Get Lost

Shaking All Over The World

As the sun sets over the ocean in front of Bali’s chic Potato Head Beach Club, Leo Boys and Anya Montague place the finishing touches on their creations. A pink beach umbrella, whipped cream, a slice of orange and some ‘edible sand’ – actually crushed biscuits – accompany the bright-blue Hi Life rum cocktails. The couple, who call themselves the Travelling Bartenders, believe the name of the cocktail perfectly sums up what their life has become.

Both from England, they have spent the past couple of years working in bars around the world and helping set up new venues. Twenty-two-year-old Boys began bartending in clubs four years ago and met Montague, now 21, when he hired her to work in a small cocktail bar in his home town of Brighton while she was doing her teaching degree there.

Montague had travelled extensively with her family as a child, even living in a yoga ashram in India for a few months when she was eight years old. On a trip to Borneo, she’d tried her hand at making cocktails for guests at a small resort, but it was Boys’s passion for concocting new mixes that really drew her to a career that is about as far away from blackboards as you can get. “Seeing someone so passionate about making drinks is magnetic,” she says. “It awoke a fire in me to be the best I could be.”

Boys started altering the roster each week to ensure they had the same shifts, giving him time to work his charms and teach her the tricks of the trade. During the coming months love blossomed. Boys, however, had already committed to a job in Hawaii, helping set up Tiki Iniki on the north shore of the island of Kauai for musician Todd Rundgren and his wife Michele. “I was heartbroken when I had to leave Anya at the airport,” he says. “I was meant to open the bar with two friends of mine from London, but they had a mix-up with their visas and couldn’t come so I went it alone at first.

“Anya always planned to come out, so in the end I asked the owner if I could hire her again and she said yes. She flew out a week a later. Somewhere down the line we decided to just stay on the road – we haven’t looked back since.”

The couple started a blog on Tumblr (www.travellingbartenderslog.tumblr.com) to document their travels. Originally about them, it now features bartenders from all the corners of the globe, the amazing places they work and the incredible creations they concoct.

As well as the bar in Hawaii, Boys travelled to Puerto Rico with Don Q Rum last year for a distillery tour and the couple spent a few months travelling around Thailand – doing “research and development” in a lot of Bangkok bars – before arriving in Bali last October. Montague clearly remembers the first time she entered the doors at Potato Head: “You walk through this huge colosseum made from vintage Balinese shutters into an incredible metropolis of bars, restaurants, beds, an infinity pool, the beach and the most incredible pink, purple and red sunsets.”

They then helped Potato Head owners Ronald Akili and Jason Gunawan set up a new concept in Jakarta, doing a few guest shifts at the Potato Head brasserie there, before heading to Singapore for another new project with the same people and the occasional night behind the bar at 28 Hongkong Street.

Employers have come to see them as a package deal and are attracted to their energy and creativity. “We like using interesting flavours, fresh ingredients and quality spirits and we don’t like using stuff that’s not necessary,” Boys says. “It’s all about using what’s local – the drinks are always inspired by where we are. Anya made this unreal caramelised banana puree in Bali and we used it to make a bourbon milkshake.”

Sometimes it’s not just the drinks attracting attention, with the couple admitting the clientele will often sit at the bar intently watching them work together. “Leo will be pouring rum into my tin while I put straws into the drink he’s just made,” Montague says. “Sometimes I hear him call my name and without thinking I know to step back and suddenly there’s dragon fire blowing past my nose!”

While there are certainly times when the duo misses home, Boys admits he loves being able to live in warmer climates and experience amazing countries. “You get a lot of inside knowledge from staff about places, and bartenders in Asia are so grateful for giving them new skill sets and helping them improve,” he says. “It’s really satisfying seeing them grow.”

On the research trip to Thailand, the couple also spent a few days relaxing on an island in the north called Koh Mak. “We saw maybe five other tourists the whole time we were there,” Montague says. “It was how you imagine the Thai islands back in the early 90s. But don’t tell anyone.”

It hasn’t all been smooth sailing during their travels. They ran out of cash in Hawaii and had to go for around a month with little money for food. “We literally lived off the land,” Boys says. “I learned to bake bread and Anya picked kale and fruit – basically whatever we could find. At the time it sucked, but now, looking back on it, it was so much fun. I have fond memories of foraging on the Garden Island.”

Also not entirely idyllic was the very un-touristy market Boys found himself in at the end of the train line in Bangkok. Nobody spoke English and there were animals being slaughtered everywhere. “The poor guy spent the day dodging puddles of blood and overly keen lady boys,” Montague says.

Taking an easy-going approach to money and plans, Boys and Montague nevertheless can’t see themselves returning to the UK any time soon. “We could end up working for Potato Head at one of their new ventures, or setting up a gin bar in the Himalayas,” Montague says. “Who knows?”

Hell ain’t a bad place to be

“You wanna have a look?” yells the pilot over his shoulder, his question barely audible over the screaming propellers of our Air Vanuatu Twin Otter. As I nod eagerly he veers around the smoke billowing from two craters below. Staring out of the small plane’s window I feel as though I’m looking down on a Spielberg movie set. There is no life below, just two gaping holes in the puckered earth, belching smoke menacingly as we buzz closer like a curious blowfly.

We are flying over Mount Marum and Mount Benbow, the two volcanoes on Vanuatu’s ‘black magic’ Ambrym Island. Relatively undiscovered by travellers, Ambrym has long played second fiddle to Mount Yasur’s nightly fireworks display on the more accessible and far more visited Tanna Island. The lure of Ambrym, however, is not just exclusivity but also the chance to stare directly into a bubbling lava lake. For unlike Yasur, Marum’s eruptions are few and far between.

Ambrym is not far geographically from Port Vila, the main tourist hub of Vanuatu, but the journey is a long one. Our plane is up and down onto runways that look less and less like runways the longer we travel. Locals jump on and off unloading supplies as the pilot stretches his legs. I stare down the grass strips amazed at how easy it seems to be to land on what looks like a small football field. The pilot explains later that the locals are tasked with maintaining the airports and generally they do a good job. The problem, he says, is when they let the grass grow too long and you can’t see the lights. “Near bloody impossible to land at night. But it doesn’t happen too often. Otherwise they get no supplies.”

Off-loading supplies en route to Ambrym.
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Guide Timoty standing above Mount Marum’s bubbling lava lake.
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We eventually land at Craig Cove Airport on Ambrym’s far eastern tip. From here we board a small banana boat (the main form of local transport), hugging the coast as we head north to Ranon, the starting point for the easiest ascent to the volcano’s rim. Like everything in these parts, the boat trip is relaxed. Our captain and his mate throw in a hand line each and regularly stop to pull in their catch. Six fish and three hours later we pull ashore at a hot spring. I choose the cool Coral Sea over the volcanic heated spring. An Ambrym Islander wanders from the jungle, covered head to toe in black volcanic sand and dives in beside me. I ask Maina, my guide, if the man has been exfoliating, and she laughs and explains that he has been burrowing for megapode eggs. These large chicken-like birds bury their eggs deep in the sand. It isn’t uncommon, Maina tells me, to see just the feet of a local digging deep for his bounty. Maina buys a large egg from the smooth-skinned local. It could make an omelette big enough for the four of us, I joke. “Easily,” she says, smiling back.

