Camp rules dictate you cannot walk around unaccompanied after nightfall. Just the night before, a leopard had crept into camp and killed a bushbuck – the carcass is still there and everyone is certain the leopard will return for its prey. My guide, Onks, escorts me to my tent, then I am on my own. Lying in bed, with only an emergency air horn, I pray the canvas is a successful deterrent. The night, as it turns out, is far from peaceful – elephants trumpet, hippos grunt, baboons scream and there are plenty of other sounds I can’t recognise.
This is my first stop of three on the Okavango Delta. Each of the camps is isolated within the immense waterway and accessed by bush airline. Only from this aerial perspective can you appreciate the scale of this lush paradise in the otherwise arid Kalahari Desert.
That afternoon, I clamber into a mokoro (dugout canoe), the traditional method of transportation in the delta. Chris is the poler, expertly navigating channels hippos have trampled through the papyrus. Onks travels ahead to ensure we don’t hit a hippo speed bump.
Xigera Camp is a series of thatched huts and tents, all interconnected by raised boardwalks. But the 10 canvas castles are far from your average two-man dome. My accommodation is the size of an apartment, with separate bedroom, dressing room and bathroom, and an outdoor shower.
The dawn is freezing, but suitably rugged up, Onks and I head out on a game drive. We pass skittish impala, each face seemingly decorated with heavy-handed make-up. Onks teaches me how to gauge a giraffe’s age by the darkness of its markings. Zebras parade stiff mohawks and tattooed stripes, the pattern of each as unique as a fingerprint. We encounter a macabre scene of squabbling vultures devouring a baby elephant carcass. All that remains is the deflated skin with leg stumps attached.
We stop just metres from a solitary bull elephant and my heart starts racing. He flares his ears, curls his trunk and rocks his head in a warning to back off. I’m nervous, but Onks judges his behaviour and calmly waits. The elephant eventually walks over to a palm tree and repeatedly head-butts the trunk. Palm nuts rain down and he deftly uses his trunk to shovel the tiny rewards into his mouth.
Back in camp, I help myself to the open bar while Petunia squelches up beside the pool. He’s the resident hippo and is clearly not at all disturbed by over-excited tourists, ignoring me while hoovering up swamp grass, his huge jaws chomping nonstop like a Hungry Hippo playing piece.
Before my next flight, we have to clear the dirt runway of hazards. This sophisticated process consists of Onks scaring off animals by running with his arms waving comically. Today’s ride is a 12-seater Cessna Caravan and it’s a mere five-minute skip to Kwetsani Camp. Straight from the runway I’m off with Kwetsani manager Dan, along passages in the grass just wide enough for our tinny to pass through.
As if on cue, a herd of elephants is gathering at the water’s edge. The family of five could easily be missed, with only the tallest adults showing above the reeds. Dan cuts the engine and we float quietly as the footsteps approach. The matriarch wades across first and emerges with a distinct waterline dividing her body like Top Deck chocolate. A tiny baby slips right under, all but its periscope-like trunk disappearing into the water.
Where Xigera has a rustic Robinson Crusoe vibe, Kwetsani is styled like a fancy African hotel. An elegant restaurant and lounge adjoins a massive deck overlooking a vast dry plain. My tent is a dream treehouse with an interior equal to any luxury suite. Bi-fold doors open to uninterrupted views, so I can spy wildlife without leaving bed.
Meshack is my guide and we are on a leopard-spotting mission. A short boat ride takes us to Hunda Island, a haven for animals during flood season. Within 10 minutes Meshack locates a leopard and cub. The bub is a frisky kitten desperate to play, attacking its mum’s legs to little effect. It’s mesmerising to observe the mother’s beauty and intimidating presence from just a few metres away. We hit the jackpot with another female leopard lounging nearby on a rock. She dozes like a passenger on a plane, her head slowly sinking forward, then snapping back up.
My final stop is Savuti Camp, located north of the delta in the Linyanti region. From the air the scenery changes dramatically as floodplains seep into barren landscape. It’s a contrasting dusty transfer to reach Savuti’s open huts and decks layered above the Savuti Channel. The waterway is an animal magnet and the ‘bush television’ plays a constant wildlife documentary. Twelve elephants appear seeking a drink, then two hippos emerge from the reeds and sink into the river. A pair of giraffes meanders past to complete the scene.
Goodman, the guide here, has organised sundowners at the hippo bar. He sets up drinks on the bonnet of the jeep beside a pool teaming with the wallowing creatures. Just beady eyes, flared nostrils and teddy-bear ears breech the surface. The animals disappear then resurface, flushing nostrils like a snorkel, in a different spot. The big boys tussle for dominance, yawning their jaws wide to reveal weapon-sized tusks. Catapulting their bodies out of the water they knock their mouths together – it’s like an awkward first attempt at pashing.
I’m not long in bed that night when chaos breaks out. Trees snap like toothpicks and something is brushing my tent. There’s a massive silhouette at my door and two white tusks gleaming in the moonlight. My nonchalant guest lets off a sloppy fart that wafts through my tent. I lie back very, very slowly and consider futile escape plans. Instead I lie awake for hours as the elephant herd happily feeds. In the morning Goodman laughs at my tale and says a thirsty elephant once skewered its tusks through a tent while the guest was showering.
As I reluctantly farewell my hippo neighbours and close the tent, I nearly collide with a feisty male elephant blocking my boardwalk. His splayed ears and rearing trunk bar my passage, so I lower my bag and wait. Ten minutes pass and the stand-off continues. This is surely a sign I’m not meant to leave this surreal Eden. Isn’t it?
I can trace my fascination with American Greyhound buses right back to a very particular moment. It was April 1985 and I was 12 years old, sitting in the front row of the Geelong Village Twin watching Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan. For any Gen Y-ers reading this, Madonna was everything in 1985.
There’s a scene early in the film where the greatest-pop-star-who-ever-lived hops on a Greyhound from Atlantic City to New York (after stealing some very important Egyptian artefacts from her gangster lover who, of course, ends up dead). The bus pulls in to what seems a very glamorous Port Authority terminal at 42nd Street in Manhattan. Madonna disembarks looking better than any of us who have ever travelled on buses have ever looked. Back then, it all felt so cosmopolitan and cool. Like this was the way one should arrive into New York seeking fame and fortune.
Now, with many, many, many years of experience on a multitude of buses in varying countries, varying degrees of condition and fellow passengers in varying states of sanity, this is most definitely not the way one should arrive in the Big Apple seeking fame and fortune. For one, Port Authority is a urine-drenched, rat-infested cesspit.
But I digress. When I moved to New York from Australia in 2008, I had a grand plan to travel across this wild country on a bus. Like I was a character going through a monumental life-change in a Nora Ephron movie (famous writer/director, Gen Y-ers). It all seemed terribly romantic – and nomadic. I was wrong, and soon ditched any notion of travelling those vast expanses in a confined metal space. I discovered that people who ride buses are mainly crazy or drunk. Or both. I include myself in this group.
I remember travelling from Seattle to San Francisco. The trip, for me, was some sort of music homage: my personal ode to grunge and flower power. Or something. Ultimately, it ended up feeling like some sort of bad acid trip. A journey that should have taken 13 hours but, because of mechanical issues and other non-disclosed reasons, took 20, and comprised some 35 stops at petrol stations and diners not fit to serve anyone. The woman opposite me also cried the entire way, but refused all offers of help, save for one very bad petrol station coffee.
Then there was the time I travelled from Philadelphia to New York. A short jaunt, yes, but a trip made even briefer thanks to a maniacal bus driver who yelled and screamed at all other road users, while speeding like he had to get home for dinner. I’ve never been so happy to smell the piss at Port Authority.
