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PROJECTS Colour Nature Manurewa, New Zealand During the dark days of the Coronavirus pandemic this series echoed Henri Matisse, "There are always flowers for those who want to see them". The images, each taken at the Auckland Botanic Gardens with only natural light, are a microcosm of hope and the future, of growth and life. The collection is a digitisation of beauty, not beauty itself, highlighting the power of a singular image at its most pared back simplicity. Previous Next

Every day, NGOs, charities and other on-the-ground organisations are working to make the world a better place. From environmental protection to economic development to disaster response, NGOs are at the forefront of assisting others in their time of need and helping them become self-sufficient in their own communities. PHOTOJOURNALISM NGOs Global Every day, NGOs, charities and other on-the-ground organisations are working to make the world a better place. From environmental protection to economic development to disaster response, NGOs are at the forefront of assisting others in their time of need and helping them become self-sufficient in their own communities.

Before you pull out the atlas, a word of warning: Patagonia isn’t officially a 'place' as such. Rather it’s the name given to an area spanning southern Argentina and Chile, and everything you have heard about it – barren, windswept, sparse and beautiful – is true. < Back Spires of Patagonia The Press 13 May 2011 Before you pull out the atlas, a word of warning: Patagonia isn’t officially a 'place' as such. Rather it’s the name given to an area spanning southern Argentina and Chile, and everything you have heard about it – barren, windswept, sparse and beautiful – is true. Patagonia is also exceptionally remote, with the remotest of the remote being the small frontier town of El Chalten. A far cry from the wide avenues of Buenos Aires, El Chalten was only established 30 years ago as a base for those seeking out the jagged spires. Complete with roaming dogs, micro-brewery and no ATMs, this was to be the starting point for our Patagonian adventure. To be honest, I didn’t have any great expectations on the glaciers, mountains and lakes nearby; I just assumed they would be similar to our Franz Joseph, Cook and Hawea. How spectacularly wrong I was… Our very first excursion brought home that this was no ordinary part of the world. The majestic Perito Moreno Glacier, a blue-iced mammoth more than 6 stories high and 3kms wide is one of the few advancing glaciers left in the world. It is also one of the most spectacular. We stood on our boat awestruck as it cracked and creaked, piercing the quiet before ice broke off to thunder down into the waters below. Later there were even more opportunities to “ooh” and “ahh” from the myriad of walkway lookouts designed to show off nature’s splendour. While that day was relatively easy the next few would be a little more challenging. Patagonia is a climbers and hikers mecca, and for us this was going to be an active holiday. Eight to nine hours a day walking up to 25kms meant it did help to have a moderate level of fitness. Our first real trek was to see the fabled Cerro Fitz Roy, a mountain that the native Tehuelche thought was an active volcano due to the cloud constantly around it. Located in Argentina’s Parque National Los Glaciares, Fitz Roy is a photographer’s dream that is perhaps only eclipsed by two stunning lakes – the emerald green Laguna Sucia and the reflective blue Laguna de Los Tres. As we stretched back to take in the view, suddenly our feet didn’t seem so sore any more. The next day it was time for a close up look at the quintessential Patagonian peak, Cerro Torre. It was hard to believe that yesterday’s vista could be surpassed, yet three hours later we were standing in front of a glacial lake which had icebergs floating to shore. It was all simply a little too surreal. Our guide explained that we were extremely privileged to have seen the mountain at all. Patagonia is quite rightly known for its changeable weather and more than once did we have to pull out our Gore-Tex jackets before stuffing them back into our packs just as quickly. Chilean Patagonia is a slightly different beast from its Argentinian cousin, with grassy pampas, gushing waterfalls, craggy rocks, pebble lake beaches and of course, mandatory glaciers. At 51° South is the massive Parque Nacional Torres del Paine, a UNESCO World Biosphere Reserve that forms part of the 16,000 square kilometre Southern Patagonian Ice Field. It is about as close to the end of the Earth as you can get. The star of the show is the immense Torres del Paine, a trio of pure granite towers standing over 2800metres tall that dominate this former sheep estancia. Home to two famous walks – the W (of which we took a whole day just to do one of its sides) and the full Circuit – Torres del Paine (pronounced pie-nay) is high on the ‘must do’ list for any serious hiker. It’s well equipped with refugios along the trial which are a welcome respite from battling the 90kmh winds that suddenly change your plans for the day. Just as spectacular as the scenery is the park’s wildlife. We were fortunate enough to spot a group of Andean Condor rising, rising, rising up through the valley floor only to circle above what remained of a puma’s kill. The carnivorous condor has the largest wingspan of any bird in the world, 3 metres, and with its 3km eyesight (yes, that’s 3 kilometres) and endangered species status it is one vulture not to be messed with. Its prey in this case was a young chulengo, the offspring of the llama-like Guanacos