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< Back 6th Biennial of Fine Art & Documentary Photography 25 Sept 2021 December sees The Hadzabe of Tanzania continue its world tour in Barcelona, as part of the 6th Biennial of Fine Art & Documentary Photography. A curated set of nine portraits will be shown at PhotoNostrum, the largest photography gallery in Spain, whose mission is to increase society’s understanding and appreciation of photography and its evolving role in contemporary culture. < Previous Next >

< Back Kilts meet Kudu 5 Nov 2019 Two of Guy Needham's indigenous portraits, Hadzabe Smoker (wearing a kudu skin) from the Hadzabe of Tanzania series, and Final Touches from The Huli of Papua New Guinea, will go on show for the first time in the UK. Part of the Glasgow Gallery of Photography's international Portraits exhibition, the images will be available to view from 21-30 November. < Previous Next >

“In the olden days,” began Apinelu, a tone of longing in his voice, “it was never this hot. Never. Now everything has changed, not just the sea.” It was a very still 33° and my earlobes were sweating. Welcome to the small island nation of Tuvalu. < Back Where the Ocean meets the Sky New Zealand Herald 2 May 2017 “In the olden days,” began Apinelu, a tone of longing in his voice, “it was never this hot. Never. Now everything has changed, not just the sea.” It was a very still 33° and my earlobes were sweating. Welcome to the small island nation of Tuvalu. “Tomorrow I take you out to the islands, less crowded, more local,” he chuckled. We were driving around Funafuti, the densely populated capital and I’m pretty sure I was the only tourist here. To answer your ‘where?’ question, Tuvalu is 1000km north of Fiji, an archipelago made up of six coral atolls and three islands nestled under the Equator. It used to be one half of the Gilbert & Ellice Islands before it became independent from Britain and dropped the Ellice name. These days it’s better known for being the poster child of climate change. It’s fair to say that Tuvalu is unlike any other islands you’re likely to visit: small, isolated, beautiful, sleepy and sinking. I was here to explore the country and see what it was like on the frontline of global warming. Arriving in Tuvalu is an experience in itself. After two and a half hours flying over the Pacific the wheels are down but there ain’t no land. Out of nowhere appears a thin airstrip – lagoon on one side, sea on the other – and the passengers let out a collective breath. It seems all of Funafuti is here to welcome us: kids waving, locals on motorbikes, and officialdom waiting in front of the world’s smallest airport building of Immigration, Customs, Quarantine and Baggage Claim all rolled into one. The exit door leads to a slower pace of life. Even the wind seems laid back here, as heavily-burdened motorbikes putt along at 20kph, hammocks in pandanas trees get a solid work-out, and schoolchildren kick rocks along the road. Apilenu had to laugh, “No need to rush, eh,” his arm resting out the window as we meander up the main island, Fongafale. Tuvalu isn’t really set up for tourism but there is one must-see: the Funafuti Marine Conservation Area. Unfortunately Apilenu had injured himself so it was up to his neighbour, Villi, and my new friend Kato from Tuvalu Overview (a climate change NGO) to take me into the lagoon. Tuvalu is unlike any other islands you’re likely to visit: small, isolated, beautiful, sleepy and sinking. “See that island over there,” yelled Villi over the outboard motor, “that is where our families go for picnics.” It was seriously, ridiculously beautiful. The whole lagoon was. Motu after motu (island) of swaying palms on white sand beaches, stark against the puffy white clouds and azure sky. “But this one we’re coming up to, not so good…”. Tepukasa Vilivili was nothing more than sand on coral after its vegetation had been washed away over the last 20 years. It was a sobering reminder of the challenges facing Tuvalu: rising sea levels, coastal erosion, king tides, increasing tropical cyclones and drought. We boated on to Funafala, an islet inhabited by 5 families and a church. Kato knew some of the locals from his work planting mangroves there to stop the erosion. Greetings were exchanged but no one got off their sleeping mats – it was too damn hot. On we went and eventually Villi dropped me back at the main beach just in time for a sundowner at Vaiaku Lagi Hotel, the only one in town. The hotel has a pleasant outlook to the horizon that is only broken by foreign fishing vessels. Commercial fishing rights are one of Tuvalu’s main revenue sources; the other being the “.tv” internet domain name which the Government sub-licences