My shambolic bus-riding experiences haven’t been confined to the US, though. I’ve had a few doozies in the UK and Europe as well. There are vague recollections of a journey from London to Munich for Oktoberfest with a bus full of stupendously drunk Aussies and Kiwis. Let’s just say that none of us covered ourselves in glory on that messy 24-hour ride, but we definitely covered ourselves in Fosters dregs, cheap, warm wine and, occasionally, vomit. I still feel bad for the bus driver.
I also remember a particularly harrowing five-hour (on a good day) bus ride from Manchester to London with a friend who was barely talking to me at the time. (Travelling through Europe in each other’s pockets for three months will do that.) Problem was, I had come down with a nasty bug, which left my head and, er, opposite end vying for space in a tiny bathroom with a toilet that wasn’t built to handle such a situation. I thought I could survive the five hours. I was wrong. My sulky mate sat at the front of the bus and didn’t check on me once. (Having said that, he could have been embarrassed to know me. I know I was.) To this day, I feel for all of the other passengers on that bus. I’m sure they all disembarked at Victoria Station in London with some sort of PTSD.
I haven’t felt compelled to board a bus for a long-haul trip in many a year. These days, the closest I get is stumping up six bucks to take a fancy express bus from the Bronx to Manhattan when I can’t face dealing with the unhinged people who always decide to sit next to me on the subway (that’s a whole other column). But to those same Gen Y-ers reading this, do it! Life is a highway y’all, and it’s character building. One word of advice, though… bring your own vomit bag. You’ll thank me for it later.
The sun was going down over the Florida Straits and turning the sky all the shades of rose and gold you hear about in the brochures. Next to me a Cristal cervesa was slowly warming, thick rivulets of condensation trickling down the bottle. Up here, 13 floors above the Vedado district with spectacular views of the Havana neighbourhood, it was as if life couldn’t get any better. Then I ducked my head.
Almost at the end of a two-month trip that meandered through the southern states of the USA then to Cuba and was soon to head onwards to New York, I’d come to realise that not everyone who travels does so with a book. In fact, many don’t even bring an electronic device loaded up with reading material. Not a newspaper from home, a trashy mag nor a detective novel.
When I get on a plane, step one is getting headphones and a book tucked into the pocket for ease of access. My idea of hell is to be trapped for even an hour without something to read. When I see people board an eight-hour flight on a budget airline with no entertainment system and just sit – not even a foreign newspaper to pass the time – I want to tap them on the shoulder and ask, “Just what are you going to do for the rest of the day?” Because, let’s face it, on a seat that’s not even as wide as your bum, you’re not going to sleep.
That night on the patio at Casa Lily I couldn’t tear myself away from the world of Celia and Marco, the star-crossed lovers of The Night Circus. Having devoured Liane Moriarty’s What Alice Forgot, I’d gone to the communal bookshelf and traded it for an indistinguishable thriller, followed by The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time (almost too ashamed to confess I’d never read it) and finally Erin Morgenstern’s magic-realist tale. All in the space of four days.
During the days I walked the streets of Havana, spoke to artists, had lobster lunches in fancy restaurants, drank mojitos in some of Hemingway’s favourite bars, lazed on the patio of Hotel Nacional, rode the hop-on, hop-off bus then walked a little bit further. At the end of the day a little voice inside me would make earnest suggestions: “Perhaps you should find somewhere to take a salsa class.” “Wonder if there are any local bands playing nearby?” “Do you think it would be safe to walk along the Malecón after dark?”
That little voice needed to growl a lot louder, because as excellent as all these ideas appeared to be, I never dragged myself and my book further than a couple of streets away to eat a late dinner at one of the local paladares (little family-run restaurants). Sometimes – OK, most of the time – it’s easier to disappear into a fantasy world than attempt to interact with the real one.
I am well aware that as you read this you will be thinking I’m a complete nerd. That I will not deny. My geek is especially strong while travelling. Notes – yes, I take them; what about it? – are written in black, ruled A5 Moleskines. People find this weird, but as I look up at those matched remnants of trips past – in a perfect line on my bookshelf – I think, Oh, yeah, that’s so hard to understand. They also have pockets at the back, which are like mini historical repositories. I’ve just opened one at random and found some god-awful passport photos from years ago and a ticket from a Rodriguez concert in Nashville.
And although my books can sometimes seem as if they act as a barrier between me and the rest of the world – I’ll even admit to using them as such – they also often start something: a conversation with a stranger in a New Orleans bar who’s also read Dave Eggers’ Zeitoun or someone who’s simply pleased to inherit a just-finished copy of Gone Girl. Because, of course, they’re not something you want to bring home with you. No, there’s just no way you’d ever want to have to buy another bag to hold the books you’ve gathered during daily walks to McNally Jackson in New York’s Lower East Side, or send home a box filled with signed copies of Willie Nelson’s autobiography, books of essays written by Martin Luther King or copies of classics in hardcover you’d never be able to find in Melbourne. Seriously, what kind of weirdo would you have to be to do that?
An irresistible aroma draws me out onto the terrace where I am momentarily distracted by just how green everything is – vines, fruit trees, fold after fold of forest-covered mountains all the way to the jagged peaks of the Apuan Alps. I follow my nose to the open-air kitchen beneath a slate roof where Gigliola Galanti, owner and chef extraordinaire at Agriturismo Saudon, is cooking rabbit and potatoes in a testo, or cast-iron pan, over an open fire of vine shoots.
As the summer sun’s rays slant low across the family’s terraced vineyards and vegetable garden, six of us sit down to a supper of fried zucchini flowers, salumi, roasted eggplant and the spectacular testo dish, all washed down with glasses of Saudon’s red wine, homemade from pollera, a local grape variety. By the end of the meal, Gigliola has challenged us to a game of bocce on the Pozzo di Mulazzo village pitch, not far from her sixth-century stone house. After a trouncing, we discover tiny Pozzo regularly fields one of Italy’s championship bocce teams.
Experiences such as these pepper adventures in Lunigiana, a tucked-away region straddling northern Tuscany and eastern Liguria. Its fertile river valleys are bordered on three sides by the Apennine Mountains and, in the south, by the Apuan Alps, source of Carrara marble. Less than an hour from cruise-ship–clogged Cinque Terre to the west and the touristy hill towns around Florence to the south, this ancient land of the moon – with its mysterious stone idols, medieval castles and walled hamlets – still moves to the rhythms of old ways.
Thanks to the efforts of the enterprising Farfalle in Cammino, a non-profit association of young local guides, interlopers can now draw aside the tourist curtain to immerse themselves in an Italy thought to have long disappeared. Now it’s possible to walk the ancient Via Francigena pilgrimage route, ride horses through chestnut forests, explore churches and castles in peace, bike along quiet country roads and feast on mouth-watering local dishes with new-found friends.
Lunigiana has a fascinating story to tell and Francesco Bola, president of Farfalle in Cammino, is here to share the tale. In the Museum of the Stele Statues, part of the walled town of Pontremoli situated at the confluence of the Magra and Verde rivers, I am gobsmacked by a collection of ancient anthropomorphic stone structures standing a metre-and-a-half high. More than 80 chiselled figures with their half-moon–shaped heads have been discovered all over Lunigiana. Dating as far back as 4000BC, these statues of weapon-wielding men and full-breasted women speak of a pre-Bronze Age culture many believe worshipped the moon. The Romans defeated them in the second century BC, and promptly built a temple to the moon at Luni.