who roam freely across the national park. Protected from mankind, the greatest threat to male guanacos are other male guanacos who protect their territory by chasing them to bite their testicles. The star of the show is the immense Torres del Paine, a trio of pure granite towers standing over 2800metres tall Less brutal are the red and grey foxes – small, fast, solitary creatures living in the steppe. Feeding on lizards and rodents, it’s not often you’ll see one in the wild long enough for it to stay still in one place. The bird life was also vastly different. Stopping to fill our water bottles in one of the many glacial streams along the way, the tap-tapity-tap of a native woodpecker earning his lunch brought smiles all round. Even the humble owl – in this case the Pygmie Owl – was no stranger to hunting. We awoke one morning to find one proudly clawing what looked like a decapitated mouse, before he fluttered off to share his breakfast. Having a good base is vital for this part of the world, and for us it was a campsite in the shadow of the Towers of Paine. While the site was basic we got to experience both the local culture and food. Sipping mate through a metal straw from a gourd was a highlight, but nothing compared to the whole lamb slowly barbequed on a metal stake for an entire day. If you’re a vegetarian sometimes it’s a little tough in South America. It wasn’t all bad though – not far from our site was a concession to home comforts in the form of a proper bar and restaurant where they served up lovingly warm Chilean reds to those of us weary from another day. Staggering back at night we took a moment to turn off our headlamps and look up. Layers of stars were stacked one above another; a sky so clear and pure that it was a pity to bid it adios and reluctantly make our way back to civilisation the next day. < Previous Next >

“Li-ber-tat! Li-ber-tat!” The chant was sweeping across the square like a Catalan wave. The crowd ignored the soaring heat to remind the world that their pro-independence leaders were still in exile or jail. “Libertat-del-presos-politics!!” < Back Barcelona Nights New Zealand Herald 13 Oct 2019 “Li-ber-tat! Li-ber-tat!” The chant was sweeping across the square like a Catalan wave. The crowd ignored the soaring heat to remind the world that their pro-independence leaders were still in exile or jail. “Libertat-del-presos-politics!!” But we weren’t here for the politicians; we were waiting for one of city’s most anticipated traditions - the Castellers de Barcelona. Dating back to the 1800s, these human towers originated in southern Spain and have been gleefully adopted by Catalonia. “Do you think we’ll become part of the foundations?!” chuckled my new American crowd-friend. Before I could answer, dozens of mauve-shirted castellers surged forward, pushing us apart. As they jostled into position, the big men lined up in four directions to form a base. Like an organic mass of human endeavour the climbing began. Feet on shoulders, hands on sashes, arms on waists. Squinting up, we could make out a young girl in a red helmet scrambling towards the top. The crowd was told to shush. Plaça de Sant Juame fell silent as we held our collective breath. Then there she was, eight levels up raising her hand at the top of the castell, and the cheering erupted again. This was, after all, the peak of La Mercè. La Mercè is Barcelona’s ‘festival of festivals’, a tribute to the Patron Saint Virgen de La Mercè who is credited with ending a plague of locusts upon the city. What began as a religious observation in the Middle Ages is now a heady mix of street theatre, dance, music and pyrotechnics with over 2,000 performers taking part. I was one of approximately 1.5 million visitors expected over the five-day festival, and being the geek I am I downloaded the app, threw on some walking shoes and off I went. The wide-ranging schedule meant killing time between the afternoon and night activities but luckily I had two Spanish friends to keep me company in the sun-drenched Plaça Reial – Señor Paella and Señorita Cerveza… The crowd was told to shush. Plaça de Sant Juame fell silent as we held our collective breath. Well-rested after a few hours of listening to live music, I left for the next event with some trepidation. The waiter’s words were ringing in my ears: “You are going to wear protection, si?” Walking briskly to the closed-off Via Laietana I could feel the energy rising in the dusky air; the Correfoc de la Mercè was about to begin. Bang, BANG! A gang of silhouetted devils and fire-breathing dragons danced towards us, spouting flames and tossing fireworks. I realised too late why I needed protection, as sparks shot out from the devils’ pitchforks and landed in my hair. Owwww. The smoke, the sparklers and the drums made the fire-run totally addictive and very surreal – somewhat apt in the city of Gaudi. Of course, Gaudi and Barcelona are nearly always mentioned in the same breath. It’s hard to walk the Catalonian cobblestones and not be in awe of his curvy creations. While not officially part of La Mercè, the night experience at Gaudi’s La Pedrera certainly should be. La Padrera is Spanish for ‘the quarry’, which reflects the amount of stone used in building this monumental house that is officially known as Casa Milla. Constructed between 1906-1912, it was Gaudi’s last building before he spent the rest of his life working on La Sagrada Familia (un-fun fact: Gaudi was killed by a tram). The smoke, the sparklers and the drums made the fire-run totally addictive and very surreal. As expected, La Pedrera brings to life Gaudi’s fascination with marrying nature to architecture: an attic shaped as the spine of a whale, pillars based on palm trees, water tanks in the form of snails and balconies that look like seaweed on waves. The non-linear lines and organic shapes continue all the way up to the rooftop terrace where the night illumination begins. In true Gaudi style he didn’t just create chimneys, he created warriors. And it’s on these rooftop warriors that a 20 minute audio-visual show projects the rise and fall of civilisations, the immensity of space and the origins of life itself. Noting that the UNESCO-listed building is now run by Catalunya La Pedrera Foundation, our guide explained that, amazingly, below us still lived three families who have tenancy for life – including an elderly lady and her dog that has its own rooms. Suitably impressed post-show we wandered around the terrace, taking one last glance at La Sagrada Familia’s lit towers as sirens faded off in the distance. It was finally time to return to earth, having enjoyed being at Barcelona’s Mercè. Details Getting there: Fly to Barcelona via Singapore La Mercè festival: Held annually around 24th September, child-friendly and free Other activities: Guadi, paella, shopping, flamenco Visa: No visa is required for New Zealand nationals for stays up to 90 days. Travel tip: Book tickets for all museums and Gaudi buildings well in advance. Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

TRAVEL PROJECTS

TRAVEL Wayang Kulit Yogyakarta, Indonesia Wayang kulit is Indonesia’s centuries-old shadow puppet tradition, dating back to 800AD when puppets were used to worship ancestors. In 2003 UNESCO named wayang kulit as a Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity, and today the shadow puppets are produced on demand for dalang (puppet masters) and collectors who spend tens of thousands of rupiah to expand their collection. Previous Next

I was warned about getting shot in Colombia. The balaclava, reflective sunglasses and combat fatigues in the southern city of Pasto were a giveaway. I should have just run. Instead, I'm hit twice - not with bullets but with white foam shooting out of a canister by a 12-year old boy shouting “Viva Pasto!” < Back Colour in the Streets Get Lost Magazine 6 Apr 2018 I was warned about getting shot in Colombia. The balaclava, reflective sunglasses and combat fatigues in the southern city of Pasto were a giveaway. I should have just run. Instead, I'm hit twice - not with bullets but with white foam shooting out of a canister by a 12-year old boy shouting “Viva Pasto!” That gushing “spssstttttttt” was my intro to El Carnaval de Negros y Blancos (Black and Whites' Carnaval), a five day party held in January that just happens to be the world’s biggest foam fight. The Carnaval is the loudest, longest and messiest festival in southern Colombia, and a real celebration of cultures. To be fair, at the time the trigger is pulled I’m distracted by street vendors yelling, “Some goggles for you, senõr ? A sombrero, cheap?”Now I understand why. Of course, in truehorse-bolted fashion, I purchase a ridiculouslyoversized sombrero and a ‘foam-proof’ poncho to protect myself. Post splatter, I sheepishly make my way back to the hotel. The security-conscious manager, Jaime, is waiting behind a locked door. Letting me in with a chuckle, he looks at me with pity. “You got shot on your first day?! Bienvenido a Colombia! ” After cleaning myself up, I cautiously head towards Plaza del Carnaval, the main square of Pasto and the centrepiece of all things Carnaval. My peripheral vision is working overtime – it seems like every second person is armed with a carioca, an aluminium foam canister, cocked at the ready. Squeezing in next to a family, I proudly introduce myself in halting Spanish, adding “ Viva Pasto!” as if it is some sort of protective cloak. We are jostling among the thousands who have gathered to celebrate La Familia Castañeda – a colourful family who, when they arrived in Pasto in 1929, walked smack-bang into the middle of a horse parade and started randomly waving to the crowd. The Castañeda family became so popular they now have a dedicated parade in their honour. The vibe is electric. We cheer on the performers dressed in 1920s attire as they dance and sing their way past the masses, their vibrant costumes lighting up the parade like the hot Colombian sun. The performance is barely finished before I am hit with foam again, but this time it gets me in the mouth. In an attempt to escape, I hurtle down the main street and find myself at a security checkpoint to a concert, being pat down by a member of the policia. What an entry to Colombia I’ve made. I decide to take it all in my festival-stride and finish the night with a chorizo and a few local Poker pale ales. The next morning Jamie intercepts me as I’m leaving to hit the streets on day four of the Carnaval. “Hey, you got Vaseline?” he whispers. It seems like an oddly personal question. “Huh?” I reply. “Your face,” he says, “the Vaseline, to get grease off.” This is his not-so-subtle way of warning me that it is Dia de Negros (Day of the Blacks). This event marks the day African slaves were freed, and it’s now celebrated with partygoers taking to the streets with black paint smeared across their faces as a sign of respect, symbolising the unity between all ethnicities. My peripheral vision is working overtime – it seems like every second person is armed with a carioca Paint decorates the faces of the masses, and before long I realise I should have taken his advice and packed the Vaseline. My own face gets smudged and I’m greeted back to the hotel with a shake of the head and a smile from Jamie sending a telepathic ‘I told