It has been a long day when we finally reach Ranon Beach Bungalows. Freddy, the owner, and his wife greet me with a hearty meal of vegetables and fresh fish. Dessert is a perfect sunset from the window of the dining bungalow. Their children play on a makeshift swing on the beach at the water’s edge. There are only two accommodation bungalows here, each offering water views from small balconies. It should be the end of a great day’s travel but Maina suggests we head to the local nakamal for some kava. “It will help you sleep,” she tells me with a cheeky smile.

From death to life: the view.
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The nakamal is a traditional meeting place in most Vanuatu communities and is where the men gather to make then drink the narcotic-like liquid. Stumbling through the pitch-black jungle we come upon a shelter at the bottom of Ranon village. I’m introduced to Edwin, who sits cross-legged crushing the kava root down into an ornate silver tube called a tambil. The pulp is then mixed with water and strained through what looks like an old sock. Rather ironic given that is what it tastes like. All the while the men chatter and laugh. The only light comes from the mobile phones of the surrounding women. It is a surreal scene.

We have a couple of coconut shells of the dirty water mixture and I sit staring at the ground for what seems like an hour. My mouth is numb and control of my body is limited. My body is drunk, but my mind seems fine. Edwin insists I have another – so as not to offend I oblige. It is a mistake. The trip up from the beach bungalows was arduous enough and I am barely able to stand, much less navigate through the jungle to get back. Thanks to Maina’s somehow steady feet we make it. I fall asleep face down and fully clothed, only waking well after the sun has risen. Yes, Maina, it certainly does help you sleep.

With a stomach full of fresh fruit we jump on the back of a passing truck and head towards the start of the volcano trek. Passing through Ranon village we pick up our two guides, Isaiah and Timoty. The village is a network of huts, shacks and larger dwellings. We pass a school with one large bamboo building and a playground with swings made from bamboo and vines. The children run out of the classroom to wave. Their teacher chases them, wielding a large stick and yelling furiously. She looks up at us as the last student runs back in, smiles and winks.

Isaiah is a Morgan Freeman–type character, with wise eyes complementing his wide smile. He tells me he was one of the first to set paths to the volcano from the north to the south. He has been to the crater “many, many, many” times. As a young boy he and his friends would make their own tracks and see who could reach the top first. “Is it a tough trek?” I ask him. “Nothing like it used to be!” he laughs. Timoty is quiet, but he looks strong enough to push down a tree with his bare hands. Both of them carry machetes and if I’d run into them in the dark the previous night I would have been petrified.

It is a four-hour trek through the dense damp jungle to reach the ash plain. I trip up steep vine-covered paths and through banyan tree passageways. It is hot, humid and uncomfortable. Isaiah smiles constantly and Maina puts me to shame, especially when I see she is in a pair of thongs. Timoty chops ahead clearing a path. I’m sure I catch him smile when a bright yellow and black spider lands on my face and I scream. Eventually we make it to the ash plain. It resembles a bitumen road and crunches like honeycomb underfoot. The sun gains strength in the clearing, but there is a breeze now and Marum, with a halo of cloud around her gape, is visible in the distance. I feel like Frodo Baggins staring up at Mordor, but refrain from calling Timoty Gollum. Gollum never carried a machete.

“The last big one was 1913! And was big!” Isaiah tells me as we walk along the ash plain. “Ya, a missionary took a coconut from the spirit tree and the man blong majik was angry. He make Marum angry too.” Isaiah explains there are many things in the jungle here that can kill you. The magic men know what they are and how to use them – and they do. This is what has perpetuated the legend of black magic on Ambrym. “And what about making Marum angry?” I ask. “Don’t pick coconuts!” he laughs.

On the edge of hell.
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The path, if you can call it that, leading up to the rim of Mount Marum is like walking towards death. The closer we get the less life there is around us. Even the birds have disappeared. The hot, sticky jungle seems days away as we enter a forest of almost white wild cane, the last sign of life before there is only black ash. The view back from where we have come is extraordinary. The light-coloured cane forest darkens to a pale green as life takes over and continues to darken to the lush deep jungle spilling off the ash plain and down to the sea.

Nothing, however, can compare to staring over the rim for the first time and into the bubbling lava lake below. Even Timoty is beaming now and, at first sight, I let out a guttural yelp and yell to Maina to hurry up. It is like looking into the mouth of hell. All around us is black grey ash and smoke clashing with the bright orange gurgling lava that spits up and onto the surrounding walls, darkening as it cools in the air only to fall back into the inferno. It is beautiful, mesmerising and terrifying all at once. I sit with my legs over the edge holding on to the safety stick Isaiah has stuck into the ash. He talks of one day building a platform for people to stand more comfortably. “How many people have been up here in the last year?” I ask him. “Not sure. Not many. Maybe 20.” It astounds me.

We camp that night on the ash plain at the base of Marum where life is starting to grow. Isaiah cooks up tinned stew that we eat smeared on taro. The night sky behind us is crimson as the glow of the lava lights up the belching smoke. The view and a voracious appetite help the meal go down and I look at Timoty. He’s still grinning and I ask him if he ever gets tired of it. He shakes his head. “I like to see your face too!” he chuckles. “Everyone the same!” “Yes, Timoty,” I respond. “I’ll bet they are.”

Hops To It

There was no denying the cinematic setting. Lush, leprechaun-green hills as far as the eye could see launching into a cobalt-blue ocean. Abundant sunshine only made it all the more panoramic. That the backdrop was the swanky Lodge at Torrey Pines resort in “chill, babe, it’s San Diego” only punctuated the life-is-good moment. The occasion? A bites-and-brew Beer Garden celebration of the city’s delicious and famous craft-beer scene.

Then some guy said, “I don’t like beer.”

OK, not entirely expected. This is a city, after all, that’s managed to blow those Budweiser horses off their slick advertising double trucks by cultivating an Evel Knievel culture of I-dare-you-to-brew-that handcrafted beer. A city where the once marginal and now legendary Stone Brewing Co.’s Stone IPA (Indian Pale Ale) slides down a bar just as fast as a Ballast Point Victory at Sea Chocolate and Coffee Porter.

Those beers, and just about every variety in between dreamt up by San Diego’s redoubtable craft breweries, are the focus of San Diego Beer Week, held annually during the first week of November. “When we started San Diego Beer Week in 2009, we were hoping to share our unique brewing scene with locals,” Matt Rattner, president of Karl Strauss Brewing Company and board member of the  San Diego Brewers Guild, confides in me. “Five years later, we’re internationally recognised for our innovation, quality and collaboration.”

Craft beer on tap at Stone Brewing World Bistro.
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The Beer Garden at the Lodge at Torrey Pines.
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The event now spans 10 days and takes place all over the city, from local boîtes and spiffy tasting rooms to assorted breweries  for beer-pairing dinners.

My first discovery during my first Beer Week this past November was that, in San Diego, beer is as vaunted as wine. Arrive with the idea that beer is trashy, not as posh as wine, and you’ll be chased out of town faster than a bartender can pull a pint.

Which intrigues as to why someone in the midst of this fermented demimonde might exclaim they’re not into brews at all. Luckily his attitude is inconsequential to the brewers and bystanders who realise all this guy needs is an education. The civilised response? “You just haven’t tasted one you like yet.”