Jumping a thousand years of history, Francesco points out a pilgrimage artefact that once adorned the facade of San Pietro church in Pontremoli – a twelfth-century carved stone labyrinth showing the one true way to Christian enlightenment. Pontremoli was first documented in the diaries of the Archbishop of Canterbury in 990AD as one of the places he slept on his Roman pilgrimage. The route he took on the Via Francigena is now being developed as the next great pilgrimage and is set to rival the overcrowded Camino de Santiago in Spain.
We get a visceral view of Italian history as we stroll the town’s narrow, winding streets. As we pass the Great Bell Tower, Francesco tells me hostilities between the rival factions of the Pope and the Holy Roman Emperor were so fierce a wall was built through the heart of Pontremoli. Each side had its own central square, palaces, hospital and bridges, many of which still exist even though the wall has been torn down.
By the Renaissance, Pontremoli had evolved into a tax-free zone attracting wealthy merchants who built the grandiose, domed Chiesa Cattedrale Santa Maria Assunta on the site of a medieval church as thanks to the Virgin Mary for saving the city from the plague. Moving from the sacred to the everyday, we visit the baroque Palazzo Dosi Magnavacca, one of Pontremoli’s many elaborate town houses. Its ceilings and walls are embellished with allegorical trompe l’oeil paintings depicting Greek myths transposed with the faces of the merchant patriarchs.
“So many Tuscan towns are overcrowded with tacky souvenir shops, while here our culture is still intact,” Francesco tells me over lunch of rare-breed Zeri lamb with handmade pasta as we discuss the allure of the region. “I think Lunigiana defines the art of slow travel, where you can discover the soul of a place and enjoy its unique food.”
Following his advice, I walk with nature guide Franco Ressa on a bucolic section of the Via Francigena, which tracked the easiest route through the mountains and valleys for pilgrims and traders alike. We take centuries-old paths above olive groves and family vineyards, their vines staked between ash trees in the old way. Franco shows me ancient moss-covered stone walls that once anchored orchards and we savour an old-fashioned variety of local apple, called mela rotella, plucked from low-hanging trees in the woods. He takes me to one of the river’s many green pools, perfect for swimming, its large round boulders cool under our bare feet. Snacking on golden plums, we meander through tiny hamlets, each with a shrine and water fountain, and cross the arched sixteenth-century Groppodalosio Bridge, one of Via Francigena’s landmarks as it descends from Cisa Pass towards Pontremoli.
As he points out deer prints and porcupine trails, Franco tells me you can explore a host of different landscapes in Lunigiana. “There are chestnut and beech forests, not to mention blueberry meadows with glacial lakes in the Tuscan-Emilian Apennine National Park and marble quarries in the Apuan Alps whose ridgelines offer panoramas all the way to the coast. There are even canyoning adventures in Stretti di Giaredo, just 10 minutes from Pontremoli.”
Trying out another form of slow travel, I join Simona Polli, vice president of Farfalle in Cammino, on an electric bike adventure up hills to castles and down dales through acacia forests to medieval walled villages. In an inspired move, the group uses e-bikes for excursions around the rolling countryside. Note the word ‘rolling’ here is a euphemism for a landscape that would soon exhaust the energies of most amateur cyclists. Instead, these ingenious bicycles make you feel like a power pedaller – the harder you push, the faster you head up the hills. You can even recharge the bike’s batteries by going downhill in low gear.
It is the perfect way to traverse hamlets like Ponticello, where we fill our water bottles at the communal well, see stone tower houses where villagers used to barricade themselves against invaders, and navigate narrow tunnels where blacksmiths and cobblers plied their trade. We admire two more ‘warrior’ steles inside the stark eleventh-century Romanesque church of Pieve di Sorano, effortlessly cycle hills to explore Malgrate Castle, now the site of summer cultural festivals, and meander through the medieval market town of Bagnone, with its Ponte Vecchio bridge over a river torrent.
In the Byzantine walled village of Filetto, a popular antiques centre, we feast on Lunigiana’s famed testaroli, an oven-baked pancake cooked on a cast-iron griddle, cut into diamond shapes and cooked like pasta, before it’s served with parmesan and pesto. Here, too, I try another local specialty called lardo di Colonnata, a cold cut made from pork back fat covered with spices like sage, rosemary, salt and garlic and aged for six months in Carrara marble containers.
At the Agriturismo Montagne Verde, I meet three generations of the Maffei family, who have converted a monastic tower into a zero-kilometre restaurant championing all the delectable products from their farm and forests. They also restored the village of Apella into rooms and apartments, and planted vegetable plots that guests are encouraged to use. Here, they extract chestnut, acacia and wildflower honey from hives in the hills, and beside the swimming pool, with its drop-dead mountain views, is an historic chestnut drying mill, still used each autumn when local women bring in the harvest from the forest. It is the perfect base for hiking the Tuscan-Emilian Apennine National Park, which surrounds the property.
For all its history and beautiful geography, Lunigiana’s greatest treasure is its agriturismos (farmstays). Their fabulous food evokes a real sense of place and they offer terrific opportunities to meet locals who have a palpable connection with long-standing traditions. I learn, for instance, how to taste ultra-fine olive oil and pure natural honey, and how chestnuts have sustained a culture through feast and famine. Each family chef is as blow-me-away impressive as the next one, serving dish after exquisite dish – chestnut pancakes with ricotta and honey; sweet Treschietto onions; sgabei (fried bread) with homemade salumi; ripieni (stuffed vegetables); beef tagliata with porcini mushrooms; and chestnut semifreddo.
On my final day, I explore the countryside on horseback with Andrea Verdoni from Il Picchio Verde Agriturismo. We follow tree-lined trails beside farms and olive groves, slosh through streams under stone bridges, and canter across fields burnished gold by the afternoon sun. Finally, we clip-clop up a cobblestone path to the fortified hilltop village of Cassolana Monti, with another castle wedged into the rock under enormous spreading oak trees. It feels like the centuries have fallen away and the lord of the manor will welcome us with trumpets and a banquet. Yet I can’t imagine how anything could better the feasts I have already enjoyed from this ancient landscape as enchanting as it is real.
Should you be confronted by an angry mother croc what would you want for protection? Fast legs? A large gun, perhaps? “When you go into the nest it can be a bit challenging,” says Matt Wright with not a flicker of irony. “We used to carry pistols with us, but not any more. All you need is a stick and a crate. As long as that crocodile’s got something to chew on and you can give her that, perfect.”
All that reptilian rage is caused by Matt and his crew venturing into crocodile country each year to swipe their eggs. The Northern Territory’s wet season brings mama crocs to the banks of rivers to make nests where they lay between 40 and 60 eggs. There’s a quota allotted to collectors (about 50,000 in the NT alone), who take on the high-risk job and sell the eggs to crocodile farms where the hatchlings will eventually be made into handbags and shoes. The tricky part is the crocodiles don’t leave the nest once they’ve deposited their future family, instead loitering to protect it from predators like goannas, feral pigs and humans.
Hanging around and waiting for her to head off hunting just doesn’t work. “No, you go in and push her off,” says the 36-year-old, whom fans of Nat Geo TV will know as the Outback Wrangler. “The best thing is then you know where she is. You don’t want to go in with 15-foot cane grass all around, everything making a noise, and the next thing you know she roars out of a hole and you’re trying to get out of the way.”
From the 1940s to the 70s, crocs were fair game for anyone who fancied themselves as a hunter. Their numbers were thought to have dropped to as few as 3000 before the Northern Territory government legislated to protect them in 1971. Egg collecting began in the mid-90s, but it’s carefully monitored and there’s now thought to be a healthy croc population of about 130,000 across the Territory.