you so’. The pinnacle of the Carnaval is the Grand Parade that falls on Dia de Blancos (The Day of the Whites). This is the cause of all the foam, flour bombs and talcum powder, but before the war starts, a spectacular kaleidoscope of floats takes to the streets. It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The floats are covered in colourful and intricate details, and showers of confetti and streamers rain down as tiers of performers dance atop the four-storey-high structures. Cumbia rhythms blast from massive speakers and mechanical heads roar and bob about to the beat alongside the larger-than-life costumedcharacters who dance the streets lined with an enthusiastic crowd. I feel a hand close around my arm and I’m pulled towards a woman. It’s La Lloronda , the legendary ghost who steals children, and she is not to be denied. Doing my best not to look uncoordinated, we salsa Cali-style, spinning and twirling throughout the parade to the sound of laughter, cheers and applause from my fellow spectators. After five hours the show finally comes to an end. Looking around, there is now more white stuff on the ground than in any episode of Narcos. The foam battles have already started up again so I’m pretty grateful there is only 200 metres between my hotel room and my location. Not close enough, it would seem. The powder hits me square on the ear, and it’s impossible not to grin from that one to the other. “ Arriba Pasto! ” Details Get there: Qantas flies to Santiago, Chile, and then take connecting flights on Latam or Avianca from Santiago to Bogota to Pasto www.qantas.com . It is best to arrange a transfer in advance from the airport to your hotel, which should cost approximately 40,000 Colombian Pesos ($18) for the 45min ride. Wear a seatbelt. Stay there: The Hotel Boutique Casa Lopez is perfectly placed between the Plaza del Carnaval and Plaza de Narino – a more casual fun square. The hotel is built in the Spanish style, with restaurant on site, free wi-fi throughout, friendly staff and a relaxed atmosphere. www.facebook.com/hotelcasalopezpasto or on www.Booking.com . Four nights cost 858,000 Colombian Pesos ($377 Tour there: Your hotel manager can arrange local guides, and it’s probably the best way to go as they know their reputation depends on it. You don’t need a guide to the festival, and best of all it’s free. Just get there early and buy a plastic stool off the vendors. Get Informed: Check out Off2Colombia as starting point www.off2colombia.com . The best site about the Carnaval has detail of what to expect every day and is… only in Spanish. Get the Google Translate extension for Chrome or Safari and check out www.carnavaldepasto.org Get in the Know Pablo Escobar was arrested in Pasto when he was caught smuggling 18 kilos of cocaine into Colombia from Peru in truck tires The local culinary delicacy is Guinea Pig, ‘cuy’, which tends to be available roasted. Mmmmmmm. Pasto was founded by the Spanish conquistador Sebastián de Belalcázar in 1537 as he plundered his way south Road rules are more a ‘guide’ as taxi drivers play chicken with petrol tankers on the mountain roads 8000 feet above sea level Near Pasto is the spectacular Las Lajas Sanctuary, a gothic bridge-church built on the site of an apparition of the Virgin Mary. Original publication: Get Lost Magazine < Previous Next >

It might not have been the largest plane in the world but it certainly was the friendliest. As we disembarked to the hot sticky tarmac, the pilot literally poked his head out of the cockpit to say “bye” to each of us, adding a cheery “Welcome to Gizzy!” < Back A Flying Visit Let's Travel 11 Mar 2011 It might not have been the largest plane in the world but it certainly was the friendliest. As we disembarked to the hot sticky tarmac, the pilot literally poked his head out of the cockpit to say “bye” to each of us, adding a cheery “Welcome to Gizzy!” The city’s known for a lot of things including being first to see the Sun, landing place of Captain Cook, brilliant beaches and Rhythym & Vines – but this weekend was going to start with the isolated, rural, "Boy"-ish East Coast. Tolaga Bay, 45 min north of Gisborne was my first stop. The biggest township on the East Coast happens to have the longest wharf in New Zealand, a stirring sight as waves crash against it at dawn. From there it was down the road – a quick stop at ‘secret’ Anaura Bay where my parents still go to “get away from it all” – before moving on towards the East Cape. Beyond the rumbling logging trucks and idling cows there wasn’t a lot of traffic. You get the feeling that’s the way the locals like it. Tokomaru Bay, Te Puia Springs and Ruatoria all deserved a visit before arriving at one of the most majestic Maori churches in the country – the ornate St Marys in Tikitiki. With tukutuku work and intricate wood carvings, the church is dedicated to the Ngati Porou soldiers who died in World War I. Of course, no trip up the Coast would be complete without venturing to Te Araroa to see the world’s largest Pohutukawa, and the sign politely asking kids not to play on it. Back in Gisborne a few hours later there was only one thing to do under the sun… wine tasting. I thought I’d misheard when, at The Works, a winery located on the wharf in town, they’d suggested “7 tastings for $10”. Out they came as the owner patiently took me through each glass, explaining the origin and various other things that I can no longer remember due to 7 wine tastings. Gisborne has no shortage of fine wine with names such as Milton Estate, Montana, Lindauer, Matawhero, Huntaway and Bushmere Estate all calling the region home. Beyond the rumbling logging trucks