Tasting a beer you like, much less sourcing one, is not a problem in San Diego. Unlike conventional breweries or even other cities that have raised a ruckus over their craft beer, San Diego is the capital of cockiness. If it blows or grows, you can be assured a brewer here is throwing it in a vat hoping for a palatable lightning bolt.

A beer for breakfast here is not out of context. In the woodsy garden grotto of Karl Strauss – on a Sunday morning no less – I lingered over a feisty brunch tamped down with a Peanut Butter Cup Porter. “We threw in cocoa nibs and a bunch of roasted peanut powder,” explains Karl Strauss brew master Paul Segura. “It fell short of what we’d anticipated. So we threw in another bag of the powder – figured what the hey, let’s see what happens.” I wasn’t the only one who left with a growler of the velvety, deep-roasted peanut and cocoa brew, evidence that the prevailing wisdom of run-it-up-the-flagpole-and-someone’s-bound-to-salute approach works here.

That was echoed in Ballast Point’s spiffy new Little Italy–located brewpub. Here, ‘pub food’ means serious eats turned out by Colin MacLaggan, a Le Cordon Bleu–trained chef. At all hours the sleek, bright pub and trendy cafe hybrid is packed. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” jovial brew master Colby Chandler assures me as he directs my gaze to the LCD monitor above the bar with a beers-on-tap display. Ballast, like most craft brewers here, encourages employees to spin the hopper and go all in with an original brew. With that in mind, Chandler hands me an Indra Kunindra Curry Export Stout. “Beware, it’s spicy,” he warns. Too late, it turns out, since I’ve been hit already with a slightly noxious-yet-fragrant burst of Madras curry, cumin, cayenne, coconut and kaffir lime leaf. It’s potent, refreshing, tingling and dizzyingly aromatic – in short, a beer that would call to the carpet even the most Indian food averse.

All of this was just a warm-up for the uber beer pub experience: the new Liberty Station compound of Stone Brewing Co. – a name now synonymous with San Diego craft beer. At 2200 square metres, it’s a candidate for its own postcode. It’s so huge I got lost. The former military barracks in Point Loma has a rough-hewn-meets-Rem Koolhaas vibe that effectively masks its capaciousness yet doesn’t mask the brilliance of the beers. Yeah, the go-to Stone IPA is here, but so are scores of others, including the Suede Imperial Porter, a collaboration with Oregon’s 10 Barrel Brewing. I felt it only right to slide towards the truly far out, an altruistic IPA Stone created for Operation Homefront (a military charity organisation). An orange peel brew that’s hopped with Chinook and Cascade varieties then rested in fermenters atop maple Louisville Slugger baseball bats, the beer is, well, woodsy. In a good way.

It was in the spirit of embracing such beer bombast that The Lost Abbey’s marketing guru Adam Martinez slips into the conversation. “International beer enthusiasts love this week because it’s a chance to be part of the San Diego beer revolution,” he says. “Better yet, they get to taste what it’s all about. They have a chance to meet with all the brewers in intimate settings, ask questions, and learn the inspiration and method behind the each beer.”

Behind the scenes at Mike Hess Brewing Company.
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The San Diego Brewers Guild Festival at Broadway Pier kicks off the week.
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My beer initiation wasn’t all drinking. It wound down in true San Diego tradition: sailing. So prevalent is San Diego’s nascent alcoholic local treasure, it comes as no surprise the captain of my little skipper was a burgeoning hard cider brewer, who regaled me with tales of his garage-based operation while expertly navigating tranquil Mission Bay. The boat danced upon the water, a bright sun overhead, as we heartily parsed the sublime marriage of roasted pumpkin stout and homemade crème fraîche gelato. It was the basis of a craft-beer ice-cream float at Mike Hess Brewing’s beachside beer-pairing dinner the night before at Paradise Point Resort’s Baleen restaurant.

From there it was back home to celebrate Thanksgiving and the home stretch into Christmas. The season was spiked with a reminder of my recent education: Karl Strauss’s Four Scowling Owls, a citrusy, spicy Belgian ale (diggin’ that toasty note finish) and cult favourite Green Flash’s seasonal Green Bullet Triple IPA, which takes its name from the bitter New Zealand hop. I can assure you, after a swig of each or both, champagne is an afterthought.

By the way, the guy who foolishly declared he didn’t like beer? Guilty as charged. I stand not only corrected but also enlightened. Come November, when it’s once again time to mingle with the beer collective in San Diego, I bet I find myself on that same stretch of rolling green on a sunny Sunday afternoon. At which point I am sure I will exclaim, “I can’t find a beer I don’t like!”

After Dark in Miami

The A, B, Cs of Miami: Art Basel. Bikinis. Crockett. Miami for the masses has always been a heliocentric, hedonistic party zone where chiselled bodies in hot-pink Sperrys fist-pump to killer house music. This is a town filled with epic beach parties and cavernous nightclubs; a town where gravity seems to have no effect on women’s breasts. While a classic night out here might mean drinks at the Delano, dinner at Casa Tua and dancing at Mansion, there is much more to this place than what’s on the postcards.

At the city’s core, you’ll find a style of nightlife that is delightfully and uncharacteristically Miami. Smoky speak-easies, urban disco galleries and island hideaways are all awaiting discovery. This is where you’ll find those drive-through liquor stores, delicious sandwiches at petrol stations, the red to-go cup, and the people who actually reside here. On a friday night we said to hell with reservations, the velvet rope and the all-mighty guest list and went exploring a different type of Miami. This is darkest Miami, after dark.

6.30pm
It may seem early, but at Fox’s Sherron Inn, it is perpetually 9pm. This dark, hard-to-find hole-in-the-wall is the perfect place to start a night of Miami intrigue. Sidle up to the bar and let only the light from the backlit stained-glass fox illuminate your Rusty Nail or Harvey Wallbanger. There are potent two-for-one drinks, T-bone steaks and hearty nachos and, if you’re lucky, you’ll hear Peggy, who has seen and heard it all, tell one of her jokes. For your consideration: “What do you get when you cross a donkey with an onion? A piece of ass that brings tears to your eyes.” It’s funnier after two whiskeys, trust us.
Fox’s Sherron Inn
6030 S Dixie Highway, South Miami

Just try keeping your eyes on your date in Barú Urbano’s effervescent environs.
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8.00pm
After being submerged in a classic 60s throwback for a couple of hours, it’s common practice to shock your system with a little Latin love. It could never be denied that Miami is as much Latin as it is American, and the two are actually inseparable. Barú Urbano is a perfect example of this fusion. With ceviche, street art, caipirinhas and club music, this lounge/restaurant/club has a bit of everything. Barú is the kind of place Warhol would have visited if he was in Ibiza circa 2002. If that doesn’t make your head spin you should try the specialty rum drinks. This place is a triple threat, having tasty tapas, a DJ who seems to only play songs you danced your ass off to while backpacking through Europe, and a wait-staff so hardcore and good looking you can’t tell if they are going to seduce you or mug you.
Barú Urbano
3252 NE 1st Avenue, Suite 124, Midtown
barurbano.com

