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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 >

For years the name Beirut evoked images of a vicious civil war and a hotspot of clashing cultures. It’s been a while since tourists flocked to the ‘Paris of the Middle East’, so you can imagine my surprise when I discovered a Lebanon of high class fashion, vibrant beauty, worldly citizens and some of the most amazing nightlife in the Middle East.​ < Back A Date with Hizbollah Real Travel 10 Feb 2009 For years the name Beirut evoked images of a vicious civil war and a hotspot of clashing cultures. It’s been a while since tourists flocked to the ‘Paris of the Middle East’, so you can imagine my surprise when I discovered a Lebanon of high class fashion, vibrant beauty, worldly citizens and some of the most amazing nightlife in the Middle East. Before I go on, forget everything you have ever heard about Lebanon. These days it is generally (a) out of date (b) wrong, or (c) the exception rather than the rule. It’s true that years of war and occupation have left their mark on Beirut, especially the southern Shi’ite district of Dahieh, but it is no longer home to the violence that used to dominate TV news. Like anywhere in the Middle East you have to take care and be aware, but it’s certainly not as unsafe as people make out. The locals, while wary, are welcoming and generous – even when you accidentally end up in the middle of a Hizbollah protest. But let’s start at the beginning… I was on a 6 week trip through the Middle East and had always wanted to go to Lebanon. Having heard so much about the country, it was a blend of curiosity combined with the “Oh my god, you’re going where?” factor that made me want to explore this part of the world. Initially I had hoped to go to Palestine and Israel first, but the Israeli stamp ‘issue’ meant that I would then have trouble getting into Syria and Lebanon. (As it was, the Israelis will stamp a piece of paper instead of your passport if you ask.) I’d just spent a week in Syria coping with the fact that Facebook is blocked (one of only two countries in the world; the other is Iran), where the highlight was Crac de Chevaliers – a medieval crusader castle that looked like the ones you imagined as a kid. Coming from Homs in Syria, I crossed the border at Abboudieh into Northern Lebanon. The ride to Beirut was an adventure in itself. I took a sherut, a shared taxi, paying an agreed amount and stopping numerous times along the way to have our papers checked. While my Arabic was very rudimentary a couple of Asalaam 'Alaykum’s (peace be upon you) and Shukran’s (thank you) can get you further than you think. And money’s pretty easy to use once you get into Lebanon: the general rule is pay $US for large amounts and LP (Lebanese Pounds) for smaller purchases. Beirut’s nightlife was calling me, so as soon I’d put my pack down at the Mayflower Hotel in Hamra (got a great rate on Hostels.com – lots of accommodation to choose from), I was off to a club. Flagging down the nearest taxi, the driver Jamal spoke very good English. Little did I know that he would end up shaping my entire visit. When I said how I wanted to go to Southern Beirut the next day to see the reconstruction and find out what the people are really like, he just smiled and said Inshallah (God willing). So we agreed a pick-up time, and he then dropped me off for my first experience of Lebanese nightlife. Entering the ironically designed Element club – which looks and feels as if you’re in a bunker – I immediately knew that this was glamour plus. The women were stunning, the men stylish, the drinks reasonably priced and the locals friendly. And this was on a Tuesday. Nearly everyone spoke English (de rigueur among young Lebanese professionals), and one couple who were celebrating their 3rd wedding anniversary wanted to know everything about my home country, New Zealand, while I wanted to know everything about theirs. It was a very late night. The next day Jamal was waiting outside my hotel as promised. He’d put aside the day to show me his city, which started with the drive down the Corniche, the boulevard that once used to be the jewel in Beirut’s crown. While the rebuilt downtown area with its restaurants and high class shopping is now the star attraction, there were more than enough people strolling along the promenade on a slightly overcast day. I was a little apprehensive when he told me not to take any pictures of the men with guns. I didn’t need telling twice From there we headed into Southern Beirut, where Jamal lived and a Hizbollah stronghold. It’s not an understatement to say I was a little apprehensive when he told