“Everything we collect we take at the beginning of the season from the floodplains,” Matt explains. “If they’re left any longer they cook and then they go under water, so the survival rate is pretty much zilch.
“The ones that do survive are laid a bit later in the season and on higher ground in shaded areas.”
But risking life and limb (literally) only takes up a few weeks a year. Matt wears a number of hats, and collecting eggs is just one of the jobs he does. Some days he and the team have to capture and relocate huge saltwater crocodiles from places they might cause harm to the neighbours. On others he’s keeping an eye on his business, Outback Floatplanes.
It’s one of his adventures that has brought us here to Sweets Lagoon, about 55 kilometres southwest of Darwin. The Ultimate Tour is the perfect blend of epic landscape and wildlife watching.
From the private hangers at Darwin Airport, it’s a short ride in a floatplane to get here. Once on board the large cruiser anchored mid-waterway, everyone piles on to an airboat and straps in. A white egret called Rose is perched at the back, near the propeller, and hops along the seats before depositing herself on the helipad.
Down the Finniss River we go, before turning off onto tiny estuaries. Waterbirds, including jabirus and hundreds of magpie geese, take off and fill the clear blue sky as we hoon past. As the wetland vegetation thickens, kingfishers can be seen sitting on branches overhanging the water. Then the stream widens substantially and we slow right down.
From across the billabong a large croc begins floating towards us. Its name is Bonecrusher and, at almost 4.5 metres, it’s an imposing beast. “Don’t hang anything over the side,” says the guide. “He likes to play.”
Back on the deck of the cruiser, we sit down to lunch – barbecued fresh barramundi, of course – before everyone takes a helicopter ride and does fast laps of the river and surrounding estuaries in the airboat.
Up in the air with Matt, we loop over the site, the chatter between him and the other pilots filling our headsets. One of the other choppers is heading in to land on the helipad when it briefly hovers just metres away.
“What are you doing?” Matt asks the other pilot.
“Rose is sitting there.”
“That bird,” he says, and banks sharply, just as we see her take off down the river. “It’s got a death wish.”
Back on land, Matt explains how he saw this site while flying around searching for crocodile nests. “It was earmarked as a spot that might be good for tourism, so I bought a couple of boats and developed this,” he says. “It’s something totally different to what anyone else has done in the Territory.”
Having grown up in South Australia, he headed north after school to work on oil-drilling rigs in Arnhem Land and central Australia and made a bit of cash. His helicopter pilot’s license came next, followed by stints mustering cattle from the air in the outback and flying in Canada. “I bought houses and properties when I was younger,” he says, “and they never did anything for me, so I chucked everything in to this operation.”
There are special considerations when working with tourists in the Top End – safety is at the head of the list, but then there’s comfort. “We needed to design something that kept people moving,” Matt explains. “When it’s so hot you need to keep the airflow up, because as soon as you stop it gets hot and humid and the mosquitoes move in as well. That’s why we’ve got the choppers, the airboats and the cruise.”
The tour has been running for two years now and, with Matt’s profile rising, there were three months during 2015 when it was booked out – three trips a day, seven days a week. Into this year’s wet season, the company began increasing its number of heli-fishing tours, plus there’s work on a camp being done and plans are in place to build some luxury accommodation for people who want to stay for longer.
About four hours after we first landed, the floatplane has arrived with a new load of guests and is ready to take us back to Darwin. As he’s stepping back into his helicopter, I ask Matt why he chose this life. “It’s the freedom. Being able to show people this place and give them a totally different experience.” He pauses for just a moment: “And being able to work with the crocodiles.”
On Bathurst Island, a fella from the Tuyu Buffaloes runs hard across an expanse of grass. Light on his feet, and with the balance and poise of a ballerina, he’s right on the tail of his quarry.
He brings his target to the ground, near to where the Tuyu mob is watching – a great crowd of brothers, sisters, cousins, aunties, uncles, sons and daughters. They feast on his efforts and roar their approval. He’s won himself a free kick in the biggest game in town.
It’s grand final day on the Tiwi Islands and the Tuyu Buffaloes are playing the Imalu Tigers. The Tiwi Islands are located close to where the Arafura Sea joins the Timor Sea. They comprise two main islands, Melville and Bathurst, and five smaller islands. The combined area of the islands is some 8300 square kilometres. For around 2500 people, including 40 or so of European decent, it’s home.
Australian Rules football is more than a sport here – it’s an integral part of the culture, a shared passion that binds the community. Know something – anything – of footy and there is an opportunity for a rapport with islanders, a chance for appreciation and understanding, the possibility of connection.
Visitors need a permit to visit the Tiwis Islands, but not on grand final day. On this day the islands, its people, its art and culture are open to the world.
“Ngawa kukunari ngini nuwa awungarra kapi nginingawula murrakupuni, Awi,” (We are happy that you are here in our country, in our land, talking to everybody) is a Tiwi welcome.
If ‘talking to everybody’ seems a little ambitious, it’s not as improbable as you might think. Not on grand final day anyway, when almost everyone from the islands’ communities is at the game.
A posse of us arrives on the morning of the grand final after a 20-minute light plane flight from Darwin. Just about all I know of the Tiwis is what I first see: gum trees, pandanus palms, long grasses and a puddled red dirt track from the airport.
According to one local, Bathurst Island had just four tourists in the first three months of 2012. Today, however, the island is buzzing and bus-loads of visitors are being shuttled to various points on the island along muddy roads.
Before the football kicks off, Brian Clancy, a development advisor for the Tiwi Land Council, takes us around Wurrumiyanga (formerly Nguiu), the largest settlement on Bathurst Island.
Brian tells a yarn from 1942, about a pilot who arrived without his plane. Darwin was bombed by Japan’s air force during WWII, and over the Tiwis one of the bombers bailed out from his stricken plane. An uncle of Brian’s wife, clearly a big John Wayne fan, crept up on the airman, put an axe in his back and said, “Stick ‘em up!”
The pilot was reportedly the first Japanese POW in Australia. He survived the encounter and the war, and many years later his grandson came to the islands to thank the Tiwis for his grandpa’s survival.
I’m keen to part ways with Brian despite his effortless bonhomie. Wandering Wurrumiyanga I hear the sound of singing, of voices every bit as beautiful as forgiveness. I’m lured into a church where a troupe of older women is singing.
They are on the football program, part of the pre-match formalities, and are warming up. During a break one of the songstresses, Kathy, makes me welcome. “A lot of these women always singing and helping,” she says. “[We are] strong women, culture women.”
Kathy also talks about Aussie Rules. “Football is good,” she says. “A lot of our children in trouble now. Children get bored, vandalism…then we have family with domestic violence.”
Aussie Rules is considered one way to help break these social cycles. “Hopefully, if we can get their interest in football, they play for the NTFL [Northern Territory Football League], then they can get picked to go down south,” Kathy adds.
She isn’t referring to wilfully shipping men off the island, rather to nurturing a further purpose, helping them stand tall, heads up, in life and in their communities.
From the 1990s to around 2005, the islands reportedly had the highest rate of suicide per capita in Australia. Some of the telephone poles around Wurrumiyanga have spikes protruding from them about half way up. People, men mostly, would apparently climb the poles to the wires and electrocute themselves, often in front of a crowd. According to Brian the communities have successfully fought this terrible trend. “We’ve pretty much stamped it [suicide] out,” he says.