Blackbird Ordinary: so hipster it has irony built into its name.
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9.30pm
Yep, this place would be ordinary… If you were standing on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg. In Miami though, Blackbird Ordinary’s little bit of Brooklyn-off-Brickell is a very welcome addition. Jenga and Battleship, live music and pork sliders, craft beer and perfectly put-together pasty white people make this joint a cathedral to hip. Blackbird is a city in its own right – you can get lost with a party of friends in giant booths, move around its endless bar or head outside to its alfresco arena and let the stars dance with you. It’s a jovial place, full of friends who’d rather talk than shout over club music, with plenty of room to spread out, get into an argument about selvedge denim, or cultivate some new Instagram followers.
Blackbird Ordinary
729 SW 1st Avenue, Brickell
blackbirdordinary.com

Decor at tropical Tap Tap.
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11.00pm
While the island of Cuba has made its indelible mark on Miami’s culture, there is another island that has some treasures to be discovered. After crossing the sexy MacArthur Causeway, many would drive right past Tap Tap, a Haitian stronghold marked only by a high neon sign. It is, however, as close as some will get to taking a trip to Port-au-Prince. The live music downstairs will syncopate with the beats of your heart as you fall in love with this vibrant feast for the eyes, ears and belly. Eat tasty Haitian delights like zepina nan sos kokoye (spinach with coconut sauce), kabrit nan sos (tasty goat stew) and pwason neg (blackened fish). The bold will have an icy-cold natif – part caipirinha, part anaesthetic – or three, which, combined with some high-school French, should give you a chance at understanding the menu. But have no fear: the staff here is friendly and engaging, and will have your belly full and soul warmed in no time.
Tap Tap Restaurant
819 5th Street, Miami Beach
taptapmiamibeach.com

Mac’s Club Deuce is a little like Italian opera: you’ll laugh, you’ll cry, you’ll love it anyway.
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12.00am
Mac’s Club Deuce is the kind of place your mother warned you about. Cigarettes, Johnny Black and a jukebox seemingly stocked by Johnny Cash himself have made it an institution for good-time guys and gals. Beach kids rub elbows with rough necks and trade stories about old lovers, missed chances and big scores. We’ve been told Deuce is where bartenders go to die – a sort of Valhalla for the keepers of our innermost secrets. It’s the perfect place to turn one hour into three and end up with a new posse of friends.
Mac’s Club Deuce
222 14th Street, Miami Beach

Showing the boys how it’s done at Tattoos by Lou.
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3.00am
If you can make it across the street from Deuce then you are sober enough to get inked. Tattoos by Lou is not your ordinary parlour – it’s a Miami tradition draped in neon. If you have a reason, and enough gumption, sit down with Chief (yep, Chief is his actual name) and let him put some art on your canvas. Then, no matter what happened at the five other places you just visited, you’ll have a permanent reminder of your Miami night out.
Tattoos By Lou
231 14th Street, Miami Beach
tattoosbylou.com

Heaven and Hellacious

Down a Harlem side lane off 146th Street you’ll discover a divine diversion. At the Greater Hood Memorial AME Zion Church, hip-hop legend turned Reverend Kurtis Blow and a group of young rappers bring alternative worship to the ’hood.

The Rev requests that, as a sign of respect, do-rags and hats are not to be worn. There’s a shuffle as a hundred scraps of material are removed from their owners’ heads. As one, the congregation praises His name and a beat played at mega-decibels starts heads bobbing. Blow paces in front of his flock and begins to big Him up, rapping about how God changes people’s lives.

A wailing parishioner falls trembling to his knees, testifying his sins. When the hallelujahs and praise-be-to-heavens are done, the convert cries out, confessing even more wrong-doings. The transgressor, it seems, is having a good time unburdening himself of his bad deeds, and at each new shortcoming the congregation cries out in unison, praising God’s precious name. Each time the testimony gets particularly juicy a silence falls as the flock soaks up the newest offence. “Hear thy humble servant’s words,” the Rev pleads to the ceiling. Animated, he continues, spinning a holy rap to his gathering and working them into a dancing frenzy.

This unconventional approach to soul saving is hugely entertaining. To some it may seem somewhat bizarre, but the spirit of camaraderie, the urban street sounds and the unconditional bonding are real.

So many tourists to New York have a view of the metropolis heavily influenced by the settings of TV shows – Sex and the City, Law & Order – they never think to venture further than that narrow rectangle of Manhattan bordered by Times Square and Central Park. Head north, though, and you’ll discover a complex, colourful inner-city neighbourhood. Harlem has left faded bohemian seediness behind  and blossomed to, once again, become a centre of culture.

Feeling cleansed of spirit I take a walk towards the jazz district. En route businesses have been spontaneously set up on footpaths outside homes. Whole families accompany them, having moved their sofas to the curb in order to better watch the world pass by.

On a street lined with pimped-out saloon cars, four beautiful women dressed in tight skirts shine an already gleaming vehicle. Its owner, relaxed in his curbside chair, approves of their work. From behind him a bear of a man slowly shambles towards me. His bleak expression suggests someone soured by the burdens of life. I fix him with the most respectful grovelling look I can muster and enquire if I can take a few photographs for a magazine. Time hangs like cobwebs in the air; I can see the questioning in his eyes then, suddenly, they sparkle and he signals to the man in the chair to join him on the bonnet of the newly polished car. “D’ya see dis?” he wheezes at one of the women. “My boy here and me, we’re gonna be famous, I tell ya.” Later he positions himself  in a chair and poses again, arching an eyebrow at the camera.

At the Big Apple Jazz bar I meet Bill Hill, a New York sporting legend, and his sidekick Rob. They are sitting outside on the footpath, either side of a small table, swapping yarns about the good old days. Blues music spills out around them, its lazy rhythm demanding immediate attention. Bill’s eyes shine with excitement as he relays memories of Harlem in the twentieth century and how it has experienced a social and economic gentrification. A police cruiser slides by, a wave of acknowledgement exchanged.

The early 1920s saw the beginning of Harlem’s renaissance. Back then, the junction of 7th Avenue and 131st Street harboured  the Shuffle Inn and later Connie’s Inn. It was in this building Florence Mills, Louis Armstrong, Fats Waller, Duke Ellington, Bill ‘Bojangles’ Robinson and Eubie Blake entertained audiences from around the world. The 1930s and 40s then brought some of the world’s biggest musical legends. This was the era Harlem became the epicentre of the jazz world. Venues like the Cotton Club and Apollo Theater made stars out of entertainers such as Duke Ellington, Cab Calloway and Ella Fitzgerald, then in the ensuing years James Brown, Michael Jackson, D’Angelo and Lauryn Hill. While the Cotton Club closed its doors years ago, the Apollo marquee is still lit with the names of major acts.

Today, the neighbourhood continues to shape the world’s musical and cultural landscape. Harlem’s historic district has experienced a rebirth, but the one aspect that remains constant is the music. From neighbourhood dives, small clubs in old brownstones, soul food restaurants and Art Deco clubs from its heyday, jazz can be heard throughout the district. It’s in this part of the city’s bones. Everywhere you’ll see jazz junkies nodding their heads in slow rhythmic agreement to the unhurried blues thump, because this is also where you’ll hear fresh talent destined for greatness.