me not to take any pictures of the men with guns. I didn’t need telling twice. What was fascinating though was what Hizbollah actually did beyond what we hear about in the news. Not just an armed organisation, Hizbollah also has representatives in the Lebanese parliament. As we drove along Jamal pointed out the Hizbollah universities, Hizbollah petrol stations, Hizbollah construction companies, Hizbollah supermarkets and of course, subtley, the Hizbollah checkpoints. All was going well, until we turned the corner. I was a little apprehensive when he told me not to take any pictures of the men with guns. I didn’t need telling twice. Little did I know that that day was Ashura, one of the holiest Shi'ite festivals that marks the Battle of Karbala where the grandson of Mohammed was killed. To show their affinity with the suffering, men self-flagellate. As we entered the next street we found ourselves next to bleeding backs from whipping, and boys with rubbing blood onto their chest. While that was a little concerning, it wasn’t until we got a few metres down the road when it became apparent what was really going on. The head of Hizbollah was giving a televised address to thousands of followers, all pumping fists and firing guns in the air. Now, at this point I should say that my timing was extremely bad. It was January ‘09 and while I was in Jordan, Israel had invaded the Gaza strip, the Middle East was in an uproar and rockets were being fired from Southern Lebanon into Northern Israel. This was one of those “exception to the rule” moments and is definitely not the norm. Thinking quickly, Jamal pulled the taxi over and bought a Hizbollah flag from one of the stores opposite the protest. We tied it to the car aerial with a rubber band and slowly made our way through the ever vocal crowd, with Jamal voicing his support so we didn’t get stopped at checkpoints and no-one asked what I was doing there. It seemed like the longest car ride in the world and I still have today “the flag that rescued us”. Once we got to relative safety, there was one other place I wanted to see: the Sabra and Shatila camp which is home to over 10,000 Palestinian refugees. My interest in politics meant that I had long ago heard of the massacre here that inspired the Israeli animated film “Waltzing with Bashir”. Despite its awful history - and my naiveté - I didn’t know what to expect. The "camp" is really a one kilometer square suburb with roads and the semblance of paths; there is no wire or separation wall surrounding them and people are free to go out beyond them. The buildings are concrete and food stalls abound. The people were cautious of this stranger in a taxi and perhaps with some justification. Jamal told me that this is their home even though it officially isn’t: if you are a Palestinian born in a refugee camp on Lebanese soil, you do not get Lebanese citizenship. There was a palpable degree of resolve in the air with the knowledge that their fathers, or in some cases, their fathers’ fathers had land that was taken from them, and the hope that one day it will be returned. And yet they became friendlier when I introduced myself and explained why I wanted to be in this part of the world. Standing outside the large banners of dead bodies at the Sabra and Shatila memorial was extremely sobering. Deciding it was time to lighten things up, and due to the fact we couldn’t get far because there were still so many people protesting, Jamal invited me back to his house to meet his wife and family. Recognising that this was a truly generous offer and one that I was never likely to get again, I gratefully accepted… and it was here I saw the true meaning of Lebanese hospitality. Arriving outside of his apartment he saw that the power was off, a frequent occurrence in Dahieh as the government restricts electricity to Hizbollah. No matter though, up the dark internal stairwell we went to be welcomed by his wife and two teenage kids who wanted to know what was on my iPod and if I was in Lord of The Rings. So here I was, with a taxi driver I’d just met, his wife, their teenage kids who had lit candles around the place and out comes the Merlot from Bekaa valley. In between Jamal regaling them with where we’d been, by the time the power came back on we’d worked through dishes of lamb, tahini, salad and the ever-present Markouk bread. Luckily, after a month in Arabic countries I already knew to only use my right hand while eating and not to eat everything on the plate, so I got some points for not being a complete Westerner. It was getting late and I had to get back downtown. As I left, Jamal’s teenage son handed me the Palestinian scarf he had around his