and idling cows there wasn’t a lot of traffic. You get the feeling that’s the way the locals like it. Time to walk it off and luckily I’d picked up a Gisborne, A Historic Walk brochure from the Visitor Information Centre beforehand. Marking the landing of the first European on New Zealand shores in October 1769 is the Captain James Cook memorial. The first hongi between Pakeha and Maori took place on a rock just opposite this statue. Further along, another statue, that of Nicholas Young - “Young Nick” – who was the first on board the Endeavour to sight New Zealand and who has the brilliant white cliffs south of the city named after him. Then the beach. Aficionados will argue about which Gisborne beach is better: Waikanae, Midway, Kaiti, Makarori… the fact there are so many to choose from tells you something. White sandy expanse? Check. Room for your huge towel and beach umbrella? Check. Offshore swell? Check. Icecream store with generous double scoops? Check. Yes, the beaches are something else and the locals know it. They teach surf school here. At dusk the city comes into its own. No longer the sleepy town of the 80s, Gisborne has more hotels, bars and clubs than it rightfully should. Whether it be an Irish pub, a waterside wine bar or an upmarket restaurant you won’t be disappointed by either the service or the entertainment. And when the big Kiwi names go on their summer tours guess which town is always on the list? If you just want to take time out though, like I did for my final afternoon there, you can appreciate this pretty city by strolling through Gisborne’s Botanic Gardens. An oasis for lovers to relax and admire one of the rivers flowing through the city, the gardens also house a decent aviary, some noisy ducks, and oh yes, some beautiful plants.48 hours didn’t quite seem long enough though, and I felt a little cheated that I hadn’t dedicated more time to exploring this part of the country. It was hard getting back on the plane to leave, but somehow I knew that even that would be friendly. Details Air New Zealand flies to Gisborne up to 7 times a day from Auckland and 4 times a day from Wellington. www.airnewzealand.co.nz State Highway 35 from Gisborne to Te Araroa on the East Coast is approximately a two hour drive one way. The Works Great value wine tasting 0800 333 114, info@theworks.co.nz, http://theworks.co.nz/ Wines of Gisborne a handy guide and a good starting point to book tickets to the annual wine festival http://www.gisbornewine.co.nz/ Gisborne Visitor Information Centre The first stop for planning your trip http://www.gisbornenz.com Grey Street, Gisborne Ph: 06 868 6139 or email: info@gisbornenz.com Gisborne Surf Report: Webcams, swells, winds, conditions and “stoke ratings” http://www.surf2surf.com/reports/gisborne < Previous Next >

The leader reaches in between the freshly cut, drooping skin and through to the open organ cavity. Twisting his hand with a precision that only comes with age, he pulls out the bloody liver. The baboon dripping in front of him will be dinner, and perhaps breakfast, for the four families gathered under the ledge. < Back The Last Great Hunter Gatherers The Travel Almanac 24 Jan 2024 The leader reaches in between the freshly cut, drooping skin and through to the open organ cavity. Twisting his hand with a precision that only comes with age, he pulls out the bloody liver. The baboon dripping in front of him will be dinner, and perhaps breakfast, for the four families gathered under the ledge. Tossing offal to the scrawny, yapping dogs, he picks up his bow and wipes the arrows clean. They will be used again tomorrow by the only tribe permitted to hunt in the Serengeti: the Hadzabe. Considered to be Africa’s last true hunter-gatherers, the Hadzabe have lived around Tanzania’s Lake Eyasi since the beginning of the Stone Age . Their origins are our origins: they are the closest living relatives of the humans who first left Africa to migrate to the rest of the world. At first glance, one might take in their dusty environment, spiked spears and worn kudu skins and describe their way of life as primitive. While it’s true that the Hadzabe’s traditions have not changed much over the past millennia, it would be a mistake to prejudge them. For in this land of survival, their uncluttered lives are a counterpoint to the West’s preoccupation with peak everything and insta-gratification. As discussion ensues regarding which parts of the primate to carve up, the words selected not from a universal phonetics. Rhythmic clicks come from the back of their mouths as tongues flick in a musical dance. Each ‘djik’ and ‘thock’ of the Hadzabe language literally preserves their culture, for they neither read nor write. Teachings are passed down orally and visually. A daughter watches intently as her mother plucks a bird, the child’s wondrous eyes popping out of an atmosphere of dust. The wet season is yet to arrive here — yet to dull the odour of animal innards and still-damp hides that permeates the air. D ust rides in on a breeze, as transient as the families it lands upon. Every few months t hese subsistence nomads pack up their modest belongings and move to another boma [ rock ledge ] , where food is more plentiful. For in this land of survival, their uncluttered lives are a counterpoint to the West’s preoccupation with peak everything and insta-gratification. Balancing the ecosystem is existential — if there is no prey to catch, the Hadzabe starve. Today’s choice of arrowhead is barbed; tomorrow’s might be tipped with poisonous sap from the desert rose. The hunters wear their prowess with pride, whether with the skin of an antelope draping their torso