Harlem is also where NYC’s provocatively potent hip-hop poets can be found teaching empowering life lessons. As a cultural phenomenon, hip-hop emerged from this neighbourhood and the Bronx in the 1970s. Around 125th Street, names like DJs Red Alert and Hollywood, Spoonie Gee and, of course, Kurtis Blow forged this new type of music from elements of other genres, playing two copies of the same record on different turntables while rapping over the beats.

Today the lyrical skills and heart-thumping rhythms of hip-hop are everywhere. It has taken the world by storm and become a cultural staple on every continent – in the United Arab Emirates, for example, brothers Salem and Abdullah Dahman, known as Illmiyah and Arableak (and collectively as Desert Heat), have given hip-hop an Arabic and Muslim sensibility.

If all you associate with hip-hop is the pimped-out cars and voluptuous women pushed by music videos, be prepared to experience the real deal on Harlem’s streets.

At a block party I meet MF Grimm. He raps about the first time he picked up a microphone as a kid, as well as the day he lost the use of his legs to gang violence. From a wheelchair, he tells of his incarceration, the rediscovery of his former self and his rise to the top of his game as a hip-hop grandmaster. His lyrics tell a gritty tale of righteous redemption. They leave no question unanswered and no apologies are made.

A visit to Harlem is a sensory experience – a vibrant fusion of music, a noisy explosion of sounds. It’s chaotic, intoxicating, raw, in your face and utterly exciting. And a completely different Manhattan scene to the one so often portrayed.

Like a Local in London’s Shoreditch

There’s no point following a guidebook. Sure, a book might point you towards the area, but it’s easy to be distracted from the gems by ultimately unfulfilling sights and bars full of out-of-towners (particularly on a Saturday night). For those of us who live here, Shoreditch encapsulates London’s multifaceted soul, from its gritty urban zones overflowing with creativity to the city’s answer to Silicon Valley.

The area is home to the UK’s first cat cafe, Lady Dinah’s Cat Emporium, as well as a mess of bicycle shops, restaurants, markets, canals, parks and pubs. It’s a hub for art and creativity nestled close to Liverpool Street, the stiff-upper-lipped professional centre of London.

Sewing clothes at Sunday UpMarket’s Bobbie & Lola stall.
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Black Cab Coffee Co serves freshly roasted espresso and cupcakes.
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Take Beigel Bake, for example. Sitting at the top of Brick Lane, this dingy, crowded shop, complete with pock-marked linoleum and incredibly rude staff, serves the very best bagels in London 24 hours a day. The salt beef bagel, dripping with mustard, is a meal in itself. Tender slabs of beef are haphazardly slapped within a sweet, warm bun. Nestled in its brown paper bag, it is the perfect ambulatory meal for this crammed thoroughfare. At Brick Lane Market itself, open between 9am and 5pm each Sunday, you’ll find fresh fruit, broken chairs, vaguely disturbing paintings and endless ephemera alongside the shops and restaurants (which are also open during the week). It’s also the home of vintage clothing in London, but you might find yourself searching all day for a gem. Instead, head to a couple of carefully curated options.

In the basement of the Old Truman Brewery you’ll find Sunday UpMarket. Racks of unique if occasionally musty items tussle for attention beside newer accessories. The price tags on the bags, fur coats and velvet dresses here may be slightly higher than out on the street, but you’re also far more likely to find something you can’t leave behind.

For those who can’t abide all that pre-owned stuff, there’s Backyard Market, just opposite. New designers – some stocked in stores like Anthropologie and Urban Outfitters, others who’ve only been selling their wares for a couple of weeks – line the covered, yet airy space. At Backyard you can also get a haircut, buy prints direct from artists and find jewellery you can be guaranteed won’t be seen on anyone else.

You could find a treasure at Brick Lane Market.
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When you need reviving try Black Cab Coffee Co, where owners Graham Buck and Emmy Osman serve their own blend of South American beans from the back of a quintessential London taxi. The silky, almost honey-scented roast goes perfectly with the tiramisu cupcakes made by Graham’s mum.

It may seem odd to suggest, but one of the best restaurants in an area lauded for Indian food does, in fact, serve classic dishes from across the Channel. Chez Elles Bistroquet, towards the end of Brick Lane, offers beautifully simple cuisine in an over-the-top, flag-flyingly proud French cafe. The staff and clientele of Chez Elles all speak French and will assume you do too. Pick up a gossip magazine, sip an espresso and eyeball your chic neighbours. It’s certainly cheaper – and closer – than a trip to Paris.

Once you’re buzzing on all of the coffee and cake consumed during the day, move on to Shoreditch’s legendary night-life. Close to Old Street there is a plethora of bars and clubs to while away the night, but for something special try Happiness Forgets. Located in a basement, it’s tiny – really tiny – but don’t be dissuaded. The stunning cocktails are made by experienced barkeeps who may not look kindly upon an order of vodka and coke. After all, the bar’s slogan is ‘Great cocktails, no wallies’.

For great beer there’s only one choice: BrewDog. The independent Scottish brewery, founded in 2007 and with bars spreading around the world, offers a staggering array of bevvies you’ll have never tried before. Pull up a stool in the vintage-tiled, laid-back space and try pints with names like Punk IPA and 5am Saint (an amber ale and my personal favourite). More comfortable seating can be found downstairs in the New Orleans-inspired UnderDog, a craft beer and cocktail bar behind a secret door. Head here for honky-tonk piano, a ‘voodoo’ corner and dancing past the witching hour surrounded by snakes in jars.

Avoid at all costs the men with menus along Brick Lane who will try to lure you into an Indian restaurant with promises of mates’ rates or free booze. Invariably, these places put too much sugar and too little seasoning in their food. If you’re going for an Indian, you’re going to Dishoom. I’ll confess, I’ve never been one for biryani and butter chicken, but Dishoom is a revelation. Everything on the menu, from chilli cheese on toast (a Bombay classic, apparently) to the mind-blowingly delicious masala prawns, served with a pomegranate, tomato, mint and tamarind salad, bursts with elegance, simplicity and freshness. Eat it all with your fingers, just like a local.

Glow in the Dark at Taiwan’s Lantern Festival

Toni Basil’s 1980s hit song ‘Mickey’ blares out across a chilly night sky, and thousands of people crammed into the arena are treated to a pom-pom–shaking display by girls dressed as American cheerleaders and backed by two dozen performers wearing what may (or may not) be oversized Pokemon costumes. Welcome to the resolutely kitsch high point of the annual Taiwan Lantern Festival, an event where ancient eastern custom meets modern Asia in a collision of traditions and a mash-up of religion and technology. Oh, and there are lots and lots of lanterns.

In a world where many countries seem basically the same, Taiwan’s idiosyncratic touches and eccentric quirks make for a refreshing change. A 36,000 square kilometre country of super-fast trains and even faster drivers, of red-toothed betel-nut chewers and passionate-yet-confusing politics, its island status extends beyond the geographical.

It feels a bit like mainland China, a bit like Japan, and in parts like Korea, but in the end it’s definitely the island of Taiwan – officially the Republic of China – where it’s perfectly natural for ‘cheerleaders’ to go berserk to ‘Mickey’ at an ostensibly traditional event and for indigenous performers to strut in canvas loincloths to a techno beat.