neck as a gift for visiting their family and breaking bread with them. I realised that I’d been taken into the home of people who did not have much but wanted to share it all. The next day I saw a completely different side of the country. The manager of the Lebanese branch of a company I worked for, Daniel, had offered to show me the sights north of Beirut. Unlike the rest of the Middle East it seemed that the towns on the coastal road didn’t end and start as such, they just ran one into another. Beirut became Dawa which became Jounieh which became the ancient town of Byblos. Named by the Greeks after their word for papyrus (which used to be shipped via the port), the town has been invaded by Phoenicians, Greeks, Romans, Crusaders, Ottomans and Mamluks… and it shows. I’m the first to admit that I thought this major archeological site was going to be a bunch of boring ruins, but I’m glad I was wrong. I can best describe it as a history lesson pockmarked in stone, and to touch walls over 5000 years old really brings home how much Lebanon has seen through the ages. Walking around the port, I asked a fisherman who was eyeing up the horizon why he wasn’t out there. Gestations to the sky and the sea complemented his broken English: “no good, no good”. At the top of the hill, there was nothing more to do than wander through the restored souk and humorously haggle over a cedar wooden box with shell inlay which made a fantastic Christmas gift.Back in the car again, this time heading to Beit Mary, a suburb reached at the top of a cable car – and a far cry from Southern Beirut the day before. Standing at the foot of the statue of Our Lady of Lebanon with her arms outspread over the city below, I had the perfect view over Jounieh Bay. But it was what was underground on our way back, rather than what was on top of it, that really piqued my interest. Daniel insisted I was not going to leave Lebanon without visiting the Jeita Grotto, a set of crystalised limestone caves that is truly a world class attraction. With site map in hand I headed down the long boardwalk into the stunning Upper Cavern, joining a group of ohh-ers and ahh-ers as the guides showed us through (without once seeking the ubiquitous baksesh). With an abundance of ‘tites and ‘mites I wondered how the Lower Cavern could really be any better… but it had the bonus of a short boat trip further into the cave. It’s more than a little eerie when the only sounds you hear are drips of water into the lake below. It was disappointing that you’re not allowed to take any photos, which was a real pity for something so beautiful. We got back to downtown Beirut in time to appreciate the lit up Mohammed Al-Amin mosque; the call to prayer echoing from its towering minarets. A Christmas tree stood proudly nearby, another symbol of reconciliation in a land that has experienced a lot. Beirut is literally a phoenix of a city. The rejuvenation of the Solidere (downtown Beirut) after the civil war is generally credited to one man – former Prime Minister Rafiq Hariri, who was killed in 2005 by a massive car bomb outside a hotel. Thanks to his work, boutique stores, restaurants and offices all stand now where once there was rubble. Eateries are plentiful in the cobblestoned area so we thought ‘why not spoil ourselves’ and entered one of the flashest restaurants in the Solidere, Al-Sultan Brahim. It definitely wasn’t the cheapest place to eat but the food was as good as anything I had tasted in the Middle East. Truly Lebanese, with four types of hommos and the obligatory missed pickles. Blanched dandelion leaves never tasted so good and I won’t even mention how delicious the fish sausages were (who knew?!). Mezzed-out and ready for my last night we hit the clubs once again. As I suspected, everyone is beautiful here all the time – not just on Tuesdays. The morning of my leaving I got a surprise as Jamal, my taxi driver, and his two teenage children who had entertained me with the lights out, were waiting outside the hotel when I checked out. Not to pick me up, but just to say goodbye and hand me an e-mail address so I could keep in contact. So there it was, three days in one of the most ancient/modern, peaceful/politicised, friendly/wary, and beautiful/bombed places on earth. As I left Lebanon I learnt one final lesson: if you’re going to be there from say, a Monday to a Wednesday do not get the free 48 hour visa. Get the visa that covers between 48hours and 15 days for 25000LP (about US$16). Otherwise you’ll find yourself like I did, signing Arabic forms at the Lebanon-Syria border which say things to the effect of “I’m sorry, I won’t do it again”. It was worth it though. < Previous Next >