Football has played its part. The Tiwi Bombers, a representative side that plays in the NTFL, was fully founded to alleviate the suicide crisis, to give people something to aspire to, and perhaps an anchor. The night before our visit they had, for the first time, won the NTFL grand final.
Change is happening. A reinvigorated Tiwi Education Board was formed some five years ago. “We’re four years into a 10 year plan,” Brian had said. “We’re on the cusp of getting things right.” These islands have never been subject to land rights claims – they have always belonged to the indigenous islanders. Art is also an important expression of Tiwi life, just as footy is, and on the same day as the grand final, an art sale is held.
Art purists might be horrified by this fusion of art and sport, but on the Tiwis it’s gloriously impossible to separate art and AFL. There is strong national and international demand for Tiwi art. Some paintings and sculptures can be worth tens of thousands of dollars.
David Tipuamantumirri is an artist with Ngaruwanajirri Inc, a gallery set up in the Keeping House in Wurrumiyanga. He’s finishing off his carving of a pelican when we meet. “He’s like our friend, a mate,” David says of the bird. “It’s special when you go hunting in the swamp, you see lots of pelican. Save us from danger, they let you know.”
It’s a second or two before I realise what he means. The birds keep them safe from the crocs. We share a country, but this is life a long way removed from the existence of most Australians.
As if to underline this point, a dingo is lurking out the back of the gallery, near to where David is painting. It’s a fullblood Bathurst Island dingo according to John Naden who runs the gallery. John found him as a pup, out in the bush, almost certainly about to die during the dry season. “We were hoping he’d grow up and leave home but he’s just hung around,” John says.
Ken Wayne Kantilla works at the artists’ collective. John introduces us and we talk football rather than art. “Brother Pye bought a football and less fight, play sport,” he tells me. (Brother John Pye introduced the Tiwis to football in 1941.)
Kantilla is one of the storied names on the islands. David Kantilla, Ken Wayne’s dad, played in the South Australian Football League in the 1960s, the first indigenous fella, according to Ken Wayne, to make the trip to the big leagues south.
Another Tiwi name is no less august – in fact it’s one of the most revered names in AFL/VFL history. Current AFL star Cyril Rioli is a premiership player with Hawthorn and you could put up a fine argument to suggest that, of all the some 700 players in the league, he has, hidden somewhere within his sleeveless jumper, the most magic of any of them. Cyril is following uncle Maurice, a star for Richmond in the 1980s, who had footwork to make boxers weep.
There are eight football teams spread across the Tiwis, based very loosely on the eight traditional land owning clans. Willie Rioli is the coach of the Tigers and brother of legend Maurice, who died too young in 2010.
I meet Willie opposite the football ground, where his players are warming up for the game under cooling trees. Willie is surprisingly relaxed and generous with his time. “It’s just great for anybody and everybody to come, for other people to experience our culture and vice versa. It’s a two-way thing,” he says.
The grand final is quick, open and skilful, the fellas from both teams smartly doing justice to their predecessors’ legacy. The Buffaloes have a little more finesse, and lead for much of the game, by a healthy 42 points at the start of the final quarter.
Yet Willie’s Tigers haven’t been taught to roll over. Neither have their supporters. They cheer wildly as each last-quarter goal cuts the lead by half.
There is a whiff of an extraordinary victory, but the Buffaloes steady, then kick away with some late goals. Tuyu wins comfortably, but not without the final quarter scare. It’s a grand and thrilling game.
Far more rousing is that its influence may extend beyond the oval’s perimeter, beyond the day, the islands and its people.
Meg Louth, 29, is from Melbourne, visiting friends in Darwin, and has hopped to the Tiwis for the day. “I was interested to see an Aboriginal community,” she says. “We’ve met locals, including a grandfather showing off his four-month-old grandson. They welcomed us here. It was gorgeous. I’m all about opening my eyes and this is a perfect opportunity.”
The Tiwi islands have approximately 1000 kilometres of coastline. Barramundi bigger than a rock god’s ego cruise the waters and some of the island’s first forays into tourism include fishing lodges. There are beaches too, of course, but people don’t visit for the castaway option; the saltwater crocs and blue-ringed octopuses tend to shade that experience somewhat.
Of roughly 600 permit-less visitors who arrived on Bathurst Island on grand final day, it’s highly probable every single one of the first-time visitors returned to Darwin after the game. There are just a handful of lodges that have recently on the islands, but gloriously no big resorts are planned. On the Tiwi Islands, any connection, any attempt at connection, will bring unconfected reward.
Our four-wheel drive bounces along a pot-holed road, leaving a cloud of dust in our wake. Palm trees, stained soft pink, resemble floating fossils etched into the sky, and curlicues of smoke weave through the air in the dying light.
We abandon the road and cross a skinny bridge before our vehicle is swallowed by a tangle of trees. As we head deeper into the wilderness, my guide, Nellye, tells me about Bernard, and I realise this man is far more than just my host: he has played a pivotal role in Kanak history. I’m suddenly overcome with nerves.
To visit an indigenous tribe, guests must perform a customary gesture, starting with a formal introduction and sharing a few words about themselves. They can then request to stay with the tribe by making an offering of a manou, a piece of coloured cloth, as a sign of good faith.
I meet Bernard in the soft yellow light of his patio. He is an elderly man, not much taller than me. His brown eyes are so dark they’re almost black, and their whites seem to glow. His skin is smooth and weathered, and I imagine he’s spent many years in the sun.
My French is negligible at best and, in my nervousness, I completely forget my lines. The words “bonjour, merci, thank you for having me” tumble from my mouth, and I hastily lay the cloth on the table between us. I wait, eyes wide, barely remembering to breathe.
He contemplates me for a moment, then begins speaking in French, gesturing to the cloth, to the land and to me. Bernard talks for a long time. I’m desperately hoping my short speech hasn’t offended him. Finally, he stops. A soft smile spreads across his face and he extends his hand, grasping mine in a firm handshake.
I’m in New Caledonia’s Northern Province and have arrived at the Kanak tribal village of Tiendanite, about six hours’ drive from the country’s capital, Nouméa. You won’t find any skyscrapers or yacht-infested marinas in the north. On the road out of the capital, swanky homes and neat manicured lawns give way to rugged fields and endless mountain vistas. Crossing from west to east, we strike a verdant coastline of cascading waterfalls and beachside campsites, fringed by the ocean. Rustic stalls filled with soapstone carvings and fresh fruit and vegetables line the winding roads, and friendly waves make us feel at home. But much of the local community is shrouded in wilderness. Sometimes the only signs of life are the flash of a bright tin roof, the glow of a campfire, or a letterbox made from a hollowed-out television.
When we arrive at Tiendanite all my preconceived notions of a tribe – traditional body paint, ancient songs and dancing around campfires under the stars – suddenly feel contrived. Bernard – the first Kanak in New Caledonia to host foreigners – welcomes me into his tribe on behalf of his people and their spiritual ancestors, a ritual he has been performing for more than two decades.
We sit down to dinner – a feast of potatoes, noodles, rice, salad, fresh fish and chicken – and Bernard tells me his story and the history of his people. The Kanaks are the Melanesian indigenous inhabitants of New Caledonia, which has been under French colonial rule since 1853. Forced into segregation and enslavement, the Kanaks were locked in a long and sometimes bloody fight for independence (the struggle continues today), and Bernard has the battle scars to prove it. He was one of seven Kanaks injured (another 10 were killed) in an ambush by pro-France supporters in 1984.
Recuperating in Nouméa for two years, Bernard resolved to tackle his oppressors differently: rather than fight, he would welcome them into his tribe and educate them about Kanak culture. He began discussions with his clan’s chief, who in turn deferred to the grand chef (big chief). The process would take nearly five years, and there would be more casualties along the way, including that of the leader of the Kanak independence movement, Jean-Marie Tjibaou, who was assassinated by extremists within his own ranks and is buried in Tiendanite.
Bernard now hosts foreign guests, mostly from France, up to 15 times a year. When I ask how he communicates with English-speaking travellers like myself, he says (through Nellye) that he speaks with his hands, raising them aloft as if to say, What can you do?
After a moment, Bernard asks me why more Australians don’t come to New Caledonia. It’s a hard question to answer. After all, the island is only a three-hour flight from Sydney. But I sense this is more than just a question: there’s a longing in his voice, a desire to know people from places unknown, to share a connection. After a dessert of the biggest, juiciest pamplemousse (grapefruit) I’ve ever seen, we bid each other goodnight and Bernard shakes my hand once more, still smiling.
The morning brings a misty rain. What was shrouded in darkness the night before is now awash with colour in the early light, and I find myself surrounded by towering forest. Cabins and huts dot the hills, interspersed with coconut palms, bushes straining with yellow pamplemousse and bursts of hot-pink bougainvillea and yellow allamanda flowers.
We drive to the village of Ouanache, about half an hour from the bayside town of Hienghène, where I will embark on a two-day trek through the mountains to the tribal village of Tiwae, then to Pombei. It’s dry season, but rain is again falling. Nellye leaves me with Jehudit Pwija, a well-known and respected guide. His smile is warm and his enthusiasm, in spite of the weather, is infectious. I realise just how capable a guide he is when, a few minutes into our journey, he stops, motionless, and sniffs the air. “A deer died here,” he says quietly. “How do you know?” I whisper, awed. “I can smell it,” he says matter-of-factly, without taking his eyes off a point in the distance.
It’s a serious moment that belies Jehudit’s fun, cheeky nature. Later he pulls out a machete from a deerskin sheath strapped to his side. The blade looks worn and tarnished but, at nearly a metre long, has me wary. My expression must betray my thoughts and a sly smile cracks Jehudit’s face. Brandishing the knife in front of him, he whispers, “This is my little knife,” then falls about giggling and proceeds to use it to dig a carrot-like vegetable out of the ground. I quickly learn not to take anything he says too seriously.
As the trail steepens, the hike becomes punishing. The sun escapes from behind a cloud and I feel my skin sizzle angrily. We pass a young Kanak man with bare feet and a machete hanging loosely in his hand. Soon we reach the top of a mountain and the views of the surrounding ranges make the sweat and sunburn worthwhile.
The environment is an integral part of the Kanak’s existence. Jehudit shows me how to bind bunches of long grass and peel away the thick, flaky skin of niaouli trees to build a traditional hut. He teaches me how to recognise flowering banana plants, the cacti-like leaves of ananas (pineapple) and leafy taro growing wild in the forest, and explains hunting methods used for catching deer, pigs and freshwater prawns. We examine ancient petroglyphs carved into mounds of stone, and clusters of 10-metre-high bamboo. We dig into the soil for vegetables and crush niaouli leaves, inhaling their refreshing, mint-like scent, and scour the landscape for black notou pigeons, wild pigs and deer.
The Kanaks have lived off the land for thousands of years, but their affinity with the Earth is slowly fading and traditions are changing. New Caledonia is home to almost one-third of the world’s nickel, earning it the nickname Le Caillou, or The Pebble. It is a profitable industry and many people are leaving their tribes to work in the mines in the western towns of Koné, Pouembout and Koumac. The eldest of five brothers, Jehudit is the chief of his tribe and the only sibling who continues to live a traditional existence. He is determined to ensure his three children learn the customs and history of Kanak culture, and shakes his head as he explains the pull of economic forces. “We don’t really need money, but now people want to have money,” he says. “Now people want to buy a car. They want to hunt deer by car.”
The blade looks worn and tarnished but, at nearly a metre long, has me wary.
On the weekends workers return from the mines, showing off their new gadgets. It’s not unusual to walk into a traditional hut and find a flat-screen TV, Playstation or wireless internet. It causes unrest within the tribes. Despite being a sharing community, money earned isn’t always money shared, and this shift from the collective to the individual is creating a disconnect from tradition. In some instances, those who must stay back to look after the land miss out, and there is great temptation to leave and create their own fortune.
This new-found desire for money also has an environmental toll and, on the drive back to Nouméa, Nellye and I will see gaping terracotta wounds across the mountains where nickel has been mined. In a land of such biodiversity (more than 80 per cent of New Caledonia’s flora is endemic) it is a sad sight to behold.
By late afternoon I’ve guzzled all my water and my pack is chafing against my sunburn, so it’s a relief when we arrive in Tiwae. A group of young girls crowded around a smartphone waves to us then returns to their screen. As I shuffle past traditional huts and a large church, I again feel a twinge of nerves. I’m red-faced and slick with sweat – this is not exactly how I want to meet my host.
Suzanne, a petite elderly woman dressed beautifully in a blue headscarf and flowing green dress, doesn’t seem to notice my dishevelled appearance and greets me with a big, warm smile in her bamboo-framed common room. The room is small with a pebble floor, and a large wooden table laden with refreshments fills the little space. Soft floral curtains flap against the window and brightly coloured baskets woven from coconut leaves hang from the ceiling.
My customary gesture is better this time – I find myself telling Suzanne about myself, my journey through New Caledonia, and how much I look forward to learning more about her culture. She, like Bernard, doesn’t speak English, but she nods, as though she can sense my genuine interest, acknowledging my offering as I lay the manou on the table between us. Now that I have been welcomed into Suzanne’s tribe, she considers me family and will care for me like one of her own during my stay. I’m honoured and humbled.
Dinner is a spread of purple yams, pumpkin, rice, fresh fish and deer. After the day’s trekking I’m ravenous, but the sight of deer meat (earlier in the day we stumbled across the beast’s head spiked on a branch) has put me off that particular protein. I tuck in to everything else with gusto, knowing the food is guaranteed to be free of artificial nasties.
The conversation turns to Kanak culture, and I gesture to the woven hanging baskets. Suzanne smiles a little sadly and tells me young girls are more interested in Facebook than crafting baskets these days. It seems a lot has changed since her days as a child. Traditions that were once an intrinsic part of life, such as marriage customs and newborn rituals, are practised less often or not at all.
Nellye and I retire to our traditional hut, made from long grass and niaouli, just like Jehudit had shown me. It’s easily large enough for 10 people, and the colourful floor mats and high ceiling remind me of a circus tent. There’s no heating, no bathroom and, as I soon realise upon visiting the shower – a tin shed with a cobwebbed Western toilet and a rusty pipe hanging over a concrete slab – no hot water.
Shivering, I sink into my mattress. My mind drifts to Suzanne and I wonder what it must be like to have lived a life of tradition and ritual, only to watch it slowly slip from the lives of your children and your grandchildren as modern technology infiltrates and slowly erodes your culture. I wake up in the soft glow of the early hours, warm like a caterpillar in its chrysalis, and fumble around for my alarm, only to realise it’s the crowing of a rooster in a nearby field.
As Jehudit and I prepare to set out for another day’s hike, I hear the cackle of children’s laughter and the slap of shoes against bitumen as they run down the street to the local school. I think about the girls crowded around a single smartphone and the men leaving their tribes to work in the mines for flashy new cars. I hope the Kanak culture can survive the influence of money and modern technology. Even if the youngsters stray, custodians likes Bernard and Suzanne will surely welcome them back into the tribe with open arms. It’s all part of educating the masses and keeping their traditions alive.
Tasmania has truly turned on the charm as the Lady Eugenie, a 23-metre luxury sailboat and our home for the next four nights, motors towards a still-distant Maria Island, about an hour off Tasmania’s south-east coast. I lie back on the teak deck and am slowly rocked to sleep under the warmth of the Tasmanian sun. There is something innately relaxing about being out on the water. The fresh air, the soft splash of lapping waves against the hull and the gentle motion of the ocean all combine to wash away the stresses of daily life.
Matt, our guide, gives me a nudge as we cruise closer to our destination. “See up there?” he asks, wild-eyed with excitement. “That’s where we’re heading today. Perfect day for it!” I look up at the towering peaks of Maria Island’s highest mountain, Bishop and Clerk, and try to share his enthusiasm.
The Wineglass Bay Sail Walk was set up by the Tasmanian Walking Company in 2014, aimed, I would imagine, squarely at ‘hikers’ like myself. That is to say the type of person who likes the thought of hiking and nature and stunning scenery, yet also enjoys creature comforts. While the company’s other hikes include the six-day Cradle Mountain Huts Walk and the rather arduous Overland Trek, the brilliant idea of travelling on a luxury yacht to hike three of Tasmania’s more accessible and spectacular trails, sleeping in an almost-too-comfy double bed and gorging on the best of Tasmania’s produce also seems to me to be an obvious choice.
It is a six-hour trek to Maria’s twin peaks and, as we set off, I look back at the Lady Eugenie, her mast swaying as the bay ripples. I’ve made the mistake of checking out the dinner menu before departure and can quite easily imagine spending the afternoon enjoying an ice-cold Cascade Pale Ale and Tasmanian cheese platter while soaking up the surrounds. But this is not just a luxury cruise.
The walk begins at a leisurely pace along the coastline, slowly gaining in difficulty as we near the peak. The odd wombat watches us wander by as the terrain changes from open grass to thick bush to craggy vertical climbs. Finally we reach a cluster of boulders that provides the perfect platform to look back down from where we came. There is a sheer 600-metre drop on one side with the peaks of Bishop and Clerk framing the slowly setting sun. In the distance the Lady Eugenie is now just a speck and the sense of accomplishment is incredible. For the first time I think I understand what hikers are on about.
The following morning I make the most of the yacht’s comfort and sleep in. My calf muscles are stiff from the previous day’s climb and I may have had one glass too many of the top-shelf Tasmanian pinot noir on offer the night before. Odd barking noises are coming from somewhere near the top deck and I surface just as we cruise past Ile des Phoques, a tiny island and overcrowded home to a yappy Australian fur seal colony. Dolphins swim alongside us. “Almost perfect, hey?” shouts Chris the skipper, a grin on his face like it is his first-ever trip.
“It’s an easy one today. Bear Hill!” says Matt with a smile. He points at what looks like a neatly stacked pyramid of burnt orange rocks rising out of the greenery of Schouten Island. “It’s more of a climb really. Should be up and down in a few hours if we go for it.” He clearly has no idea about my calf muscles. Two hours later we’re standing on top of a large, round and surprisingly smooth granite boulder, once again looking down on the Lady Eugenie, anchored in a perfect half-moon bay. The water is a clichéd aqua hue and in the distance we can see the Freycinet Peninsula. The weather gods have truly blessed us and I find it hard to think of anywhere in Australia more stunning.
“Almost perfect,” says Matt. “Almost?” I ask him incredulously. “Yeah,” he sighs, “the winds have picked up a bit so we can’t have dinner on the beach. Ah well, ya can’t have everything.” As I explain to him later, dinner on the boat is still pretty spectacular.
Our final journey on day three is the longest, most difficult and easily the most rewarding. It is a seven-hour hike through Freycinet National Park up to the 579-metre summit of Mount Graham for an almost bird’s-eye view of Freycinet’s number-one attraction, Wineglass Bay. It is easy to see why this beach consistently ranks among the top 10 in the world. “I know,” I say to Kia, our guide on this hike, as we gaze down across the bay then back to Schouten Island behind us. “It’s perfect.” We lose sight of Wineglass Bay as we descend Mount Graham along Quartzite Ridge, stopping to sit on one of the huge rocks and stare out at the clear waters of the Tasman Sea.
It is only a couple of hours from Mount Graham down to the beach, and our shoes are off and our aching bare feet in the chilly water before you can say “fill my wineglass”. I can see the Lady Eugenie anchored on her own, perfectly positioned out in the bay. A bunch of other hikers, their tents already pitched behind the dunes, relax on the sand, content, like us, with their day’s adventure. One of them sits beside me and opens a can of tuna. “What a great day,” he says to me. “I’ve earned this!” I smile back, not only to be polite, but also because I can see Captain Chris motoring in from Lady Eugenie and I know what awaits us back on board. “You’re right,” I say to my new friend. “It’s just perfect.”
Where is it? She usually leave it ’ere somewhere,” Nicolas says, rummaging around in the damp undergrowth. “Voila! ’ere it is,” he exclaims, tugging on something jammed between two moss-covered stones. With a knowing glint in his eye, he carefully coaxes a dirty green bottle out from its hiding spot.
I nearly choke on my trail mix. “Is that a bottle of…” “Absinthe, oui,” Nicolas says, finishing my sentence. He gives the bottle a rough wipe down with his wrinkled hands and, in a swift pirate-esque moment, rips the cork out with his teeth. The dank forest air is instantly filled with the sweet aroma of aniseed and wormwood.
Nicolas produces two small glasses from his backpack and splashes some light-green liquor into each, before carefully topping them up with fresh spring water from a trickling fountain. Needless to say, this is a far cry from the flaming sugar cubes and mornings of amnesia that tend to accompany absinthe drinking back home.
It’s not yet noon and I look up from my glass, staring deep into the lush valleys of the Swiss Alps. “Who on earth leaves bottles of absinthe hidden in the forest?” I ask my hiking companion. “La fée verte, the green fairy,” Nicolas says. “She leaves them everywhere, always she has done this.” I’m dubious and pretty sure the wormwood has already taken effect, but something about this mystical environment makes me believe him. Besides, I don’t care what colour she is – if a fairy is willing to stash booze in the forest for thirsty hikers to stumble across, then she is my kind of fairy. Leaving a buck for a tooth seems pretty lame by comparison.
I arrived in Val-de-Travers, in Neuchâtel, western Switzerland, not really knowing a single thing about the place. When I thought of Switzerland, I imagined meticulous watchmakers with curly moustaches, plump chocolatiers and rosy-cheeked women in aprons singing in the hills. I honestly never thought I would find myself in the absinthe mecca, the birthplace of this often feared, always misunderstood, potent liquor that is reputed to have hallucinogenic properties.
Illegal in its nation of origin until 2005, and still outlawed in many countries today, absinthe elicits an intrigue unlike any other liquor on Earth. On one hand, it has been condemned by lawmakers, the church and society for a century. On the other hand, it has been revered as the elixir of creativity and worshipped as a cultural icon of nineteenth-century impressionist artists, writers and poets. Among absinthe’s prophets were Oscar Wilde, Vincent van Gogh and Picasso. The reason for this love–hate relationship lies in its magical ingredient: the allegedly hallucinogenic, locally grown herb artemisia absinthium, commonly known as wormwood.