The festival takes place in the middle of February each year, beginning on the 15th day of the first lunar month on the Chinese calendar to celebrate New Year. Not to be confused with Pingxi Sky Lantern Festival held in a small village east of Taipei, the official Taiwan Lantern Festival is a 10-day bonanza of tradition, lanterns, lights, performances and sensational Taiwanese street food markets. It has been held as a designated event in a different Taiwanese city or county each year since 1990 – a moveable feast, as it were, with 2014’s event taking place in the central county of Nantou, close to the island’s third-largest city, Taichung.

Night sky is illuminated by arrangements of light.
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Creatures of the night.
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And so it comes to pass that we arrive at Taipei airport at 4am and are promptly whisked two hours south to our hotel in Taichung. With a few hours to kill before heading to the festival, we gratefully accept the chance to freshen up in our disconcertingly high hotel. I breathe deeply, try not to look out the window and, after a shower and a nap, am ready to take the one-hour trip towards the main festival site.

Deposited by a van in a nondescript field, we are ushered aboard a packed bus that takes us to an area where there is clearly something happening. We alight and, as a group of five, work hard to both stick together and go with the human flow in what we presume is the correct direction. We turn a corner and it’s clear that it is – heading up the hill is a boulevard of lighting display dreams. As far as we can see, the road ahead is festooned with lanterns and lights and bulbs and baubles. There’s little doubt the organisers know their way around a light show and, as we head to the main arena, where the performance is due to start at 6pm, it’s clear they’ve gone all-out in their efforts.

Large zones are designated as lantern displays and the inventiveness, colour and quirky humour on display is a treat. These aren’t lanterns like your grandma hung on the veranda at the holiday house. They’re intricate affairs, depicting everything from traditional scenes to the characters from popular Hollywood movies.

We continue onward, but before we get to the arena a detour is necessary. It’s one of the truisms of Taiwanese life that there will always be a street food market somewhere close to any gathering and the Lantern Festival doesn’t disappoint. Off to our left there’s a long lane of stalls offering everything from the sublime – dazzlingly fresh corncobs with sweet melted butter – to the near ridiculous (for my taste buds, anyway). I eschew stinky deep-fried tofu in goose blood for the corncob and some fried potato cakes, the memory of which I’ll find myself salivating over for days afterwards.

This huge horse is the centrepiece of opening night.
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Appetite sated, it’s on to the main event. We ascend the road towards the arena and take our seats in an open grandstand overlooking the festivities. At ground level, various troupes gather in marshalling areas ready to take the stage. These include our ‘Mickey’ cheerleaders, the Pokemons, a large group of men in fetching yellow pyjama-like outfits and numerous indigenous Taiwanese performers. (Visitors to Taiwan are often surprised at the rich aboriginal traditions that exist on the island, and their recognition in wider society and incorporation into events such as this is a heartening indication of respect.)

In the distance a massive structure in the shape of a rearing horse draws my eye and it’s explained to me that this is the festival’s pièce de résistance – this, after all, is the Year of the Horse. Some of the indigenous musicians then take to the stage. A dozen muscular men pounding massive timpani-like drums are accompanied by a thumping electronic soundtrack, which one suspects may not be wholly traditional.

With the crowd now building to capacity, I take a walk to ground level. Down here, it occurs to me the atmosphere is a bit like a night at the Big Day Out, just with less sweat, more dancers, more lights and a louder sound system. It’s then the opening strains of ‘Mickey’ are blasted out and, as the cheerleaders charge the stage and go bananas, I enter the realm of the surreal. Incense burns nearby, an earnest group of unsmiling youngsters files past holding signs reading ‘No smoking please’, dozens of strobe lights flash, the whole venue shakes to the throbbing beat and the heady aroma of stinky tofu reaches me from somewhere unseen.

An alley of fruity delights.
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It soon becomes apparent all this is leading up to the point when the giant lantern horse, which stands 25 metres high, is illuminated. The word around the venue is that the Vice President of Taiwan, Mr Wu Den-yih, is going to be the person who presses the button on this traditional symbol of good luck and prosperity. Eventually a countdown begins and, sure enough, the VP flicks the switch. The massive horse lights from within, fireworks fire and choreographed lasers and music blast across the now cold and dark sky.

Members of the crowd – all 30,000 of them seem to be watching the event via the screen of their mobile phone – cheer in a non-demonstrative Taiwanese way. The horse, which organisers say features state-of-the-art digital triggers, contains 200,000 LED light bulbs and weighs 30 tonnes, is a thrilling sight in the night air, deserving of its place as opening night’s centrepiece.

This searing display lasts for around an hour, the crowd transfixed and unmoving. Then, finally, there’s a climactic burst of lights, lasers and fireworks and, literally with a bang, it’s over.

People immediately begin to disperse; we’re shivering from what we’re told is a typical Taiwanese cold front that has come through during the course of the evening. It’s definitely time to go, so we wind our way through the throng, our over-stimulated minds abuzz from the show. As we head out of the arena, I spot one of the cheerleaders happily posing for photographs with thrilled punters. I consider telling her that the performance was “oh so fine, oh so fine, it blew my mind”, but I don’t. Instead we happily wander off to find our bus and head back to our hotel after a night immersed in Taiwanese festival life.

Like a Local in Cape Town, South Africa

With almost every corner offering gluten-free pizzas and boutique-roasted soy lattes next to Chinese R5 stores and sushi take-away spots, Sea Point can only be described as a melting pot. This vibrant seaside suburb of Cape Town, the 2014 World Design Capital, seldom gives residents a reason to leave since we have everything we need right here, in a neat nucleus I like to call home.

It is also one of the best areas in Cape Town in terms of weather – a large mountain protects us from most of the dreadful south-easter winds that rapidly clear bikini-clad bodies from Camps Bay Beach around the corner. It is also a haven for cyclists, runners and outdoor enthusiasts because of the beautiful promenade running the length of the suburb.

I stay on Regent Road, a fork off Main Road, running parallel to Beach Road and the promenade. I’m one block up from the beach and Queens surf spot, where the likes of Jordy Smith have tackled waves dangerously close to jagged rocks and forests of wine-red floating kelp. That’s just one of the many sights to enjoy during a walk or run on the promenade.

My husband and I often hire bicycles from a spot near the landmark Sea Point Swimming Pool and cycle from our apartment building to the V&A Waterfront taking in our gorgeous and amusing surroundings.

Bicycles for hire.
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Regent Road at dusk.
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Bleached-haired skateboarders weave their way through Jewish grannies walking poodles in prams, while shirtless muscle maniacs do pull-ups at the public outdoor gym and lovers picnic under trees that grow away from the sea, towards the mountain.

I love watching paragliders land after soaring above our towering apartment blocks, envying the views they must have, but too nervous to try it for myself.

Stand-up paddle boarders and kayakers glide by on the sea while tuksies (our taxi tuktuks) buzz around Beach Road picking up and dropping off German tourists, Scandinavian models and locals like me when I’ve had one too many toots.

Further down the promenade we have putt-putt courses, ice-cream shops, cafes spilling out onto streets and South Africa’s oldest lighthouse, to whose foghorn no one ever becomes acclimatised.