PROJECTS Rodeo Warkworth, New Zealand Every year one of New Zealand's premiere rodeos, the Warkworth Rodeo, is held north of Auckland. Full of the usual events such as barrel racing, bull riding, saddle bronc riding, steer wrestling and breakaway roping, interest in the event has only grown over the years, no doubt helped by the global TV phenomenon that is Yellowstone. Previous Next

Oh my god, he’s going to do it!” screeched the American teenager to my left. Sure enough with a quick wave to the crowd, a furtive glance downwards and a tuck of the pants, over he leapt. One of Mostar’s bridge-jumpers had just taken the plunge into the icy Neretva River below. I’d just witnessed something that wasn’t possible two decades before. < Back Leap of Faith The Press 12 Feb 2013 Oh my god, he’s going to do it!” screeched the American teenager to my left. Sure enough with a quick wave to the crowd, a furtive glance downwards and a tuck of the pants, over he leapt. One of Mostar’s bridge-jumpers had just taken the plunge into the icy Neretva River below. I’d just witnessed something that wasn’t possible two decades before. In 1992 the Bosnian town of Mostar, until then a peaceful mix of Muslims, Serbs and Croats, self-imploded; a microcosm of all that went wrong in the former Yugoslavia. Neighbours who had fought a common enemy turned on each other. The pointlessness was summed up by one act: the destruction of Stari Most – Mostar’s old bridge which had stood for over 500 years was destroyed by Bosnian Croat shells. I was in BiH (Bosnia & Herzegovina) to see how the country had progressed since the Bosnian War. What I found was a vibrant, friendly culture and people that only respected, but also remembered, the past. “Never Forget ‘93” is painted on a rock. Bombed out buildings house trees where once windows were. Cemeteries have the same year on the headstones. And yet, the country is warily finding its own way in the world and once again attracting visitors. While Mostar itself is a relatively small town it is one of the most visited in the Balkans. Known for its alley of coppersmiths, where the sons and daughters of coppersmiths before them have toiled, the ‘clang clang clang’ nearly drowns out the Europop wafting like the smell of burnt coffee. “I have been here with my brother for 17 years,” said one proud artisan. “We started after we stopped fighting. These are the tools of my father”. Showing me his family symbol on the bottom of a plate, he demonstrated how each tool creates a different indent while explaining that “imported stuff in other stores could never be pretty”. I walked away with a copper bowl, a shiny, hand-crafted, story-infused memory of Bosnia. The memory most of us have of Bosnia of course is the nightly news 20 years ago, dominated by Sarajevo. For nearly four years the city was under siege, surrounded by Bosnian Serbs who wanted it as part of a Greater Serbia. Today in The Hague sit those being tried for war crimes for the shelling and snipers that made Sarajevo unliveable. Zig-zagging across the street for fear of being shot. Queues for water and bread. Every tree cut down for firewood. And football fields converted to graveyards. When the 1993 Ms Sarajevo contestants held up a banner saying “Don’t let them kill us”, they were crying out to the world. When the 1993 Ms Sarajevo contestants held up a banner saying “Don’t let them kill us”, they were crying out to the world. The city had one way in and one way out, a tunnel to the UN-protected airport. We decided to tour it.It wasn’t long before our tour guide was on the verge of tears. She apologised for her emotion and had to stop at the tunnel entrance. “We found out our friends had died because they didn’t come to school. I had many friends… die. It was very sad to be 8 and lose friends”. Her English was broken but not because she didn’t speak fluently. 11,541 civilians were killed in the siege. Today’s Sarajevo is a symbol of resilience, buzzing with tourists-a-plenty. Its pedestrianised areas are filled with chain stores. Old men play chess, young couples kiss passionately and kids cry over spilt gelato. The charm of the old town is still there with restaurants serving up shots of rakia (40% distilled alcohol) and hot plates of cevapi, a moreish grilled lamb dish in open kebab bread. < Previous Next >

< Back The Hamar in Vermont 26 Sept 2018 Vermont's PhotoPlace Gallery has selected one of Guy Needham's Hamar of Ethiopia images for its upcoming Travel exhibition. The young Hamar man holding his borkoto will be on show from November 7th to December 8th - the first time one of the images from the collection has been exhibited in the United States. < Previous Next >

< Back Colour Nature II released 15 Oct 2016 Guy Needham's latest project, a departure from his tribal work, has just been released for sale as Colour Nature (II). Available as 500mm x 500mm square prints on Hahnemühle Rag Matt 308gsm archival art paper, the full set can be seen at colour-nature.com and are available from The Frame Workshop in Auckland. < Previous Next >

< Back Dalmatian Cultural Society's Open Day 1 Jul 2014 Guy Needham's People of The Balkans exhibition is having its second showing, this time at the Dalmatian Cultural Society's Open Day in September 2014. The collection documents a two month journey and the resulting portraits are of a proud people who have gone through much in the last 20 years. < Previous Next >