for millions. By the next day I‘d learnt my lesson and started exploring before the harsh sun hit. “Hi palangi!” the kids yelled out; the adults were more circumspect and simply noded and raised their eyebrows in a cool Pacifika way. I knew I was taking a chance walking around when thunderstorms were predicted and soon enough the weather turned. The rain was intense. “Hey you, come here.” A man was hurriedly waving me towards his house, cigarette in hand. “That’s better,” Suauili said, with a big beaming smile. “We need this rain eh, but it won’t last.” It didn’t. “You know in Kiribati they have water from under the ground, but not here. Too salty now.” He lit another cigarette as his nephew played with my camera. We chatted about New Zealand. “You know the ‘borrow pits’?” he asked, referring to the huge ground holes that had been left when construction materials had been taken, and which had subsequently turned into cesspits of garbage. “New Zealand filled those in. Didn’t have to but they did. And they filled over the dump too. You have a good Government.” The rain cleared and it was time to head back. As the sun lazily went down, my ears pricked up. Singing! Not just any singing but Tuvaluan hymms, men and women alternating with highs and lows, harmonies escaping through the open slat windows of the nearby church. The men were sitting crosslegged dressed in their Sunday best, while the women fanned themselves and tried vainly to keep the children still. Greetings were exchanged but no one got off their sleeping mats – it was too damn hot. Religion plays an important role in Tuvaluan life with 98% of the population being Protestant. Many have faith that God will never let their islands disappear. It says something for their positive nature that despite being able to run off the names of cyclones like old friends – Bebe, Ula, Pam, Winston– they are absolutely committed to staying in Tuvalu and no one wants to leave. When it came to me leaving though, I didn’t have to go far. My lodge was next to the maneapa (meeting house) that was next to the terminal. But before the plane landed the fire truck sounded its siren, a signal for everyone to clear the runway. Yes, when not in use by the two flights a week the runway becomes a racing strip, volleyball court and dog park plus a road cuts through the middle of it. A cursory security glance in my luggage, a check of my name off a list and I’m allowed to return to the lodge. “Wouldn’t happen at Heathrow," observed a fellow passenger. But neither would the customs officer handing me back my passport with, “Oh, you sunburnt!” Despite my peeling forehead, Tuvalu really was a surprising pleasure. If you’re after the cocktails of Denarau or Gallic treats of Noumea then Tuvalu isn’t for you. There are no credit card facilities, no resorts, no duty free stores and no all-inclusive excursions. What you do is up to you and who you make contact with. As Apinelu would say, this is what the Pacific used to be like, “in the olden days.” Details Requirements: New Zealanders do not need a Visa but do need 6 months validity on their passport. Getting there: Via Fiji. Fiji Airways flies from Suva to Funafuti 2-3 times per week depending on the season. Check with your travel agent. Weather: Temperatures vary between 28° - 32° every day of the year. Try to avoid the Western Pacific Monsoon Season between December and March. Currency: Australian Dollars are the offical currency of Tuvalu and there are no credit card facilites in the country. Be prepared with cash. See: Funafuti Marine Conservation Area requires a AUS$50 permit and the boat ride will cost you AUS$200. Stay: The government-owned Vaiaku Lagi Hotel or the family-run Filamona Lodge next to the airport www.filamona.com Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

Deep in the Baliem Valley of Indonesia’s Papua region, size really does matter. The Dani tribe, first discovered by air in 1938 and still isolated in the mountains today, are known for a particular appendage: the horim. < Back A Horim The Travel Almanac 14 Dec 2023 Deep in the Baliem Valley of Indonesia’s Papua region, size really does matter. The Dani tribe, first discovered by air in 1938 and still isolated in the mountains today, are known for a particular appendage: the horim. Made from a dried-out elongated gourd, this penis protector is much more than a simple sheath. Whether a long cylindrical peaking pipe or spectacularly curved seahorse shape, this uniquely Papuan add-on is a sign of prestige, respect, and seniority within the tribe. In fact, the Dani’s male members (pun intended) have two horim – one for show and one for work . Their traditional existence on the land means that their more