It’s a steep one-hour hike to the top of Lion’s Head from Signal Hill. Image: Jeffrey Barbee
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I’ve lived here for five years now and the landscape is an ever-changing collection of restaurants, bars, coffee shops and delis. Some stalwarts have survived the test of time: Winchester Mansions, a boutique hotel in an old Cape Dutch-style building, famous for its lengthy Sunday brunches with live jazz; and La Perla restaurant, whose penguin-esque waiters have served the likes of Elvis Presley (or so they say).

La Boheme Wine Bar & Bistro, with more than 60 wines by the glass and a pork belly so drool-inducingly juicy it’s hard to stay away, is a regular hangout, and has been ever since I moved here. The same owners opened a craft beer and burger bar a few metres down the road called Engruna Eatery, offering a good variety of local boutique bevvies. They serve great pizza too, but if it’s a slice you want, Ristorante Posticino is the authentic Italian gem of the area. For French-inspired fine dining, chef Henry Vigar’s La Mouette has a courtyard for summer luncheons, fireplaces for cosy, wintery dinners and monthly tasting menus that are as affordable as they are fantastic.

The Duchess of Wisbeach, named after the road on which it is situated, has a quirky bar and a mussel pot to die for. It’s also the hangout of local architects, designers and creatives and a great spot to grab a glass of wine after work and get an eye-candy fix.

A view of the Sea Point swimming pool.
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The bar at the Duchess of Wisbeach.
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With all the regular wining and dining that goes on, I’ve developed a bit of a coffee addiction, and now can’t start the next day without a good cuppa. Luckily for me, a new coffee roastery and eatery called Bootlegger Coffee Company opened in December where the baristas make great flat whites. I have another faithful spot called Mischu. It brews a signature blend that earned the title ‘best cappuccino in Cape Town’, and only its grande lattes can bring me back from the dead after a late night. Another new addition to Regent Road is Knead Bakery, a hot breakfast spot and great place to pick up steaming, fresh kitke (traditional Jewish bread rolls), gluten-free bread and croissants. These go down amazingly with some smoked snoek (pike) pâté from the new Luckyfish & Chips takeaway across the road. Make a picnic out of it and head to the grass lawns next to the promenade to enjoy the sunset and, if the moon is full, watch as Lion’s Head comes alight like a Christmas tree at night, thanks to all the hikers climbing up Table Mountain’s little brother.

Sea Point is my bustling little haven that connects me to the greater creative city of Cape Town, and between the beach, the food and the vibrancy of life, there’s no place I’d rather be.

A River Runs Through It

It’s Friday afternoon and I’m itching to get on the road. From Cape Town it’s about a two-and-a-half-hour drive – three, if there’s traffic – and I just want to leave. The car is packed to the brim with doonas, eskies, drums, fishing rods, wine and towels. Being a pedant, I go over my checklist one more time. “Just relax,” says my husband Tim. “If we’ve forgotten something we can always borrow it.” He’s an ultra-mellow surfer dude, hence my need to overcompensate on the organising front. “We need to stop at Riviersonderend to get ice,” I say. It’s the last town before the dirt road turn-off to Up The Creek.

This will be my sixth Up The Creek and, for so many reasons, it’s my favourite of all the South African music festivals on the calendar. Tickets are limited to about 3000 people, but the quality of music is as good as you’ll find anywhere in the country. Anyone who’s done their share of multi-day camping festivals will also appreciate that here there are toilets, proper toilets. OK, there are portaloos too, but they can be avoided.

At the entrance, we’re welcomed by Christina Rovere. As the chief hands-on admin-organising accommodation-sorting festival helper, she’s a woman you want to know. “I see you are glamping this year,” she says, spotting the two bands on my arm. A couple of sweaty, dusty men greet us with wheelbarrows ready to carry our gear to the tent that’s been set up by Heartbreak Motel – it’s only 30 metres away, but we let them. After all, we are camping in style this year. Well, as stylish as mattresses in a large tent with a complimentary bottle  of Old Brown Sherry and two tin mugs can be.

One of South Africa’s best blues harpists, Dave Ferguson, jams with friends.
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Escaping the heat on a tented li-lo.
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Not long after setting off to find some friends – first-timers camping in the pleb section – I spy a white-bearded, wild-eyed man sporting a floral hat that looks as though it’s been in a dress-up box since the 1980s. It’s Anthony Bumstead, one of the organisers of this middle-of-nowhere gathering of licorice allsorts folk. He’s shouting orders at the sound guys in preparation for the night’s gigs. The first Up The Creek, held in 1990, was really just an awesome birthday party thrown for Bumstead by his pal Ann Sowden. The event grew, he went off to pursue other dreams and passions, but got involved again six years ago and now makes most of the musical decisions.

“The first thing we have to do,” I say to the first timers when I finally locate them, “is go look at the river.” Water bottles drained of H2O and refilled with gin, tonic and slices of lemon – we are nothing if not civilised – we head down to the water’s edge. The daytime River Stage is one of Up The Creek’s USPs. The bands play on shore while revellers on li-los, tyre tubes and giant blow-up animals kick back and watch the action. Last year the waterline was so low the stage was set up on a sand bank in the middle of the river, with everyone floating around it. This year is going to be quite different – we’ve had a lot of unexpected rain and the river is in full flow, meaning the stage has been shifted back to the grassy bank. The sky starts turning pale pink and we decide the river can wait till tomorrow – it’s time to hit the bar.

“What’s with all the blue drinks?” asks one of the newbies. They’re called Titanics and have been the festival cocktail for as many years as anyone can remember. I can’t really say what’s in one – vodka (or perhaps it’s gin), triple sec, blue curaçao and lemonade probably, plus whatever other alcohol is left over by Sunday, all served in half-litre plastic mugs. We order three and head to the post-sunset main stage.

Up The Creek is not really a platform for mainstream pop acts. Rather, you’ll discover the best rock bands, shredding blues guitarists, African drummers, skinny-jean punks and a mix of alternative, experimental and folk music. Most are local acts, but those who aren’t have some kind of link to South Africa.

Up The Creekers wallow in the Breede River while Beach Party perform on the river stage.
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After years of trial and error, we’ve developed a set of rules for festival survival. Never go too big on the first night. No man gets left behind. Always pack antacids. With this mantra running through my soon-to-meet-iceberg Titanic’d brain, I head to bed. Tomorrow is going to be a long,  hot day, and I want to be ready for it.

There should definitely be a rule about endless queues at coffee stations at 8.30am during a festival. As I hold a spot in one, Tim goes in search of another. Some 20 minutes later he returns with two steaming espressos. At this point I’m so close to the front, I order a second round – the obliging barista taking my BYO soy milk to make a cappuccino.

Even this early things are heating up, so we slather ourselves in sunscreen, don our cossies, blow up the tubes and head to the only place offering relief from the heat – the river. Almost immediately I lose Tim in the crowds of swimmers and blown-up dinosaurs, giraffes and sharks. The Nomadic Orchestra fires up jazzy brass instruments while I test the water’s depth. Passers-by offer sips of beer and the MC announces the winners of the best floating bar competition. A couple of hours later – you lose track of time here – I finally locate Tim, who informs me grumpily that he left his fishing tackle behind. I sympathise for a minute, but have other priorities – two more Creek virgins are arriving from Cape Town and they need a proper welcome. I fetch the coldest drink I have – a bottle of tequila that has been buried in ice since our arrival.