< Back Auckland Festival of Photography 23 Feb 2019 Guy Needham's The Hadzabe of Tanzania has been selected for the Core programme of this year's Auckland Festival of Photography. The festival takes place within Auckland's major galleries, project spaces, non-gallery venues and public sites, featuring a mix of emerging and established artists. The Hadzabe of Tanzania will be on show at The Grey Place from 28 May - 8 June. < Previous Next >

< Back Pride of Kenya 11 Dec 2018 If you want to know about drinking goat's blood and tracking lions, pick up a copy of today's New Zealand Herald. The cover article of Travel is my first hand account of journeying into lion country to meet the fearsome Samburu warriors - who are forced to leave home when 12 to fend for themselves. You can read the full article here . < Previous Next >

We both looked up. It was a strange sound, obviously unfamiliar to my host. “When was the last time it rained here?” I asked. A pause. “Um… this is the first time this year. Might settle the dust though,” said Nick laconically. Perhaps a good omen to mark the centenary of what some would say is Australia’s strangest town. < Back The Strangest Town in Australia Sunday Star-Times 26 Apr 2015 We both looked up. It was a strange sound, obviously unfamiliar to my host. “When was the last time it rained here?” I asked. A pause. “Um… this is the first time this year. Might settle the dust though,” said Nick laconically. Perhaps a good omen to mark the centenary of what some would say is Australia’s strangest town. I was in Coober Pedy, located in the desert of the South Australian outback, a red dirt town under big blue skies. It’s a town that was founded 100 years ago on opal mining, a town where 50% of the population live underground, and a town that hadn’t seen rain for a while. As the showers gently eased Nick, the owner of The Lookout Cave Underground Hotel, commended me for visiting during the ‘colder’ months (it was 31° outside). In January it had been an unbearable 43°. The locals avoid the worst of it by living in ‘dugout’ homes excavated out of sandstone hills, giving them a constant 22° and respite from the harsh desert heat and dust. Unlike ‘mole holes’ these homes – like my underground hotel room – are generally at ground level, super quiet and thankfully not claustrophobic. When the rain stopped Nick pointed out the air vents that dotted the landscape, rising like metallic mushrooms giving air to the dugouts below. Google Maps had already shown me that Coober Pedy was going to be different: the reddy-brown landscape, few structures, fewer roads and lots of dirt. But what the town lacks in looks it makes up for in superlatives: it is, after all, the Opal Capital of the World, down the road is the Largest Cattle Station in the World, cutting through it is the Longest Man-made Structure in the World, there’s the Driest Golf Course in the World and of course, the Largest Underground Hotel in the World (capitals intended). I think it also has the most flies in the world. I’d timed my visit with the Coober Pedy Opal Festival, which this year was celebrating 100 years since fourteen-year-old Willie Hutchison found the first opal there. The festival kicked off with the annual Street Parade, hosted by jovial MCs keeping the crowd entertained under the blazing mid morning sun. Slowly the flotilla came into view, heavy mining trucks leading the way followed by local businesses, AFL fans and the obligatory Mines Rescue vehicles. In a town of only 3500 if you weren’t in the parade you were cheering it on from the sidelines. “Where you from eh fella?” asked the aboriginal man next to me, from under his Akubra hat. I told him and then David Mindi Crombie told me his life story. Born inside an open-cut opal pit with his twin brother. Famous for writing songs about Coober Pedy. Performed at the Sydney Opera House on a national tour. Named Coober Pedy Citizen of the Year (1992). A Justice of the Peace. Singing tonight at the pub up the road. I’d picked a good person to sit next to. Nick commended me for visiting during the ‘colder’ months (it was 31° outside). The Opal Festival also coincided with Easter so there was no better time to visit one of the town’s underground churches. Father Brian Mathews welcomed me at the door of Saint Peter’s and Paul’s and patiently took me through its history. “The parish is rather large I guess,” he said, standing in front of a wall map. “And we don’t always have a church everywhere. Last week I had mass in the dining room of a pub.” He drew his finger across the boundaries. It went up to Uluru, touched Western Australia, Northern Territory, Queensland and New South Wales. This priest was responsible for a parish area bigger