi, stand side by side with towering mosques. There’s even a statuesque Catholic church that would be considered a cathedral in most areas. Palasari (near Negara, the regional capital) is Bali’s only nominally Catholic village and the Sacred Heart of Jesus church looms like a vision against a jungle backdrop. The huge building seems so out of place I wonder if it is some sort of failed missionary-funded tourist attraction, but local priest Padre Adi Harun claims a congregation that would be the envy of churches everywhere. “We have about 1300 Catholics in the village,” he says, “and each Sunday at mass we receive between 700 and 800 of them.”
Take a detour off the main coastal road into the great paddy-field hinterland south of Negara city on Sunday mornings and you’re likely to find similar-sized crowds gathering for an even more unexpected activity. This is the venue for traditional buffalo-chariot racing known here as makepung. Pairs of luridly decorated buffalos charge down rutted dirt tracks at speeds of up to 50 kilometres an hour. Crashes are common, with riders, chariots and buffalo somersaulting into the paddies.
Wherever you drive along the southwest coast, a great mass of jungle-clad hills rises from the centre of the island. In 1942 naturalist Charles Barrett wrote of “numerous tigers in the highlands at the western end of Bali, a region covered in dense tropical forest… much of it still unexplored.”
Sadly the last tiger had almost certainly been shot by the time West Bali National Park was founded in 1941, yet, even today, most of those jungle valleys remain unexplored by outsiders. The sheer impenetrability of the forested hills – there are no roads accessing the heart of this wilderness – means the park has remained a safe haven for the monkeys, deer, civets and 160 bird species, including hornbills, living here.
Located at the point where the road finally reaches all the way around to the tranquil waters of the north coast, the Menjangan is a boutique resort set in the national park itself. Standing here on the white coral beach, watching wild deer browsing, it is easy to feel a world away from the typical Balinese holiday.
“More and more Aussies are realising that they don’t need to travel to South America to experience unspoiled tropical wilderness,” says naturalist Ruchira Somaweera, Australian owner of Aaranya Wildlife Odysseys, as the deer move fearlessly past us. “There are hidden places much closer to home. We opt for locations that are overlooked by other operators, and offer a chance to see wildlife away from the crowds in undisturbed places. That’s where West Bali comes in.”
Apart from being one of Bali’s finest eco-resorts, the Menjangan has become famous as a place to see some of the world’s most endangered birds in the wild. An avian gem in gleaming white with a distinctive flash of blue ‘eyeliner’, the Bali starling is the island’s own bird of paradise. The fact it features on the 200 rupiah coin adds to its allure for wealthy collectors who would pay up to AU$2800 for a pair of smuggled birds.
West Bali National Park now represents the Bali starling’s only remaining endemic habitat. The main breeding centre is in a heavily protected fortress – complete with electric fences, watchtowers and Kalashnikov-toting guards – in the jungle. Another small flock still exists in its traditional territory deep in the park. These birds are also under the close eye of rangers.
Menjangan Island, lying just a 20-minute boat ride off the northwest coast, is by far the most popular tourist attraction in West Bali, with boats heading out each day to a reef many experienced divers claim is better than those in Fiji or the Maldives. The waters around Menjangan Island are teeming with kaleidoscopic schools of fish, while turtles, white- and black-tipped reef sharks, manta rays and even whale sharks are often seen near the coral walls.
Thanks to its access to Menjangan and its own offshore reefs, the town of Pemuteran has emerged as Bali’s premier dive centre. Still, it remains idyllically peaceful in a way that few places in central Bali have managed. This northern coast is more arid than the south and the cactus-spiked lowlands give way here and there to vineyards. Pemuteran and Lovina, known for its dolphin watching, are becoming more popular as wonderful rainy season holiday bases.
Just before I arrive in Lovina I accept the fact that I’ve now left West Bali. On the way into the town I spot an unusually phrased street sign, reminding travellers of Indonesia’s zero-tolerance laws. “Hide Drugs,” it says.
My circumnavigation of the west has come to an end and, once again, I’m reassured to see that the bucolic rural lifestyle that charmed the island’s early visitors is not dead. It just went west.
You won’t find Choquecancha in a guidebook or reviewed on TripAdvisor. It hasn’t got a listing on Wikipedia and it’s almost impossible to locate on a map. This ancient Inca town is the home of Quechua people, who live within the walls their ancestors built.