or a headpiece made from baboon hair. The women are more demurely wrapped in cloth. One young girl is dressed in a cut - out hessian sack. Chasing away the flies, the leader starts hacking at the lifeless baboon. Cutting off long , lean strips, he hands them to the children who eagerly, haphazardly, place them over the open fire. Although the men eat separately from the women and children, the seared meat is shared equally; the Hadzabe’s communal egalitarianism means no one gets more or less than another. Their appreciation is announced with every loud bite and sinewy chew —taste torn into by hungry mouths as today’s catch is savoured. Although there is no formal hierarchy, it falls to the leader, usually the best hunter, to maintain the group’s harmony. If a dispute arises, it is usually resolved by one party apologising. If a Hazda man does not admit fault despite evidence to the contrary, he receives the most personal of punishments —confiscation of his bow, making him “more useless than a woman. ” The alternative, being cast out to the harsh terrain, is too punitive, for even the majestically ugly baobab trees offer little respite from the sun. The wind whips up sand circles in the sky. It is easy to forget that in a few months’ time this will all be a sea of green. Before then, though, the women must look for sustenance, walking for hours in search of nourishment from roots, fruit and berries. On their backs are babies, quietly staring out to the wilderness. Some of the infants have fresh scars on their cheeks — cuts that were made by their parents. When a baby cries too much the wounds are irritated by their tears, and the child learns to stop crying. For many Hadzabe men, their cheek scars are as prominent as the redness of their eyes, a consequence of smoking bushweed and imbibing fermented sorghum —n ot that this makes them any less attractive. Marriage is a common , monogamous union between Had zabe men and women , but should either party wish to walk away, they do just that and then they are “ divorced. ” The leader carefully resheathes his bloody knife. Two starlings flutter low overhead and he immediately looks up, before slowly turning to flash a knowing smile. It looks like tomorrow will be a poisoned-arrow kind of day. Original Publication: The Travel Almanac < Previous Next >

The latest issue of travel + culture magazine SUITCASE features a photo essay of images Guy Needham took at the Carnaval de Blancos y Negros. < Back Carnaval in Suitcase Magazine 8 Dec 2021 The latest issue of travel + culture magazine SUITCASE features a photo essay of images Guy Needham took at the Carnaval de Blancos y Negros. Each January, the 5-day festival of colour, noise and foam is held in the southern Colombian city of Pasto, with showers of confetti raining down on performers atop the four-storey-high floats. You can pick up your copy of SUITCASE from next week. < Previous Next >

My guide turned to me. “I’m lonely,” he said. Oh OK, this is going to be an interesting trip. “No, no, that is my name. My Bantu name is Uliwa which means Lonely. I have no idea why my mother called me that, I have seven brothers and sisters!” And so began a weeklong friendship of Angolan stories and Afropop beats in the cabin of a Hilux. < Back Opening up Angola The Post 23 Jun 2025 My guide turned to me. “I’m lonely,” he said. Oh OK, this is going to be an interesting trip. “No, no, that is my name. My Bantu name is Uliwa which means Lonely. I have no idea why my mother called me that, I have seven brothers and sisters!” And so began a weeklong friendship of Angolan stories and Afropop beats in the cabin of a Hilux. One of the least visited countries in the world, Angola is a former Portuguese colony on the Atlantic coast of south-west Africa. More associated with danger than tourism, the country is now on a mission to change that perception, introducing visa-free entry to 90+ nations (including New Zealand) and opening a second international airport in the capital Luanda. As one wit put it, it doesn’t help having a machete on your flag. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect as the reviews weren’t exactly enticing: “The most expensive, obstructionist, bureaucratic, and most difficult place for travel in Africa.” Part of that is explained by Angola’s recent history. The country has endured massive crop failures, yellow fever outbreaks, failed coups, and a brutal 27-year civil war that became a Cold War proxy: thousands of Cubans and Russians on one side, with the United States and the apartheid-South Africa backing the other. World attention was drawn to Angola in 1997 when Princess Diana wore body armour walking through one of Angola’s minefields. Today, there are still millions of unexploded devices throughout the countryside slowly being de-mined by NGOs. Despite Uliwa being personally affected by the war – he left the country as a child refugee and lost family in the fighting – he was positive about the future of Angola and eager to show it off. “We’re nearly there!” he unconvincingly tried to tell me as we were into our fifth hour of rutty off-roading and dry riverbeds. ‘There’ was the municipality of Oncocua, a village in the remote south western province of Cunene and our home for the next week. We were here to spend time with the indigenous Vatwa, one of the lesser-known tribes who imitate the dress and language of another tribe: the Himba. Upon arrival the chief, Mutjila, invited us to join him under a mupane tree, a shady respite from the punishing 35 degree heat. “The Vatwa”, Mutjila explained in Herero, “were the original inhabitants of this area thousands of years ago. No