elaborate, longer phallocrypt s get in the way when working closely with others. No one likes to cross horim . It is no surprise that such an accessory exists in this patriarchal, polygamous society. Manhood in all its forms carries the responsibilit y of traditional authority within the tribe, and displaying such is expected. Smooth and mid-brown in tone, horim are carved out and gifted from father to son, a sign of respect for a growing boy. Many are customised as the years pass by; the more ornate ones carry small cowrie shells and decorative feathers. Manhood in all its forms carries the responsibilit y of traditional authority within the tribe, and displaying such is expected. Fastening a horim is not for the uninitiated: a short loop at the base sits very tightly around the scrotum, while the tip is held in place with a loop halfway up the chest. Carefully wiggled into place with a little adjustment here and a slight tuck there, the men are then off walking. The days of the horim appear to be numbered, though. Generational change is succeeding where the Indonesian Government’s Operasi Koteka (Operation Penis Gourd) failed , replacing traditional attire with W estern clothes. For the younger men, it’s cargos over calabash, garments over gourds. The exception is festivities where pride is as evident as the tribe they belong to. Original Publication: The Travel Almanac < Previous Next >

< Back Judging for Crete 15 Apr 2019 Guy Needham has been selected as one of the international jury for the upcoming Chania International Photo Festival. As part of the judging committee he will help select the award winners and highly commended images in the festival that runs in Crete from August 16th until August 24th this year. < Previous Next >

Vasillia gently touched my arm and leant in. “You are an Orthodox at heart,” she whispered, her eyes lighting up. “Yes, yes, I can see it inside you!” For the first time in my life I had to disappoint a nun. < Back Disappointing a Nun New Zealand Herald 21 Aug 2019 Vasillia gently touched my arm and leant in. “You are an Orthodox at heart,” she whispered, her eyes lighting up. “Yes, yes, I can see it inside you!” For the first time in my life I had to disappoint a nun. Upon learning of my Protestant upbringing Vasillia feigned disappointment. “Ahh, we all have our crosses to bear!” she laughed, her round face beaming out of her habit. We were standing in the nave of the Monastery of Agios Stefanos, gazing up at a fresco of the Second Coming of Christ. Vasillia was handing out candles. “I have been living here now for 15 years - there are 32 of us. Meteora is my home,” she said proudly. Meteora, a collection of ancient monasteries perched atop towering pinnacles of rock, is one of the holiest sites in Greece. Derived from the Greek meaning “suspended in the air” it literally lives up to its name. We were half a kilometre up in the sky. The history of Meteora dates back thousands of years, with Homer’s Iliad talking of six men from the area who fought alongside Achilles. More ‘recently’ in the 11th century, it became a refuge for monks fleeing inland from pirates. The monks’ need for sanctuary combined with their quest for austerity made Meteora the perfect place to escape to. Setting up solitary cells in the caves dotted across the cliff faces, they established the first hermitages still visible today. There is even a ‘monk jail’ where those who had sinned would be banished to. “Ahh, we all have our crosses to bear!” she laughed, her round face beaming out of her habit. By the 14th century, monks who had formed a community attempted to climb higher, using stakes and ropes to work their way up the rock pillars. When they finally made their way to the top they built their most important structure first – a pulley. It took hundreds of years to lift up provisions and materials to create what is now an UNESCO World Heritage-listed site. Until the 1920s the only way to reach the peaks was by a network of rope ladders, hauled baskets and nets. Local legend has it that a curious visitor asked a monk how often the ropes got replaced. His reply? “When the Lord lets them break.” Once home to 24 monasteries, there are now only six remaining including two run by nuns like Vasillia, who was now walking me to the edge of a precarious garden. “See there?” she nodded towards the town of Kalambaka far below. “The whole town and this monastery were destroyed by the Nazis. Greece was the first to resist. We had to rebuild our spiritual home.” It was a sobering thought. Even from above the sheer rock formations were impressive as the winter mist rolled in. Unsurprisingly a favourite for climbers, it was easy to see how the other-worldly landscape was