”You made it!” I say, jumping with joy and pouring shots down their throats. Wandering aimlessly, we meet guys who’ve set up a tight rope between two trees and are attempting to walk across. On another stage, local comedians are cracking jokes while sarong-clad girls doze on picnic blankets. As attractive as these distractions seem, we decide to seek shade and replenish drinks before heading back down to the river for an afternoon swim.

Watermelons: first a meal, then a hat.
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Cape Town band Grassy Spark plays to the crowd.
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As evening draws near, it’s time to regroup in front of the main stage. The energy is contagious – everywhere you look people are singing, jumping, laughing and dancing. The lead singer from world-music band Hot Water sets his guitar on fire and the crowd goes wild. School friends I haven’t seen in years appear in front of me and we down shots from Coke bottle caps. The rest of the night turns into a blur of hugs, high-fives and drunken conversations. This Titanic is going down.

Sunday morning arrives and something stronger than a coffee is necessary. My aching head will only be saved by one thing: a plunge into the river. Well, that, two aspirin, a bacon-and-egg sandwich and a swig of free sherry. I rally the troops and we head down to the water for a lazy li-lo drift before the Sunday jam session, also known as the Church Service.

Musicians from all the bands get together, swapping in and out like tag teams and jamming some innovative and occasionally downright radical improvisational tunes. This is my favourite part of the festival, but it’s also bittersweet – the end is near. I dance in my swimmers with my inflatable tube around my hips as pack-up time edges ever closer. I attempt a game of hide-and-seek with Tim, making excuses for my constant disappearances to say goodbye to one person or the other until he looks at me sympathetically and says, “Baby, there’s always next year.”

Like a Local in Belgrade’s Savamala

Street artist Branko Tešević. Image: Nick Johns-Wickberg
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It takes a while to find your bearings in the noodle soup of Savamala, Belgrade’s enigmatic waterfront district. Streets wind up and down hills and along the curves of the Sava River, crossing each other at random before snaking off in altogether different directions. A route that promised to take you to the city centre might suddenly change its mind, leaving you back at the river and facing another steep, confusing ascent. Even more unnerving are the street signs in Cyrillic script: harsh, heavy characters that defy decryption by unfamiliar eyes.

Like many of Belgrade’s residents, I’m an adopted local. When I was three, my parents and I escaped a besieged Sarajevo and relocated to Zlatibor, a pretty town in southern Serbia where the conflict seemed a world away. At the age of 18, I left those rolling hills for the big smoke and quickly found myself immersed in Savamala’s street-art scene. In the seven years since, I’ve seen a huge transformation, as the area, once considered the ugly junkyard by the train station, has become Belgrade’s vibrant artistic hub.

Savamala is just a few minutes from Republic Square, the true centre of the city. Start at the horse statue – Belgrade’s best-known meeting place – and head up Knez Mihailova, the posh main drag that leads to Kalemegdan Fortress. Before you reach the imposing castle, deviate into one of the many alleys to the left, weave through the bustling Zeleni Venac market and head towards Brankov Bridge. There’s a staircase leading to the heart of Savamala, but while you’re here make sure you duck round the corner to check out the Blu mural, one of the city’s most famous graffiti works. It’s probably a beautiful metaphor for how corporate society is destroying the earth. But who knows, maybe it’s just a man with bad teeth eating some broccoli.

Republic Square at dusk. Image: Jorge Láscar / flickr
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Head back to the stairs and descend past Jazz Bašta, a hip little bar tucked away in a courtyard just off the staircase. Known for its sweet cocktails and even sweeter tunes, it’s the perfect hangout for locals who are prepared to pay an extra hundred dinars (about US$1) for some quality drinks and a bit of privacy. Just a few steps down is Gnezdo Organic, one of the city’s few organic restaurants and surely one of its best spots for modern dining. The menu is a refreshing alternative to the typical Serbian fare of meat, meat and more meat, offering vegetarian options like risotto and tagliatelle, as well as a range of liver-cleansing fresh juices. Those struggling to find meat-free options should also check out Radost Fina Kuhinjica, an excellent vegetarian restaurant within a stone’s throw of the fortress.

At the bottom of the staircase is a graffiti tribute to Robin Williams that popped up just days after the late comedian’s passing and gained instant fame online. Next to it is a particularly large mural. Actually, a few friends and I were paid by Converse sneakers to work on it. But please try to see it as art, not advertising.

The eye-catching murals of Mostarska. Image: Nick Johns-Wickberg
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Street art among the ruins. Image: Nick Johns-Wickberg
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The next block contains some Savamala icons. Chief among them is Mikser house, a conceptual art gallery, cafe and bar rolled into one. It’s known as the birthplace of Savamala art culture and is as popular today as it ever was. Just up the road are the twin clubs Mladost and Ludost (‘youth’ and ‘madness’ respectively in Serbian). They’re good for a big night out but are quite pricey and can get very crowded. Those looking for a more chilled-out option should head around the corner to KC grad, which has a spacious but well-hidden beer garden that’s perfect for some arvo brews. While you’re there, pop next door to Španska Kuća, a semi-collapsed building that’s been transformed into an open-air gallery.

Stop for a drink at oh-so-trendy dvorištance, the bar behind the wooden gate on the bend of Braće Krsmanović St. You can come here to rub shoulders with Belgrade’s coolest crowd or you can just drink until the next train passes on the tracks outside (are there ever any trains?). My friends and I like coming to places like this, but at the moment it’s a rare treat; the economy is tough and the government gives practically no funding to artists like us. So most of the time we just hang out in the park with a few beers and good company.

The street just around the corner – Mostarska – is perhaps the most striking in the city, purely for its graffiti. Colourful wall-to-wall art on either side gives you the feeling you’re walking through a real-life comic book. Actually it’s very recent; during the Mikser Festival in June last year, artists transformed the bland street into something memorable. Now the once-empty walls seem almost alive with astronauts, acid-trip brain goblins and swarms of cats.

The chilled-out beer garden at KC Grad. Image: Luka Knezevic – Strika
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Sleek design at Mikser House. Image: Supplied
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Unfortunately, nowadays in Savamala there’s an elephant in the room. Actually, it flaps in the breeze above you; a row of big blue flags on which is written ‘Belgrade Waterfront’. These flags signify the Serbian government’s deal with a property developer to transform Savamala into an upmarket residential zone over the next decade. For artists like us, it stinks. Not long ago Savamala was a ruined area, so we came here and transformed it into what it is today. Now that it’s back on the map, the government sees the potential for profit and has stepped in to make a quick buck. They will move us from the place we made our own and, if they get their way, replace our art with soulless buildings. But if and when the time comes, we’ll go somewhere else and our expression will not be muted.

Nobody knows what Savamala will be like in 10 years’ time. That’s why you should come here now, to experience the heart and soul of one of Europe’s most interesting cities while it’s still in its prime. And if you decide to give a big blue flag a touch-up with some spray paint, well, I wouldn’t blame you.

WHICH LETTER DOES YOUR DESTINATION START WITH?

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