than Texas. Across from the church was one of the town’s two dozen opal jewellery stores, which makes sense when you consider that 85% of Australia’s opals come from Coober Pedy. “They’re all individual, that’s what makes each one so special,” said George of Opalios, peering up with his jewellery magnifiers still on while polishing a stone. “It doesn’t matter what type of opal you like - cut, rough, milky, black, pinfire – it’s bound to be different to what anyone else has.” He pulled out a solid opal set in 18k gold. Price? A steal at $12,500. The dirty end of the business was found at Tom’s Working Opal Mine. After the briefing and donning a hard hat, I wound my way down 12 metres underground. Blower pipes, Caldwell shafts, pillar bashing, explosive setting, sump tunnels - there’s a lot to this opal mining gig. Which explains the numerous abandoned drill holes in the area (“Beware deep shafts” “Don’t walk backwards” the signs warn). Even the town’s name comes from the Aboriginal kupa-piti meaning ‘white man in a hole’. The landscapes weren’t just a potholed mess though; this was the scenery that had starred in Priscilla: Queen of the Desert and Max Mad: Beyond Thunderdome so I arranged to explore more. “Today we’re gonna go off road for about 600k’s,” said Rowie as I put my seatbelt on. Peter Rowe isn’t your typical tour guide. He’s an official Australia Post contractor and I was joining him on ‘mail run’ from Coober Pedy to William Creek to Oodnadatta. The 12-hour drive would take us across the Great Artesian Basin to the edge of the Victorian Desert. First stop was Anna Creek Station, the largest cattle ranch on the planet at a whopping 24,000km2 – that’s 6,000,000 acres. To give you a sense of scale, the distance from the property boundary to the unassuming homestead is further then the distance from Auckland to Hamilton. No one was home but Peter dropped off the mail, disturbing hundreds of screeching Corella birds all wanting to make their presence known. To get to Anna Creek we had to pass the Dog Fence, designed to keep dingoes away from livestock. The fence is twice as long as The Great Wall of China; 5600kms of protective barbed wire and posts weaving across three Australian states. William Creek (pop. 6) is a town so small that it’s entirely surrounded by Anna Creek Station. One thing it does have though – aside from a pub – is an outdoor ‘rocket museum’. I had to squint to read it but that’s what it said: the metal carcass in front of me was part of a rocket used to launch a British satellite from the nearby Woomera Rocket Range. Impressed, I went back inside for some Kangaroo Yiros and a Hahn Super Dry. The unsealed road that runs from William Creek to Oodnadatta is known as the Oodnadatta Track. Partially built on the old Ghan railway line the track is at times bone jarring, very geologically diverse and a little surprising. In the distance a dingo stared at us. “Hang on to ya hat!” Peter yelled, as he turned the 4WD onto the tundra and raced towards the now scurrying dog. That particular chase was futile but we did get close to kangaroos, camels and hawks. On the way back to Coober Pedy I was regaled with more stories – from the Afghan cameleers to the unfortunate souls who perished in the desert heat. We arrived back long after dark. The week of celebrations culminated with the Coober Pedy open-air cinema. Held every second weekend it seemed like the whole town had parked up, tuned in, sat back and enjoyed the free ice creams and cheap snacks. It was one of the few above-the-ground activities in town. Of course, like any movie theatre, it began with the “Patrons: Explosives are not to be brought into this theatre” slide, a joke flashback to the old days. Staying in Coober Pedy made me realise it’s not for everyone. To be honest, it can be a little strange – like that uncle you try to avoid at Christmas – but if you’re ready to exchange more than pleasantries and are willing to be surprised, you’ll find that there’s a lot more under the surface of this unique outback town. Original publication: Sunday Star-Times < Previous Next >

< Back Warriors with wi-fi 25 Feb 2018 The lead travel story in today's Sunday Star-Times is my experience of meeting the Waorani tribe in the Ecuadorian Amazon - and what I did not expect. From fishing for piranha to going hunting with blowguns, it was the transition the tribe is going through that made the trip so fascinating. Read the full article here. < Previous Next >

TRAVEL ANL Bindaree Tasman Sea, Australia The ANL Bindaree, a Liberian-flagged freighter laden with 30,000 tones of freight and 24 crew, follows 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 just want to do something a little different. Previous Next