chosen to feature on Game of Throne s. Each pillar topped with a monastery looked like a giant finger pointing to Heaven. We stepped back towards the katholikon , Agios Stefanos’ main church around which the convent is based. Inside, the alter faced east to meet the rising sun. Vasillia restocked the candles. “We do what those before us have done. We get up early. We prey. We eat. We do our duties.” The life of a nun has not changed much, Vasilla added with a smile in her voice. As I was leaving she reached out. Still not discouraged by my lack of piety, she placed a small green crucifix in my palm. “You never know when your calling will be.” And for the first time in my life, a nun winked at me. Details Getting there: Fly to Athens via London on Air New Zealand / Aegean, train to Kalambaka Tours: www.visitmeteora.com Activities: Pilgrimage, visiting monasteries, hiking, rock climbing Visa: No visa is required for New Zealand nationals for stays up to 90 days Travel tip: Splash out the extra euros on a first class return train ticke Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

“Seriously man, what are you wearing?” My friend Fernando was jacket shaming me in the Valencia arrivals hall, not-so-subtly pointing out how hot it was. “What is wrong with you?!” With mock indignation I removed my jacket – and then proceeded to sweat profusely anyway. < Back Viva Valencia Sunday Star-Times 29 Nov 2025 “Seriously man, what are you wearing?” My friend Fernando was jacket shaming me in the Valencia arrivals hall, not-so-subtly pointing out how hot it was. “What is wrong with you?!” With mock indignation I removed my jacket – and then proceeded to sweat profusely anyway. It’s been nearly 20 years since 25,000 New Zealanders came through the same arrivals hall, enduring the Valencian humidity during the 2007 Americas Cup. After the cup moved on most Kiwis didn’t hear much about Valencia – that is, until last October’s devastating flood. In a city that has over 300 days of sunshine a year the speed of the rising floodwaters came as a shock, leaving over 230 dead and billions of euros worth of damage. It wasn’t the first time either: in 1957 the Turia River flooded so badly that the Franco government permanently rerouted the river three kilometres away from its original course. The Turia’s old riverbed was the starting point for my exploration. Now a sunken verdant park in the centre of the city, the 9km long Jardín del Turia is full of trees, running tracks, fountains, a football pitch and – most impressively – an oversized climbing structure that when viewed from above is a giant Gulliver pinned to the ground, sword and hat beside him, with Lilliputians (actually, humans) climbing all over him. Jardín del Turia is not only a living breathing artery, it’s also a direct path to Valencia’s top attraction: Ciutat de les Arts i les Ciències (City of Arts and Sciences). Designed by Valencian architect Santiago Calatrava the stunning futuristic complex is considered one of the 12 Treasures of Spain, up there with La Sagrada Família and the Guggenheim Museum Bilbao. Fernando looked at me looking in awe as we walked through the whale-like spine of the interactive Museu de les Ciències, while behind us stood L'Oceanogràfic, the largest aquarium in Europe. The star of the complex is without a doubt the spectacular L'Hemisfèric – a building ‘made whole’ as a huge human eye when reflected in its surrounding pond. I half expected to see Westworld’s Charlotte Hale step out of the Delos headquarters (IYKYK). My modernist bucket filled, we made our way back to the Juliet balconies and ornate doors of the old town, Ciutat Vella. In medieval times it was surrounded by the Muralla Cristiana (the Christian Wall) and only two of the original 14th century gates still stand, one being Torres de Serranos. Initially built to defend Valencia from siege, over the years it has been a prison for knights and nobles, hosted official ceremonies for Kings, and even protected artworks during the Spanish Civil War. I paid the princely sum of €2 and climbed to the parapets for a panoramic view of the Valencia’s Gothic, Romanesque and Neoclassical architecture. The old town’s one-way streets below were extremely walkable if somewhat deceptive. “If it’s big enough for a car, expect a car,” advised my friend Sarah, as we shared what looked like wide footpaths with e-scooters, Segways, and electric Peugeots. “Look, see that?” she said, pointing to a manhole cover. “There, above the crown…”. The shape of a bat, wings spread, sat atop Valencia’s coat of arms, stamped into the cast iron cover. Legend has it that in 1238 a noisy bat awoke King Juame 1, warning him of a surprise enemy attack and giving him time to defeat the Moorish invaders. Despite the interesting history lesson it was the odour emanating from below that caught my attention. My hosts, both in olfactory denial, had obviously got used to Valencia’s sewerage smell long ago, but ‘Spain drain’ is real and the city’s antiquated pipes are particularly pungent during humid weather. Not that it was putting off any tourists; the clacking of suitcases across cobblestones only stopped when visitors paused to admire the street art in front of them. An urban canvas of walls, shutters and roller doors, Valencia’s El Carmen neighbourhood is an eclectic mix of graffiti by taggers such as Deih, Hyuro and Xelon. David de Limón’s masked ninja peaks out from behind lamp posts, while Disneylexya’s large scale Latin-American illustrations cover entire walls. Urban art is such an integral part of the city that the contemporary gallery Centre del Carme is holding an exhibition on its origins. Art has long been part of Valencia and nowhere more so than Iglesia de San Nicolás de Bari y San Pedro Mártir de Valencia, or San Nicolás for short. Having pre-purchased tickets to this 750-year-old church we didn’t have to wait long before picking up our audio guides. And then we looked up. Nicknamed the ‘Sistine Chapel of Valencia’, San Nicolás’ ribbed-vault ceiling is simply magnificent. Painted in Baroque frescoes that stretch all the way from the altar to the baptismal font, depictions of archangels, saints, apostles, and cherubs look down upon the headphone-wearing visitors below. Like many a historic site San Nicolás is using 21 st technology to introduce a new generation to its attractions. We stayed for La Luz de San Nicolás, an immersive video show that transforms the Gothic architecture with beams of light, projects heavenly flowers across the frescoes, and fills the nave with divine ethereal music. Impressive as it was, Fernando wasn’t sure that the already beautiful church needed it. Three short blocks away was a more traditional slice of Valencia, the Mercat Central. Like Barcelona, Valencia has its own language – Valencian – and here a market is not a ‘mercado’ but a ‘mercat’ and there is none bigger than the Mercat Central. Pescaderos (fish mongers), fruiters (green grocers), and pastissers (sweet sellers) all have their sections but it is the charcutiers who are the busiest. Under hanging legs of jamón ibérico, Jose Vicente was handing over prime cuts accompanied by local cheeses, catering to customers ducking in during the siesta. Ahhh the siesta. Valencia still honours the afternoon rest period although not for sleeping these days, with the majority of small-to-mid-size shops closing between 2-5pm then reopening until 8pm. Even the shops that don’t have split shifts remain open late, before the al fresco restaurants start filling up quickly for dinner. As you’d expect for the birthplace of paella, food holds a special place here – Valencians eat five times a day – so it was only right that we went to one of Fernando’s favourite eateries, Kiosko La Pérgola. Perched up on barstools we ordered two large bocadillos, half and half sandwiches of beef tenderloin, ham, cheese, tomato, bacon and salsa verde, which were promptly cut in half again giving us eight minis. Eating over the hum of the kitchen, we watched servers enthusiastically leaning out to talk to locals and visitors alike. Unlike other Spanish destinations, visitors are welcome here (side eye emoji to Barcelona), and although Valencia is the country’s third biggest city at no stage did it feel overcrowded with tourists. Even the Line 3 metro back to the Aeroporto was busy but not packed with travellers. In the departures hall I hugged my tour guide farewell, thanking him for showing me the best of Valencia. It was time to put on my jacket again. Original publication: The Post < Previous Next >

< Back Resting at London Photo Festival 15 May 2018 The feature image of the Shades of Otara series is on show this week at the 2018 London Photo Festival. Part of an international group exhibition on Street Photography, it is on show at St George the Martyr Church until 19 May. The image balances a young man's physical exhaustion with a girl looking on, licking an ice-cream as if it was her reward for his hard work. < Previous Next >

A pencil case, keeper of memories and three-way pens, lives in that no-mans-land of utilitarian nostalga and scholastic glory. In Lisbon, a city known for its leatherwork, a pencil case is much more than a convenient carrier; it’s a culmination of artisanal training, pre-cut patterns and naked flame. < Back The making of a pencil case Substack 10 Oct 2025 A pencil case, keeper of memories and three-way pens, lives in that no-mans-land of utilitarian nostalga and scholastic glory. In Lisbon, a city known for its leatherwork, a pencil case is much more than a convenient carrier; it’s a culmination of artisanal training, pre-cut patterns and naked flame. Half-way up the cobblestoned Rua Arco de Graca, behind the fresh façade of Di Zocco sits Leonardo di Croce, bent over his vintage Pfaff sewing machine, heel-toe technique on full display as the needle pumps furiously. An Argentine native who began leathercrafting with his brother in Buenos Aires, di Croce loosely follows in the footsteps of his cobbler grandfather and leathersmith uncle. Now plying his trade in Portugal, his unfussy shop-cum-studio welcomes visitors with purposely placed samples lining wooden shelves. Out the back, an old fan unevenly oscillates, wafting the soft, homely aroma emanating from a mélange of offcuts. Choosing a piece of leather, di Croce tugs at it tenderly to check for blemishes. Taking a blade to the Portuguese cow hide he traces around a well-worn pattern, carefully pushing against the metal workbench. The outline for the pencil case is deceptively simple – two shapes – versus the more complex ‘Jimmy’ messenger or ‘Sam’ backpack (each bag is named after its first customer). He precisely threads the leather through a thinning skiver, pushing out a smooth bevelled edge on the other side. Transferring glue from large jar to small, he fastidously wipes his hands on his denim apron, before patting down the adhesive using a fine brush. There are no plastic caps or excessive cloth inserts here; Di Croce follows a maxim passed on by another old hand, ‘If it is leather, show the leather.’ Concentration on his face, tongue between his lips, he expertly guides the Gutermann polyester thread along the zip line. Cigarette lighter and micro scissors in hand, di Croce snips and sears off the final loose threads before turning it all inside out. A smooth, rich dark brown, hand-crafted pencil case is revealed, ready to sit on the shelf and be named after the next customer. < Previous Next >

On the East Coast of New Zealand lies the township of Tikitiki. Rural and isolated, it is a poster-child for parts of the country that have been left behind. In 2014 Guy Needham returned to where he grew up. The sight of decrepit buildings and desolate spaces motivated him to embark on an ongoing project. Originally a cathartic ode to his childhood called "The Paper Came the Next Day", his deep connection with the town is evident; the images reflecting both physical and emotional isolation. PHOTOJOURNALISM Documentary Tikitiki, New Zealand On the East Coast of New Zealand lies the township of Tikitiki. Rural and isolated, it is a poster-child for parts of the country that have been left behind. In 2014 Guy Needham returned to where he grew up. The sight of decrepit buildings and desolate spaces motivated him to embark on an ongoing project. Originally a cathartic ode to his childhood called "The Paper Came the Next Day", his deep connection with the town is evident; the images reflecting both physical and emotional isolation.

< Back Interview with The Photographers' Mail 13 May 2015 Adrian Hatwell of D-Photo magazine and The Photographers' Mail sat down to discuss Guy Needham's upcoming solo exhibition, Shades of Otara. As part of the Auckland Festival of Photography, the exhibition opens on Wednesday 27 July. < Previous Next >

“The Pope, The Pope!” A construction worker was vigourously waving his arms and yelling at me. “The Pope, no entrada!” Seeing my obvious confusion, he came running over and introduced himself by way of tattooed name on his forearm. Pito explained that the attraction I had come to see, was closed, in preparation for a visit from the Pontiff. < Back Asia's overlooked Gem Copy Sunday Star-Times 6 Jul 2024 “The Pope, The Pope!” A construction worker was vigourously waving his arms and yelling at me. “The Pope, no entrada!” Seeing my obvious confusion, he came running over and introduced himself by way of tattooed name on his forearm. Pito explained that the attraction I had come to see, was closed, in preparation for a visit from the Pontiff. Pito and I were on the road below Cristo Rei of Dili, a magnificent statue of Christ with welcoming arms, standing atop a globe. Reminiscent of Rio de Janeiro’s Christ the Redeemer, the statue was built by the Indonesian Government during its occupation. “It’s OK,” Pito assured me, “I can tell you history.” The sun bounced off his dusty hard hat. The history of Timor-Leste (pron. less-tay) is a long and bloody one. After 400 years as a Portuguese colony, a coup in Lisbon encouraged the East Timorese to declare independence in 1975. In the lead-up there were border incursions