“Quickly, this way.” Our guide Alvaro waves us though a wooden door. Inside three women sit on the floor weaving. “Look here, see this pattern? What do you see?” Alvaro picks up the end of an almost complete piece of fabric. It looks like a little man with his arms raised. “That is Túpac Amaru, the last Inca. If you look closely you will see he is being stretched. Here, he is attached to four horses. The Spanish forbade the Inca to record their history, so they developed a way to weave it into their fabrics. Each stitch tells a story, passed on through generations.”
This is day three of a week-long Lares Adventure hosted by Mountain Lodges of Peru. Early this morning we’d left Lamay Lodge and jumped on mountain bikes to race along dirt paths, over streams and through fields. Now we’re learning about ancient traditions still relevant in the twenty-first century. That’s the point of Mountain Lodges’ trips – they blend cultural exploration with outdoor activity where snow-capped peaks and herds of llamas are the backdrop. Each day, guests are able to choose their own adventure. Some days we get to travel in a comfortable air-conditioned van; others we’ll walk or, like today, ride a bike. It all comes to a head with one of Peru’s iconic rail journeys.
I’d arrived in Cusco, the Peruvian city sitting 3400 metres above sea level, just 72 hours previously, armed with a number of suggested remedies to counteract the effects of altitude sickness, ranging from Diamox to coca tea. Instead I decided an all-night session of drinking and dancing might cure what ailed me. It seemed to work. The next evening, having spent the day climbing to Cristo Blanco on Pukamoqo Hill, tasting the local delicacy cuy (that’s guinea pig to you and me, roasted whole until its skin is burned to a crisp) and exploring the rest of the city, I met the seven other people with whom I’m to spend the next week exploring the land of the Inca.
The Inca who settled the rugged, beautiful Sacred Valley were extremely productive in creating a culture that would withstand the ravages of time. They were so successful, in fact, parts of it survived the brutal conquest by the Spanish, who tried to erase them from the planet.
We visit well-known sights, like the market town of Pisac, which sits beneath ruins, and the thriving salt mines of Maras. As you approach Maras its pastel-coloured, naturally fed salt ponds cascade down the mountainside like a lost Cézanne. Then there’s Moray, a series of a dozen or so otherworldly concentric circles etched into a hillside. The depth and orientation of the terraces mean there’s a temperature difference of as much as 15ºC between the top and bottom. It’s thought this was some kind of laboratory where the Incas would take wild vegetation and acclimatise it to growing at altitude.
While days are spent discovering Andean culture, evenings get luxurious at two five-star custom-built lodges complete with five-course dining, massages and hot tubs. It’s enough to knock off your hiking boots. The first, a modern ranch with artistic flair called Lamay Lodge, has all the amenities one might expect from luxury digs. Huancahuasi is even more exquisite. After our day spent exploring Choquecancha we take a long van ride to a lush valley dissected by a meandering stream. Quaint homes are strung along its edges and we can see people herding alpacas. In the distance, there’s a cascading waterfall. Then we see the lodge, hanging over the edge of the valley. We go as far as we can in the van, before being relieved of our luggage and walking the final leg. According to our guide, this is one of only five hotels in the world accessible only by foot. It’s worth it. The foyer is framed with glass, so it feels as if you are floating above the valley. Thick mist and clouds begin to roll in, creating the perfect scene to view from the hot tubs on the balcony of each room. But, first, there’s the small question of a massage.
Some days the group splits and, on one occasion, when some venture off to hike to mountain lakes, the rest of us head to Huancahuasi. For most tourists there is no reason to ever visit this village. It’s tiny, there’s no museum, and its remoteness makes getting to it difficult. Which, for me, is why it’s one of the highlights of the trip. This town never sees travellers other than guests of Mountain Lodges. Huancahuasi and the company have a symbiotic relationship. The people who work at the lodge live here. They are trained by Mountain Lodges in management, guest services and hospitality and are given jobs and benefits. What’s more, half of the proceeds from tours go to the people of the town. When you realise you can have this level of style, comfort and sophistication while supporting the local community, it becomes a wake-up call about what tourism should be.
We are invited into homes, offered meals and introduced to families and their friends. We’re also laughed at when we bang our heads on the low ceilings and doors. It’s a lot like visiting very distant cousins from a family you never knew you had.
Then we visit the local school. Much like anywhere else in the world, children are sitting around desks, colourful drawings hang on classroom walls and alphabet cards line the hallways. What I find remarkable, though, is the way the children are dressed in traditional, handmade garments.
We share some bread rolls we’ve brought with us, then head off, the children trailing behind us.
Eventually they go back to school and we keep walking past a stream and alpacas grazing on lush grass, before reaching the base of a waterfall where the gushing spray creates a series of rainbows all around us. A few brave souls climb to its head for a view of the valley. I feel as though I’m at the edge of the world.
Overnighting in Ollantaytambo, the oldest continually inhabited city in South America, brings us back to the real world. Dating back to the fifteenth century this was the royal estate of the Inca; today it’s the connector between Machu Picchu to the west and Pisac to the east. Walking the city is a strange experience. It’s both modern and ancient, as if someone put a shopping mall inside Rome’s Colosseum. Alleyways are packed with apartments and shops, some of which have been occupied in the same manner for more than 500 years. Terraces surround the town, creating a series of microclimates that allowed the Inca to farm a variety of produce. Streams and a still-functioning system of aqueducts deliver water to the town and up to the Inca ruins. Tour buses pass slowly through the narrow streets, and throngs of tourists from all corners of the earth try not to trip on the cobblestones while looking up to the amazing terraces.
The city also has a train station and we’re using it to get to our final destination: Aguas Calientes, the town below Machu Picchu. Inside the train, windows curve into the ceiling for all-round views – there’s even a bar cart that wobbles through the aisles. It’s impossible not to feel as if we are time travelling to a place far more adventurous.
Arriving in Aguas Calientes is a shock to the system. The town is manic and doesn’t resemble anything we’ve seen in the past week. Restaurants trumpeting all sorts of national cuisines crowd every space, and a large plaza seems to be the depository for every tourist trickling down the mountainside. Street vendors and the proprietors of small shops all bark for the attention of people strolling past. We are a long way from the quiet authenticity of Huancahuasi and it seems the closer we get to the famed Machu Picchu the less like Peru it feels.
Even though we’re up at the crack of dawn there is already a long line for Machu Picchu. Luckily we are one of the first groups, and our guide knows the path to take once inside to get ahead of the meandering crowds. We make a beeline to a central plateau to take in the view of this incredible city carved into the sides of mountain. You can’t imagine how on earth anyone built this or even discovered it.
“Most people know that Machu Picchu was discovered in 1911 by a Yale professor named Hiram Bingham,” says our guide Raul. “What most people don’t know is that they are wrong. How did a professor from Yale know to come here, when the Spanish, who conquered this entire region, couldn’t even find this place?”
The story goes that an American mining company representative auditing the area asked about a mine owned by a German named Augusto Berns that showed some very promising yields. There was only one problem – when he went to visit the mine it wasn’t there.
Asking around, the auditor heard from locals about an Inca city, high in the mountains, that was taken over by the forest. He figured out Augusto had discovered it and was pillaging gold artefacts, melting them and shipping the loot home. Enter our pal Hiram Bingham. Tipped off by the auditor Hiram made a very educated guess (he was led there by locals) and ‘discovered’ the site. The rest is history.
Raul shows us around, explaining the way the Incas used cracks in the stone to chip off great chunks, the way they moved them with a series of logs, and even how they carved them so they seamlessly interlocked. We stop at a strange-looking stone jutting out of the ground.
Raul tells me to open the compass app on my iPhone. The points of the stone line up with the compass points. “They had no compasses, but they knew north,” he explains. “If you look to the east what do you see?” In the distance is a gap between two mountain peaks. “That gap is about 1500 metres from here and it is exactly where the sun sets during fall equinox.”
Just as I gather my grey matter from the ground, Raul asks me to open the spirit level on my phone and hold it up against a wall. The measurement reads 13.9 degrees.
“Put it against another wall,” Raul says. Again it’s 13.9 degrees. Yet another is 13.9 degrees.
“Wow, that’s amazing,” I say.
“Is it? Is it amazing that considering they had no tools of measurement as far as we know they could build a series of walls all with the exact same angle?”
We all agree it is. “It’s not,” continues Raul. “What is really amazing is that Machu Picchu sits at exactly 13 degrees and nine minutes latitude on the globe.” He then just walks away. It’s the perfect mic drop.
Later in the day, back in a bar in Aguas Calientes, I thank Raul for a memory that will never leave me. “I’ll be taking Machu Picchu home in my heart,” I say. “What does Machu Picchu mean anyway?”
“Old penis,” says Raul, not looking up from his beer. I just stare at him, but he isn’t kidding. “That’s why it is important to say it the correct way – Machu Picchu, with two c’s. That means ‘old mountain’. Big difference.”
I’m not saying the Inca could see into the future, but that is one hell of a good set-up.
Had a David Attenborough film crew been on board they couldn’t have asked for a more perfect moment. We’re passing an outcrop topped with a light beacon. It’s surrounded by rocks and dotted by resting sea birds. Kelp rises and falls around it with the gentle waves. There are also a few harbour seals camped on the rocks enjoying the sunshine.
Suddenly a pod of orcas rushes the islet, sending a flood of water over the rocks. The seals hold firm as the whales swim off again. Then one, a cute little baby, decides to flop into the water, and the dorsal fins of two orcas cut through the water back towards it.
On the boat, there is a sharp intake of breath. Everyone, it seems, is slightly torn. Will the seal be safe or will we bear witness to one of those moments that reveals the horrifying-slash-awe-inspiring side of the natural world?
But there’s no sudden seal-like screaming or a slick of blood on the surface of the sea. Soon enough the whales rejoin their family and we’re left to assume the tiny seal lives to swim another day.
“They’re harbour seal specialists,” says Casey Brant, one of the naturalists accompanying us on this whale-watching trip with Victoria’s Eagle Wing Tours. Probably a good thing they’ve failed today, if only for the sleep patterns of the small children observing the action from the boat.
We’d only been out on Haro Strait for about half an hour when we first came across the pod. There’s not much to it, really. The captain simply looks for a cluster of other whale-watching vessels and heads towards it. Once there, everyone scours the surface of the water, looking for the telltale tall dorsal fins. For the next hour or so, we move slowly, trying to predict when they will next pop up.
There’s no way to tell where they’ll appear. Sometimes they porpoise alongside a research boat. Occasionally their huge fins cut through the water so close to the catamaran you feel as though you could reach out and touch them. None of them breaches or displays any of the surface-slapping antics seen on a wildlife documentary, although this isn’t uncommon. This pod is hunting and its prey – seals, porpoises and, very occasionally, minke whales – can hear, so stealth is the key to success. There’s another pod of whales seen in this area, and they’re a lot more boisterous, even when hunting, since they follow salmon, which can’t hear their splashing or underwater vocalisations.
The oldest whale in this particular pod is the mother and she’s the dominant member. All six are related and they’ll stay together until the mother dies. Her oldest surviving calf is a big male, 14 years old, with a nick in his dorsal fin. “But he’s the same as a 14-year-old boy,” explains Brant. “He won’t be an adult until he’s 18 or 19.”
After about an hour, the captain decides it’s time to head into the Salish Sea – we’re so far south in British Columbia it wouldn’t be surprising if we are in US waters – to see if we can spot any humpbacks. It’s October and the right time of year, but you can never be sure whether they’ll be passing through. It must be our lucky day though, because we don’t have to go too far before a spray of water signals a big guy off in the distance. We edge closer, watching as it moves through the water before one big arch sees its tail flip up then descend into the deep. These monsters of the ocean can stay submerged for as long as 35 minutes before they have to take another gulp of air. In all, we spot seven or eight within about 45 minutes, the folks on the boat oohing and ahing as each disappears beneath the waves.
Soon, as we head back toward port, chuffed with the day’s epic sightings, there’s one more treat. A huge flock of seabirds has spotted a bait ball and is squawking, flapping, diving into the water and blocking out the sun that’s dipping in the sky.
Really, it’s just another day on Vancouver Island on Canada’s southern Pacific coast. At 31,285 square kilometres it’s a fairly substantial chunk of land (about half the size of Tasmania), but it is most remarkable for its proliferation of wildlife. On its northwest coast is Port Hardy, home of Great Bear Lodge. There are also a number of small seaside towns, including Nanaimo, where visitors snorkel with harbour seals, and Tofino, our ultimate destination. After a few false starts due to weather – fog is common, making flying conditions difficult – we arrive to find the Queen of the Peak surf competition in full swing.
The wind is biting, but the cool weather doesn’t seem to put anyone off. In front of the Long Beach Lodge Resort, boards are transported along the sand via bike, wetsuitted women sit on logs of driftwood before their turn in the waves, and dogs scurry around chasing one another and begging for pats. Out on the water, pairs face off in the competition. We grab a bite from Tacofino and enjoy the action.
Apparently this is also a popular spot for beginners. There’s a long, soft slope out past the water’s edge and the waves break in water that’s not particularly deep. The guys at the resort’s Surf Club kit people out and take them for lessons. But the water temperature is only about 13ºC, so instead of splashing out we go for a wander into the forest with Josh Lewis. When he’s not teaching people to surf, he takes photos and leads eco tours.
Vancouver Island is split down the middle by a mountain range and we’re now on the wilder, wetter west coast. Just a few minutes’ stroll from the lodge we enter a temperate rainforest, where huge conifers reach toward the sunshine. “If they haven’t been removed by man, they’ve literally been growing since the ice age,” says Lewis.
This, he tells us, is the traditional land of the Nuu-chah-nulth people. They had a rich, varied culture thanks to the offerings of the forest and sea. “They only spent about three or four hours a day hunting and gathering,” he continues, pointing out salmon berries, which ripen early each year, and antiseptic deer ferns (the Nuu-chah-nulth saw deer who’d lost their antlers rubbing the wounds on the plants and soon realised why). There’s also a natural wildlife corridor here, where you can spot wolves, bears and cougars if you’re lucky. Today, we see banana slugs. Everywhere. “They make up 80 per cent of the biomass in the forest,” Lewis tells us, as someone spots yet another one sliming up a tree trunk.
Of course, when you’ve got some of the biggest red cedar trees in the world growing in your midst, commerce is never far behind. Protecting this forest and others nearby are local environmentalists and the Nuu-chah-nulth. In 1984, they erected a blockade on nearby Meares Island, with its 9000 hectares of pristine forest, to stop forestry giant MacMillan Bloedel from harvesting the land. It was the first time in British Columbia’s history a court granted an injunction in favour of an indigenous tribe and its land claim. As tourism has grown here, there’s been a change in logging practices, although there are only two remaining valleys in the lower third of Vancouver Island that remain completely pristine.
Back when the resources industries – logging and fishing mainly – were king, Tofino was a very different town. Howard McDiarmid arrived in 1955 as the town’s sole doctor, and saw the area’s potential as a destination for travellers. He pushed to have a road put in. “Until 1959 you could only get here by plane or boat,” says his son Charles, who’s the managing director of the Wickaninnish Inn, the luxury lodge he built in 1996. Now the town, which has a population of about 1850 people, boasts a craft brewery that makes bevvies like Hunt & Gather Kettle Sour, Kelp Stout and Spruce Tree Ale, a coffee roasting company, a store selling artisanal chocolate and restaurants like Wolf In The Fog, where chef Nicholas Nutting creates menus “inspired and influenced by the place, people and produce”. They are like the urbane cherries on the wilderness cake.
With Wolf In The Fog coffee firmly in hand, we wander down near the water. Kayakers are getting ready on one jetty as we head for Jamie’s Whaling Station. Tofino is one part of the Clayoquot Sound, where tiny islands and rocky inlets are home to some of Vancouver Island’s most introverted residents.
We take a seat undercover on the 40-foot Stellar Sea and cruise off. A light fog has lifted and the sun is beating down on the glassy surface of the Fortune Channel. We motor past salmon farms and fishing boats, staring out at the rocky coastline looking for our prize: black bears.
Normally these guys hang in the forest, but when the tide is low they come down to the water’s edge looking for food. We see a couple of rigid-hull inflatables, passengers rugged up in waterproof overalls and propped on seats at the front of the vessel, cruising the shore in vain. Lucky it’s a beautiful morning because there’s not much bear action.
It isn’t until we’re passing a vacant fishing shack that we spot her. It’s a mother bear with her cub. They’ve come out of the trees and are crossing a log, using their claws to remove the barnacles and whatever else they can find attached to the bottom of it. When they’ve scratched away all they can they continue on to the house, sneaking up on to the porch. “She’s going to be trouble,” says skipper Scott MacDonald. After all, bears and humans don’t play well together.
The mother and baby cross from the shack to a tiny outcrop on a rope and head back into the trees. As MacDonald manoeuvres the vessel to where we may be able to see them again, there’s another surprise. A big male bear has come down to a rocky beach opposite. He’s fat and glossy, a good indication food has been plentiful this season. If it continues that way, he may have another month or so before he beds down for the winter and begins his hibernation. Today, he’s flipping rocks looking for rock crabs and other creatures to eat. “It’s like bear sushi,” says MacDonald.
The big bear doesn’t pay us any mind as he lumbers along the shore. He’s safe here and, if the human residents of Vancouver Island have their way, he will be for many more years to come.
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