If the idea of cycling roughly 80 kilometres a day through the lush northern countryside of Thailand and Laos sounds like the active holiday of your dreams, we’ve got the excursion for you. The Chiang Mai to Luang Prabang tour with Art of Bicycle Trips is a 14-day two-wheel extravaganza, navigating the paddy fields, rainforests and deep valleys of this diverse region. Plus, cycling gives you the chance to slow down, breath and take in so much more of this incredible countryside.
The route follows the Mekong, Kok, Nam Ou and Nam Pak rivers, with pit stops scheduled at many of the local communities and Buddhist wats. A traditional Mekong riverboat cruise provides safe passage to Laos, giving you much-needed respite from the (seemingly) endless pedalling, plus a glimpse into this particularly remote section of the famous river. You’ll also get to visit some of the least-touristed spots of Laos, like Muang Khua, where life slows right down.
Tucked deep in the lush forest of Tsuma on the Shimane Island of Dogojima, you’ll discover the Dangyo Waterfall or, as the locals call it, Dangyo-no-taki. Flowing off the rocky cliff faces are two sacred falls: Odaki to the right is considered ‘male’ and Medaki to the left is the ‘female’. Sumo wrestlers, as well as the owners of bulls who compete in ushi-zumo (bull sumo), often perform purification rituals at the waterfall before a competition.
Dangyo Shrine sits behind the waterfalls, curtained by a cloud of mist. At the base of the falls you’ll find a stairway that curls behind them and leads to the shrine entrance. Here there’s a cliff that is the perfect place to view the tranquil surrounds, soundtracked by roaring water. It’s the embodiment of Japanese Shinto spirituality at its most pure.
This part of the country is virtually unaffected by the environmental impacts of man, and the spring water that flows through the mountains is so clean you can drink it. As a way to keep the site pristine, access to the waterfall is only for the ambitious few who are willing to make the journey there. Public transport doesn’t reach the site, but it is accessible by foot, bike or car. While it isn’t particularly easy to reach, the reward of experiencing Dangyo-no-taki far outweighs the work of getting there.
As part of the luxurious Sri Panwa Phuket, the sky-high Baba Nest is one of those only-exists-on-social-media bars that are more exclusive than an invite to Megs and Harry’s wedding. And when you enter the poolside bar located on the rooftop it’s easy to understand why – with limited space on the island-like platform, bookings are a must for everyone, including hotel guests.
Baba Nest’s 360-degree views of the sparkling Andaman Sea and Phuket’s southeastern peninsula are best enjoyed from the comfort of your giant fluffy floor pillow. That’s right, chairs aren’t a thing here. For added drama, the newly tiled space is surrounded by an epic wrap-around infinity pool, which makes for great photos (seriously, it’s impossible to get a bad shot of Baba Nest). Open from 5pm to 9pm daily, once you’ve enjoyed happy hour here prepare for all other sunset sips to feel a little less special.
Perched on a cliff top on Sri Lanka’s south coast, Anantara Peace Haven Tangalle lives up to its name. On arrival, two infinity pools framed by palm trees overlook the ocean. Take in tailored spa treatments with the sixth-gen Ayurvedic healer, and try out the three restaurants – there’s even a treehouse from where you can choose the best of a local fisherman’s daily bounty and have it prepared by the chefs.
Looking for active distractions? Climb to the top of the 2000-year-old Buddhist temple and monastery Mulkirigala. When you return, dive straight into your villa’s private plunge pool, while the resort’s cheeky monkeys bound overhead. If you’re going to embrace the wellness trend, it may as well be in paradise.
If your dream holiday involves being washed up on a white beach with little else other than a thatched shelter, this is the destination for you. From Lubuan Bajo, a daily island shuttle will transport you to this tropical isle. On the beach are 10 bunk-style huts – at ground level are day beds, up the ladder is a mattress protected by a mosquito net.
While the sun’s out, spend your time snorkelling, canoeing or hanging out at the beach club where there’s table tennis, a selection of board games and a communal atmosphere. Some folks come over just for the day, but when they head off in the afternoon you’ll be left to enjoy the solitude and sunset. If you dream of leaving the world behind and sleeping to the sound of lapping waves, get to Le Pirate Island now!
Located near the border of Myanmar, Erawan National Park plays host to
a range of natural attractions. There’s a handful of caves, including Ta Duang Cave, which features examples of ancient rock art, and wildlife including elephants and deer. But most people who visit this part of western Thailand come for Erawan Waterfall, with its seven tiers and incredible emerald-hued pools. (Erawan, if you were wondering, is the three-headed white elephant of Hindu mythology the falls are said to resemble.)
Set deep in the forest, the seven different levels are accessed by an ever-steeper path. The rewards are excellent though, with several of the pools home to schools of fish. The best time to visit is early in the morning – it’s a popular spot for tour groups and the pools become more muddy than miraculous when lots of people get in to swim – and during or just after rainy season (May to October).