by Indonesian militia, a prequel to a full-scale invasion. The film Balibo, about the five Australian journalists killed during those incursions and journalist Roger East who was executed, is an excellent, if gut-wrenching, watch. During the 24 years of Indonesian rule more than 200,000 Timorese lost their lives. Many Kiwis will remember that New Zealand was part of the UN peacekeeping force in East Timor after a referendum on independence in 1999. Private Leonard Manning of the New Zealand Army was one of those who paid the ultimate sacrifice, killed in action while defending the freedom of the East Timorese. While the suffering of the past is never far from the country’s collective memory, these days Timor-Leste is on friendly terms with its neighbours, is eager to prosper, and keen to show the world what it has to offer. A country of boundless natural beauty, it’s fair to say that intrepid travellers will get more out of it than someone who loves their creature comforts. Don’t get me wrong, there are 4-star hotels in Dili and Timor-Leste is gearing up for more tourism. But part of the charm is the unique opportunity to experience a country that hasn’t yet been commercialised. Even the arrival process is uncomplicated: you line up for a visa (US$30 cash only), you get your stamp, you walk around the corner, you pick up your bag, you buy a local SIM card (very important), and the next thing you know you’re in Dili. Getting around the capital is best done by microlet – colourful, numbered minibuses that follow set routes. They’re easy to hail down, and when you’re ready to get off you tap the metal handrail with a coin. It costs 25 centavos (about 40c) no matter how far you go. Getting around the rest of the country though, that’s another story, and usually requires your own set of wheels. I was lucky enough to have two Timorese, Guido and Cesar, take me to the easternmost point, Tutuala Beach. It really is off the beaten track. We were bouncing around so much on the deconstructed roads that my Apple Watch asked If I’d like to “Record indoor walk”. Our beachfront accommodation was the community-run Valu Sere, made up of simple rooms with thatched roofs, mosquito nets, and a light. We ate in the open-air dining room metres from the sea enjoying the fish Guido had picked out for dinner. The next morning, we hired a boat to take the 10-minute journey across to instagrammable Jaco Island. Part of the protected Nino Konis Santana National Park, the sand is so white, the ocean ridiculously clear. This is about as deserted a tropical island as you can get. Back in Baucau, the country’s second city, we stocked up on water to explore the nearby countryside in 30-degree heat. Our first stop was Gua Tujuh (the seven caves) where the Japanese fought from in World War II, and the Timorese resistance fought from during the Indonesian occupation. The mountainous landscape is dotted with numerous scenic points, but none as revered as Mount Ariana. At the top of some steep, concrete steps the wind buffeted us as we took in the 360-degree views and looked up to the statue of Maria Auxiliadora. Part of joy of travelling through Timor-Leste is sampling the local cuisine. On the way back to Dili we stopped at a beachside restaurant for some skewered grilled fish, unwrapped our katupa (rice wrapped up in coconut leaf parcels) and dug in with forks and fingers. The local food is very cheap, despite the official currency being US dollars. Timor-Leste now only accepts US $5 denominations upward and uses local Centavos for anything below that. Don’t worry though, it’s all interchangeable. Just make sure you have enough cash before you leave the cities. Select ATMs accept Visa – although they had run out of money after the weekend. Off the coast, Atauro Island looms large. A divers’ and snorkelers’ paradise, travel agents can not only hook you up with dive masters but also accommodation ranging from eco resorts to camping. Even if you’re not an avid diver, the water is so clear that a snorkel and mask is all you’ll need. Back in Dili the cacophony of horns continued as pedestrians skirted around the uncovered manholes. A Ranger full of nuns zoomed past, habits flapping out the open windows. In a country that’s 95% Catholic it’s no surprise that Pope Francis is visiting, the first Pope to do so since the late 1980s. Papa Francisco will get a very Timorese welcome, full of warmth and respect and love. He will get to climb the steps to Cristo Rei and look out at Asia’s newest county. And I’m sure Pito will be there, calling out to him. Details Flights: From Darwin or Bali daily Tourism Timor-Leste: https://visiteasttimor.com/timor/ Original publication: Sunday Star-Times < Previous Next >