“Bah, oui, you will go crazy,” Nicolas says. “But you must ’ave at least 60 glasses for it to do this. Most days I ’ave just 40!” I’m not sure if Nicolas is joking or not. Either way, I reckon it’s safe, although the forest does appear a little more vivid after my second glass. Nicolas, like most absinthe producers here, once operated a clandestine distillery, and still talks fondly of his days as an outlaw. I get the feeling he misses it, as though legalising absinthe took a bit of the fun out of it. I’ve tasted the nectar of the green fairy and, I must admit, I’m hooked. It’s like no other drink I’ve tried before, and nothing like the fluorescent-green rocket fuel they call absinthe back home. It’s delicate and delicious, has a sweet aniseed taste, not dissimilar to pastis, and carries a bouquet of fragrant herbs. However, there is one distinctive bitter herbal note that sings out above the rest. It’s the wormwood, I just know it.
I’m keen to see this mystical wormwood plant for myself so I ask Nicolas if he can take me to a local plantation. It’s not exactly a difficult request since just about everyone in the valley grows wormwood in their backyard; however, he knows of a grower nearby who is also an ex-bootlegger. He has a decent wormwood plot sitting outside his micro-distillery, Nicolas says, so we take a short stroll to the town of Boveresse to check it out.
Francis is kneeling among a small patch of silver-green plants in a pretty little garden flourishing in the shadow of a large, old-fashioned Swiss country mansion. The old building is covered with painted green window shutters that were no doubt used not so long ago to hide illegal goings-on from the prying eyes of local police officers and informants.
He looks up from his prized garden of wormwood plants and, with a big smile, beckons me to come and take a closer look. On close inspection, I’m a bit disappointed. I guess I kind of expected this infamous plant to have menacing purple flowers or at least spikes.
But, no, it’s quite simply a low-lying herb with pretty leaves sprouting from a soft stalk. Nicolas, obviously enjoying my enthusiasm for his life-long passion, crouches next to me, plucks a small green leaf and stuffs it in his mouth. With a playful smile he screws up his face up. “Tres amer!” Translated it means very bitter, although I know he’s secretly enjoying it. I follow suit and bite off a small piece of wormwood leaf. It’s bitter, sure, but it’s also surprisingly delicious. It has that exact herbal note I had fallen in love with in the absinthe we drank earlier in the forest.
I’ve tasted the nectar of the green fairy and, I must admit, I’m hooked. It’s like no other drink I’ve tried before, and nothing like the fluorescent-green rocket fuel they call absinthe back home.
We clunk our way up the mansion’s creaky wooden stairs, following Francis’s son and heir to the family distillery as he leads us up to the drying room. Still in use today, it is here his father once hid his precious wormwood harvest. At the top of a tight spiral of wooden stairs we emerge into a dark attic. As my eyes adjust to the dim light, my nostrils are filled with the most beautiful herbal aroma. It’s scrumptious, and I find myself breathing as deeply as I can through my nose, savouring the delicious fragrance.
Beams of light stream through small cracks in the wooden walls, catching plumes of dancing dust particles and illuminating hundreds of bouquets hanging from the rafters. There is wormwood everywhere. Like most artisanal absinthe producers in the region, Francis has his own family recipe that includes a unique blend of homegrown wormwood and herbs, including green anise, fennel, peppermint, hyssop, coriander, cardamom, elecampane, star anise, licorice, dittany, angelica and many other (sometimes secret) botanicals.
Back at the cellar door, I sample the house produce (La Valote Martin), and get myself a small takeaway bottle. I’ve got a train to catch – more villages and distilleries await.
During my time in Val-de-Travers I visit many small, family-run artisanal distillers. The majority have been producing absinthe for generations and are proud to proclaim they continued to do so illegally during prohibition. Most grow wormwood, often in their backyard, and produce their own style of absinthe. Every family recipe is unique, using different herbal blends and varied amounts of wormwood, which is still heavily restricted by law today.
There are more than 20 absinthe distilleries along the Absinthe Route, just about all of which have a cellar door where you can taste their produce and buy a bottle to take home. All of the bars and restaurants serve local absinthe, and every afternoon around 5pm is l’heure vert (the green hour), when you can see locals sitting in bars and cafes around tabletop water towers happily chatting away over cloudy green glasses. This region is the Châteauneuf-du-Pape of absinthe.
Tucked away in quaint little villages along the trail are countless restaurants and, to my surprise, many of them utilise wormwood in their regional cuisine. (It really is considered a herb here in the valley.) For me, the standout dishes are beef fillet in absinthe gravy and absinthe soufflé. Far from a gimmick, the gravy is heavily infused with the liquor, giving it a great kick and bitter-spice note I just can’t get enough of. The soufflé comes with a pool of absinthe in the centre and is served with an entire bottle of the stuff on the side, “Just in case you wanted more…” God, I love this place.
I couldn’t be more impressed and surprised by what I’ve found here. Imagining a group of people who operated for a century as backyard bootleggers, I had expected to encounter a heavy-drinking, cagey bunch of moonshine-trippers with chips on their shoulders. But this vision could not have been further from the truth. This mind-bogglingly lush, beautiful valley is home to a community of proud, intelligent, moderate, friendly artists who love what they produce and are more than happy to share their secrets with visitors. Join the trail and chances are you will get stuck at each cellar door for hours, sipping absinthe as locals regale you with daring tales from their days as clandestine distillers and tall stories about the green fairy. And, if you’re lucky, you just might find a bottle of absinthe stashed in the forest.
Souls smell like sulphur. Well, rotten souls sure do. We’ve shuffled as close to the lip of the crater as common sense and loose rocks allow when the source of the odour becomes clear: the basin’s plugged with cocoa-coloured water.
“This is for the souls of the bad man, the bad people,” announces Nando, our guide, as we contemplate Tiwu Ata Polo, the “enchanted lake” stewing below.
The image may be macabre, but the setting is almost ethereal. An orb of fire has just split the sky from the earth, drenching the mountain in golden light and revealing the dark pits around us as the jewels of Mount Kelimutu: its three colourful crater lakes. The grand reveal is a worthy reward for rising an hour before dawn to push my sluggish body to the peak of the mountain. Granted, a van did most of the work.
According to the beliefs of the local Lio people, spirits of the deceased flock to this dormant volcano, on the Indonesian island of Flores, to be categorised and stored.
A few months ago the water pooling in Tiwu Ata Polo was the colour of rust. Photos from years past show it glowing aquamarine. I wonder if a new addition of fetid ghosts stained it the darker shade it exhibits today and, if so, what did they do to be exiled here?
Kelimutu’s lakes transform up to three times a year, morphing like mood rings from teal to white to blood red. Some claim the rare phenomenon is an unexplained mystery but scientists – never romantics – attribute it to an ever-changing blend of chemicals leeching from the volcano.
A thin ridge separates the “enchanted pool” from the second lake for the departed. Despite its proximity to the murky liquid of nasty souls, Tiwu Nuwa Muri Koo Fai is a melting bowl of bubblegum ice-cream, swirling milky and blue. It is here, Nando explains, that the innocent spirits of children rest.
But it’s Tiwu Ata Mbupu, the crater for those who aged with kindness, that most intrigues. Nando tells me the pool is black these days and my mind thirstily conjures a bowl of Flores coffee – fresh and restorative, with floral notes.
I’ll have to take his word for it. This morning it’s a foamy cup of milk. Clouds froth up the crater’s edge, keeping the oldies safe from sight – a dignity they’ve no doubt earned.
My foot misses its mark on the descent and I stumble on a wild blueberry bush. Punishment, perhaps, for lusting after caffeine in such a sacred place. My toes smart and it’s hard not to wonder: if the stagger had occurred at the crater’s edge would I have wound up with the tender old souls or been banished to the cauldron of villains?
(