Swerving in from the Timor Sea, our frothy wake billows behind us like a wedding veil caught in the wind. Leaving the ocean behind, our steel runabout breaches the coastline, plunging inland up an unnamed creek. We slalom through its curves as the surrounding rocks grow in stature and mangroves encroach from either side, funnelling us into the ever-narrowing gorge. When we can go no further, guide Bruce Maycock throttles back. We drift – embraced by the Kimberley.
Ochre sandstone pillars pierce the cerulean sky. Green mangroves crowd the tinnie. Saltwater crocodiles skulk in the translucent jade water. It’s enveloping, powerful, primordial. Bruce watches our reactions, a grin lighting up his sun-weathered face as we soak up the grandeur of this prehistoric landscape. He admits this unnamed creek is one of his favourites, and he calls it Jungle Creek.
Like a mate showing off his hometown, Bruce is in his element. This is his backyard, literally, as when he’s not guiding for luxury Berkeley River Lodge, Bruce retreats to his open-air camp up a similar creek, in the northeast Kimberley wilderness. He’s been camping out here since long before the lodge was built, between seasons working for a diamond exploration company. It’s a hermitic bushman image that’s hard to reconcile with his friendly, personable demeanour.
Berkeley River Lodge makes the most of its remote location in Western Australia’s Joseph Bonaparte Gulf, offering guests a range of excursions from comfortable river cruises and helicopter jaunts to fishing trips and guided hikes. We’ve struck it lucky – wind and tide have enabled a full-day coastal excursion west of the lodge, an occurrence that only comes around about once a month.
From Jungle Creek we head to Osprey Bay. Multiple tracks between beach and lagoon warn of saltwater crocodiles as we clamber over boulders to a rock overhang adorned with Indigenous art. Discovered by Bruce in 2001, the well-preserved images include hand stencils, Gwion Gwion-like stick figures, a Wanjina-style spirit being, a detailed dilly bag and an enormous dugong. It’s both thrilling and humbling to be one of so few people to see these still-vibrant paintings (no cruise ships stop here), but sad to hear people from the various Aboriginal clans of the Kimberley now rarely visit this isolated region.
Bruce recounts watching a crocodile emerge from the sea with a dugong in its mouth before devouring it in a bloody mess on the beach. We look furtively around and dash back to the boat.
Wallabies, camouflaged on the rock ledges, watch as we tie up to mangroves for a spot of fishing while crocs float like logs behind us. In quick succession we catch and release a couple of cod and mangrove jack, lose some bait to a reef shark and mourn the loss of a legal-sized barramundi.
Resembling an arty driftwood sculpture, an osprey nest balances precariously atop a rock at Atlantis Bay. Snake-necked darters air outstretched wings like feathered statues and a white-bellied sea eagle drifts overhead. We pull up to a rock ledge for lunch before a hot and sweaty hike up the creek bed to a series of spectacular waterholes.
Pandanus sprouts between rocks the colour of molten gold. Water lilies garnish the gin-clear water. Rainbow bee-eaters dart between us snatching water beetles as we swim cocooned by the ancient escarpment in a croc-free pool. Even losing my waterproof camera can’t dampen my spirits. Miraculously, fellow guests who helicopter to the rock pool 48 hours later find it underwater – undamaged and still working.
Bouncing back to the lodge over the late afternoon chop gives a seaward perspective of its remoteness. Perched on the red dirt behind expansive sand dunes, it commands views of both the Berkeley River and Timor Sea, yet its footprint is insignificant in the vastness of East Kimberley.
It’s a similar feeling arriving by air. The one-hour flight from Kununurra travels over a rumpled quilt of jutting ridges and shadowed valleys, snaking rivers and fanning flood plains that abut the sea. The colours – auburn, khaki, cobalt and turquoise – are as intense as an over-saturated digital image. The orange dirt airstrip, like a child’s sugary fruit-strap, is the only hint of the resort.
Built in 2012 on Indigenous-owned land, the lodge is unpretentious, barefoot beach-house chic. It lets the landscape take centre stage. Service is efficient and personable thanks to the philosophy of down-to-earth owners, the Peirson-Jones family, founders of Matso’s Broome Brewery, who camped here during construction. Villas are designed with practicality and the environment in mind. Bamboo floors accommodate dusty feet, louvered windows capture gossamer breezes, open-air bathrooms enable showering with birdsong or bathing beneath the stars. The neutral decor focuses attention on nature’s colours, best viewed from daybeds atop decks that point toward the ocean or river.
It’s a theme echoed in the main lodge, where glass doors are thrown open to the deck. An infinity pool offers a refreshing dip before pre-dinner drinks, when excursion options for the following day are discussed. Degustation dinners feature the likes of barramundi paperbark parcels, Sichuan peppered kangaroo fillet, and slow-roasted, herb-crusted lamb.
While it’s enticing to just chill, revel in the isolation and listen to the birds, this is my first trip to the Kimberley so I grab every opportunity to explore. Within an hour of arriving Bruce has us on a beach drive in a safari-style 4WD, stopping to point out a jabiru, fresh flatback turtle tracks, dingo prints and a selection of Aboriginal tools.
An army of blue soldier crabs scurries across the sand like scattered cat’s-eye marbles and pied oystercatchers prance at the water’s edge as we wade through Second Creek with fishing rods, keeping a wary eye out for crocs. Warned on arrival to stay five metres from the water at all times, we hope our trust in Bruce is not misplaced.
Two deft throws of a net and Bruce catches enough flapping mullet for bait. I reel in an estuary cod and mangrove jack, while others pluck bream and trevally from the water – a barramundi for the chef proves elusive. Back on the beach we picnic under the shade of pandanus trees, eating from beautifully presented bento boxes. On the return drive we spot shovelnose sharks in the shallows and meet Boots, the 2.5 metre-long saltwater croc that resides at the river mouth.
A relaxing cruise on the Berkeley River passes through a rugged gorge of sienna sandstone, its mosaic of fractured crags reflected in the still waters. A boab tree stretches its branches above the scrub in a bay where moon jellyfish congregate to breed. Inky stains dribbling down towering rock faces mark wet season waterfalls. As it’s the end of the dry, the only fall flowing is spring-fed and so insignificant compared to its counterparts that it doesn’t have a name, although it looks impressive to us.
Behind is a rock garden of trickling water, grasses and shady eucalypts that would make Jamie Durie jealous. We cool off in a pond of lily pads sprouting tiny white-frilled flowers.
A natural amphitheatre of 80-metre-high cliffs proves a dramatic backdrop for lunch, the scraps of which are eagerly devoured by waiting fish. The waterfall may not be flowing but a recently collapsed rock face is testament to the unpredictability of this harsh terrain, as noted by Charles Price Conigrave, who named the Berkeley on an expedition in 1911, saying of all the gorge-like ravines in the area, “The Berkeley is infinitely the wildest and most stupendous.”
His expedition from Wyndham also circumnavigated and climbed Mount Casuarina, a flat-topped monolith seen in the distance from the lodge. He left notes on the journey under a rock cairn at the summit, and, thanks to a Truenorth Helicopters tour, I’m standing next to that cairn at sunset, sipping champagne as the Berkeley River gorge below glows shades of orange in the lowering sun.
Conigrave later wrote of the Berkeley, “In the fading light of early evening, we fellows sat at the cliff-top, fascinated by the sight of the silent river away down below. We thought that in far distant days, when we vagabond wanderers will have been completely forgotten, tourists will see the Berkeley Gorge, but the most enthusiastic and impressionable among them will not have, I am sure, quite the delight we had in viewing it for the first time.”
Far from the noise and crowds of Phuket, on the mostly uninhabited island of Koh Phra Thong, is a resort offering an escape from civilisation. Comprised of 28 private residences, Golden Buddha Beach Resort is one of the few accommodation options on this isle, and the only one with exclusive access to a 12-kilometre stretch of unspoilt beach.
Traditional wooden bungalows are scattered throughout the resort grounds, connected by weaving paths that lead to the clubhouse. With a bar, lounge and dining room, it’ll be hard to tear yourself away from this central hub, but when you do yoga, snorkelling, fishing, cooking classes and massages await.
In Sarawak’s jungle, learning to live and survive as the indigenous Penan is a journey back to basics. Taking visitors deep into the heart of the jungle, exploring the national parks and trekking beneath a tangled rainforest canopy to the traditional homes of the Penan tribe, Adventure Alternative offer travellers the opportunity to learn from the indigenous people about their way of life.
You’ll learn to identify medicinal and edible plants, undertake jungle survival skills and craft traditional gifts as well as shower in waterfalls, lighting fires and sleeping in a hammock – you’ll become an expert on how they live and work. Once you’ve completed your time with the Penan, you’ll be expertly equipped to embark on a wetland river safari, take a visit to an orangutan rehabilitation centre or search for the native proboscis monkey and Irrawaddy dolphin.
Standing in front of a gargantuan stage, I’m chiding myself for having forgotten my earplugs – as usual. Heavy bass vibrations surge up through my body, rattling my teeth and propelling me into motion.
I’m surrounded by about 2000 people, some dancing blissfully with their eyes closed, others transfixed on the evening’s entertainment. Jamaican reggae and dancehall superstar Anthony B is up on the stage, belting out his hit song ‘Real Warriors’ as he struts back and forth. He moves to centre stage and pauses, beaming out at the crowd.
“Exercise time,” he announces, with a playful grin. “We call this dancehall aerobics,” he continues, rallying the crowd to follow his lead as he pumps both hands in the air to the beat of the music.
“Hands up! Hands up!” he instructs, as he breaks into a dance variation of a star jump. The crowd cheers him on, although he’s clearly not done.
“Sit on your bicycle seat and pedal, pedal, pedal,” he sings out, prompting the most enthusiastic (or, more likely, inhibition-free) fans to hunch over make-believe cycles as if they are mimes on their own Tour de France.
But this isn’t some sort of mega Zumba class. Anthony B is the headlining act of Goa Sunsplash, India’s largest reggae festival. On one hand, it’s like most other reggae festivals on earth. While there’s plenty of home-grown talent here, the bulk of the performers are international, with the likes of the UK’s Channel One Sound System and Australian beatboxer and bass producer Dub FX on the bill. There are also dance workshops, yoga classes and even panel discussions led by Donisha Prendergast, Bob Marley’s granddaughter.
However, in many ways, Goa Sunsplash is anything but your typical reggae festival. First of all, it’s in Goa, a tiny seaside state known for its mix of sandy beaches and lush jungles superimposed with centuries-old Portuguese forts and churches, vegan cafes and a seemingly endless number of booze shops. Goa is also the birthplace of psychedelic trance, high-BPM electronic music that can run the gamut from uplifting to mind-fucking – basically the antithesis of laidback roots reggae.
Perhaps even more striking is that unlike most music festivals, Sunsplash is neither in a big club nor a big field. Instead, the event is staged at Riva Beach Resort, one of a handful of high-end hotels in the northernmost reaches of Goa, an area otherwise dominated by cheap backpacker guesthouses and roadside stalls selling healing crystals. More curious still is that for the duration of the festival, the resort continues to operate as normal, so people who just happen to have booked a stay at Riva during Sunsplash weekend end up as de facto festival guests.
Yet nobody here seems out of place. Sure, there’s no shortage of usual suspects in attendance. A quick glance into the crowd reveals plenty of dreadlocks, bare feet and Lion of Judah t-shirts, not to mention the occasional awkwardly unaware youngster garbed in a Native American war bonnet. But there are also plenty of day-drinking pensioners among the crowd, along with young families towing toddlers.
Like most events in Goa, the crowd is decidedly global. While it’s clear plenty of people have come from around the world to attend Sunsplash, many are from elsewhere in India, particularly from urban hubs such as Delhi, Mumbai and Hyderabad where reggae in its many forms has a strong and solid fan base.
But this hasn’t always been the case.
When I first moved to India in the mid-noughties, the most reggae you’d hear was ‘No Woman, No Cry’ occasionally blasting over the speakers in a smoky backpacker cafe. The scene began to take off at the end of the 2010s, when bands, DJs and collectives influenced by the sounds of Jamaica began gaining prominence across India. At the forefront of the movement was New Delhi’s Reggae Rajahs, a sound-system crew who, in the course of a few short years, went from throwing low-key reggae and dancehall nights in South Delhi – where I first got acquainted with them – to opening for the likes of Major Lazer and Snoop Dogg. In 2016, the Rajahs took their efforts to the next level, launching Goa Sunsplash as a one-day event headlined by Britain’s General Levy, before extending it to two days the following year.
At one point during this year’s festivities, I find myself drawn to a huge throng of people swarming around a side stage, their howling cheers nearly drowning out the heavy basslines of an upbeat dancehall riddim thumping through the speakers. As I get closer, I realise that the star attraction isn’t the DJ but a dancer, a 20-something Indian woman who’s effortlessly switching from fast-paced footwork to perfectly timed gyrations, known in the dancehall culture as whining, as the crowd cheers her on. Impressed, I pull out my phone and begin livestreaming her performance, too captivated by her talent to notice that an old friend from Delhi, who has been involved in this scene from the beginning, has sidled up to me.
“We definitely wouldn’t have seen this a decade ago,” he shouts over the din. Though my eyes remain on the stage, I can hear an unmistakable note of joy in his voice. I assume he’s talking about her sensual dancing, which, even today, could raise eyebrows in socially conservative India.
I nod then second-guess myself, thinking back on the many nights I spent with him and our little circle of reggae-loving friends, bouncing about on makeshift dancefloors in tiny South Delhi bars. It occurs to me that his comment is not in reference to the dancing, or at least not alone. He’s talking about the entire tableau before us – the three stages, the world-famous performers, the 2500-odd jubilant fans, many of whom have flown halfway around the world to be here.
“Who would have thought?” I concur, realising I’ve been spending so much time capturing photos and videos that I haven’t given myself enough time to simply experience it. I put my phone away. Then we both begin to dance.
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