one really knows where we came from.” Sipping a drink that one of his two wives brought over to him, he continued. “We have crops over there, we have these goats, we live off the land.” A few years ago the Government built houses for them in the village but they soon reverted back to their traditional huts and semi-nomic lifestyle. The most striking thing about the Vatwa are the women, covered in a red paste of ochre clay, animal fats and lotion that makes their skin shine in the unrelenting sun. Young, newly married women wear a three-pronged ekori goatskin on top of their platted dreadlocks. I asked about the beads, shells, anklets and leathers worn by the women. “Oh that’s just personal style,” replied Mutija, as I purchased one of the necklaces from a woman feeding her baby. On the morning of our last day we were farewelled with traditional singing and dancing (‘ Also try to take milk from the goats ’ was a favourite) before tackling the uneven road back to the nearest city, Lubango. A clean, modern, metropolitan centre of one million people, Lubango is considered the most beautiful city in Angola. With its Rio-inspired version of Christo Rei looking down from the hill above it, and a nearby large Hollywood-type sign proclaiming the town’s name, there is no shortage of civic pride. Like much of Angola, the informal market economy is hard at work here: roadside touts offer everything from windscreen wiper blades to sim cards to grilled fish heads; women balance sacks of wheat and loaves of bread on their heads; and children try to poke bananas through any open car windows for a quick sale. A few Kwanza, the local currency, can go a long way; while accommodation can be expensive, generally food and transport is very affordable. “I need to show you something,” Uliwa announced. Not far from Lubango was one of Angola’s natural wonders, Fenda da Tundavala, a stunning gorge between two steep-walled cliffs with a 1km drop straight down to the valley below. “My pastor came here,” Uliwa said. “He came with everyone and they closed their eyes to pray. When they opened their eyes he was gone. Just gone. Do not get too close to the edge.” He did not have to tell me twice. Once back in Angola’s capital, I decided to explore the city and its surrounds. In contrast to the sparse countryside, skyscrapers tower over Luanda Bay and G-class Mercedes rule the road – a nod to the vast wealth generated by Angola’s oil, gas, diamonds and gold. Not far from the Luanda’s rich centre lies a more sober reminder of the country’s past, the National Museum of Slavery. During the 400 years of Portuguese rule, over 5.6 million people were taken as slaves from Angola, most heading to another Portuguese outpost, Brazil. Located in a former church where the captives would be baptised, the modest museum houses chains, shackles, and whips next to tally boards listing the ports slaves were traded to. Rather than being a depressing reminder of humankind’s cruelty, it is an authentic collection that aims to educate and preserve a major part of Angola’s history. “Boa tarde!” the guard cheerfully waved as I exited the museum, taking the steps down to Benfica craft market strategically located below. There sat men chiselling away at wood carvings, traditional masks and hand-made bowls, each inviting a closer inspection of their handiwork. I settled on a wooden carving, small and portable, something to go with the necklace I was purchased in the village, so it wouldn’t be lonely for the long trip home. Original publication: The Post < Previous Next >

“When the alarm goes you grab this,” Officer Cadet Dusan said as he pointed to my lifejacket. “And this.” An orange survival suit. “We muster on C Deck, starboard side.” I didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing that my welcome was bringing up Titanic-like thoughts. < Back Off-grid Ocean Journey New Zealand Herald 5 Feb 2015 “When the alarm goes you grab this,” Officer Cadet Dusan said as he pointed to my lifejacket. “And this.” An orange survival suit. “We muster on C Deck, starboard side.” I didn’t know if it was a good or bad thing that my welcome was bringing up Titanic-like thoughts. I had just boarded the ANL Bindaree, a Liberian-flagged freighter that was slowly pulling out into the Hauraki Gulf laden with 30,000 tones of freight, 24 crew and 1 other passenger. I was following a little-known tradition of passengers on cargo ships, harking back to the days when cabins were set aside for owners and VIPs. Today they’re taken by people looking for a slow alternative to air travel, who are independent, have time to spare, and who – like me – just want to do something a little different. I’d chosen a rather circuitous route as was pointed out by Adrian, the bemused Chief Engineer. “OK, so you’re leaving here to come back here to go nowhere?” “Uh huh,” I replied. From Auckland around Cape Reinga across the Tasman to Melbourne, up the Australian Coast to Sydney and then into the South Pacific to disembark at Tauranga. The journey would take two weeks. “You are very strange,” he chuckled. Adrian was one of the Bindaree’s band of officers from Croatia, Romania, and Montenegro; the crew were all Filipino. As is maritime tradition there was strict segregation between the officers and the crew including socialising, eating and sleeping. This irked my fellow passenger, Naomi, a Canadian environmental educator, who was telling me so when we were interrupted. “Attention all crew. Attention all crew,” boomed the PA system. “Clocks go back one hour tonight. One hour.” That marked us entering international waters and that meant the Slop Chest was open. The Slop Chest (official name: Bonded Store) was a duty free treasure trove of alcohol, treats and cigarettes. You pick what you want from the checklist, hand a slip to the officer, it gets delivered to your door, and you pay in $US before disembarking. I made the landlubber’s mistake of thinking I was paying US$18 for a dozen Becks beer. 24 bottles turned up. No matter, there was more than enough room in my quarters. Officially the “Owner’s cabin”, I had a dayroom (two couches, table, writing desk and chair, fridge, LG mini-system, DVD player and TV) as well as a bedroom plus shower and toilet. My porthole (ticket note: “View may be restricted by containers”) looked all the way to the bow. As the days went by the low rumble of the engines was occasionally punctuated by the creaking of container lashes. I spent as much time as possible on the Bridge. Being allowed in the Wheelhouse is one of the perks of being a passenger on a merchant ship, but it definitely wasn’t what I expected. Sure, I’d done my research – if watching Captain Phillips counts – but I hadn’t reckoned on was how automated it all was. There is no grand wheel any more; this one was the size of a PlayStation racing control. “Surprised huh?” Third Officer Paul called out with a grin on his face. “Everything is automatic now, see”. He pointed to the navigation console. “Of course, we still do things manually. Every two hours we plot our exact position on the charts behind you. Don’t want anything to go wrong,” he said understatedly, still smiling. As Officer on Watch he wasn’t actually steering the ship; he was checking it was on track. Just to humour me though he opened a small hatch on the bulkhead – out popped a Morse code machine. The following day I joined Chief Officer Aleksandar on the outer Bridge – him with cigarette and coffee in hand, me with sunglasses, both of us looking out to the horizon. “People don’t understand,” he said passionately. “We are the life blood of the world economy!” He jokingly jabbed his finger to his forearm. “No planes, no trains, ever carry as much as economically as us. This is why shipping will never die.” I nodded in agreement. We were heading west at a majestic 14 knots. He opened a small hatch on the bulkhead – out popped a Morse code machine. Seven decks below the powerhouse of the ship thundered on. In the engine room nine turbines pumped out 720RPM of raw power. “140°” said the engineer, “That’s how hot these pipes are. Don’t touch them.” I didn’t need to be told twice. As awesome as all that power was it was a relief to be topside again. My favourite place was at the bow with 250m of container ship behind me, the hypnotic sound of the swell and the gentle rocking of a massive ship. The mornings were fresh and tingly; the afternoon’s hot and tan-worthy. It wasn’t until Day 6 that we saw land again – Australia. The mood on the Bridge noticeably changed and focus replaced humour. It was as if the ship had been given a talking to at half time and came out with guns blazing. In Melbourne I saw first-hand the life-blood of the world economy. Every container was positioned on the deck according to its declared weight, need for power, displacement of cargo and final destination. Massive cranes, hoists and lights worked 24 hours to keep the infrastructure pumping. After ‘shore leave’ I was back up the gangway in time for dinner. Meals were at set times (7-8am, Noon-1pm, 5-6pm) and eating in the Officers’ Mess was a chance to get to know the men onboard. On freighters the meals are dependent on how good a cook you have and ours was good. Chef Leonardo and Messman Rodel invited me into the galley to proudly show off their honey-glazed chicken, Thai-inspired beef and ice-cream sundaes. Evenings were spent chilling. There was time to read, watch DVDs, work out in the gym or just stare out to sea. More than once I caught up with the ship’s Master, Danko Grgurevic, a typically friendly Croatian who was usually dressed in shorts, a company t-shirt and tennis shoes. We arrived in Botany Bay under a full moon. By then I’d learnt that you’re not supposed to take your passport off the vessel when entering another country (oops) and you have to sit at your allocated place at the dining table even when you’re the only person there (oops again). But despite all those idiosyncrasies there was one great benefit: being “off the grid”. No cellphone, no Facebook, no hashtags, no selfies. After another five days we arrived in Tauranga. I left the crew with a few magazines and beers, and descended the gangway one last time. It had been a privileged insight into a rarefied ecosystem, one with rules and norms that could be daunting to the uninitiated. Luckily, I had the best hosts I could have asked for. And I was rather pleased that I never had to put on that orange survival suit. Details Journey: Freighter passenger Ports: Available worldwide (author did Auckland-Melbourne-Sydney-Tauranga) Duration: From 1 week to as long as you like Cost: Budget for $190 per day including transport, accommodation, and meals Require: Passport, Medical Certificate, Indemnity Certificate, Deviation Insurance, Travel Insurance, Ticket Contact: Freighter Travel NZ Ltd, 06 8437702, hamish@freightertravel.co.nz Web: www.freightertravel.co.nz Planning Tip Catching a freighter isn’t like catching a Swiss train. You need to be flexible and have the right temperament. There’s no way to guarantee your departure date because there could be strikes, foul weather, technical problems at ports or diversions at sea (ticket note: “approximate departure date”), so don’t cut your holidays too tight. Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >