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Indonesia’s centuries-old shadow puppet-making tradition as practiced by artisans today​ < Back Wayang Kulit Makers of Java The Jungle Journal 16 Feb 2024 Indonesia’s centuries-old shadow puppet-making tradition as practiced by artisans today Y ogya (pron. Jo-Ja) is considered the cultural centre of Java, and post-independence from the Dutch, it was briefly the capital of Indonesia. Wayang kulit makers tend to live and work in the outskirts of this particular city, where the roads narrow and tyre stores give way to sugar cane. Wayang kulit , Indonesia’s sacred shadow puppet show, is a form of traditional theatre complete with gamelan orchestra and a puppet master called a dalang . It is mainly practiced in Java and Bali, based on Hindu stories such as the Mahabharata. Top shows cost over 50,000,000 IRP (£2,600) to put on, including the Dalang, gamelan orchestra and decorative set. However, during the COVID pandemic walang kulit shows were banned as large gatherings were prohibited, so the creators turned to producing work for collectors. Walang kulit puppets are produced on demand for both dalang and for collectors who spend tens of thousands of pounds to expand their collection. The true craftsmen follow the rules and customs set down centuries ago for the design and creation of the wayang kulit characters, which are far more intricate than souvenir versions. The production time for each puppet varries but ranges from two weeks to a month, depending on the amount of detailed work required. The puppets themselves are made of fine buffalo skin ( kulit means skin) which is sketched out, cut, shaped, sanded and then chiselled using a set of fine tools made from bicycle spokes. The puppets are then delicately painted; the more expensive wayang kulit puppets feature gold leaf imported from China. Some walang kulit makers use hammers made out of buffalo horn, and the rods, handling spine and joints are all made of buffalo bone. There are so many characters that when you ask the wayang kulit makers how many there are they tend to laugh and roll their eyes – every character has versions of the character as well. While these artisans all learnt at the hands of a master before them, the revival in interest in the last 25 years in Java’s cultural heritage has led to walang kulit courses now being taught at Yogyakarta’s ISI Faculty of Fine Arts (Jurusan Seni Murni FSR ISI). Those who collect walang kulit keep them in large coffin-like boxes, lying flat one on top of another, with each box dedicated to a craftsman. The mixing of puppets made by different makers would be noticed immediately. Collectors can spend tens of thousands of pounds on expanding their set of puppets, joining waitlists to secure the most prized gold leaf puppets. Old wayang kulit puppets are very treasured – I was shown one 150 years old. Traditional performances of walang kulit can last for up to nine hours although these days there are ‘cut down’ versions for shorter, younger attention spans. It is the dalang, the puppet master, who controls the marionettes, putting on different voices and improvising with topical news, politics, and religious subjects of the day. Supporting him is a gamelan orchestra, a collection of Indonesian percussive instruments that are played such harmony that it is considered part of gotorong royung – the life philosophy of working together to communally support each other. These shows and performances can be watched from the front where the colourful puppets appear as shadows illuminated by halogen lights, or from the back to see the dalang in action as the gamelan plays. This photo essay features: Mr Sarjiano , a walang kulit craftsman since 1980. Now operating out of a small workshop at the front of his house, he has been a guest presenter many times at schools to discuss and demonstrate his craft. Mr Jumakir , has been a walang kulit craftsman for 46 years and is now working out of one of the more well-known studios, Sagio Griya Ukir Kulit (Sagio Puppet Handicraft). Mr Suryadi , an extensive Wayang Kulit collector, who puts on shows once a week for local children to learn about the traditions at Kali Opak restaurant and gallery @kaliopak.wo Tour organized by Mr Deny , Yogyakarta Tour Guide Originally Published in The Jungle Journal < 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 >

“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 >

"Um, aren’t we a little low?!” shouted my fellow passenger over the Cessna’s engine. She was right of course, we were only 50 metres above the ground and below us impala were scattering everywhere. “No, of course not,” I reassured her while secretly enjoying a personal ‘Out of Africa’ moment as she gripped the armrest. < Back Kenya's Lion Warriors New Zealand Herald 11 Dec 2018 "Um, aren’t we a little low?!” shouted my fellow passenger over the Cessna’s engine. She was right of course, we were only 50 metres above the ground and below us impala were scattering everywhere. “No, of course not,” I reassured her while secretly enjoying a personal ‘Out of Africa’ moment as she gripped the armrest. We were half an hour out from Samburu airstrip in central Kenya, a wee spot on the map just inches above the equator, and the entry point to Samburu National Reserve. The landing wasn’t pleasant. My fellow passenger gave me a pained smile as she mumbled off the plane. Unlike her, I wasn’t there to go on safari; it was the guardians of the animals who interested me. “Super!” came the crisp New England welcome from behind a beige Land Rover. Strolling towards me was Tina Ramme, a Professor in Biology who tracks nomadic male lions for six months of the year and lectures at Harvard the other six. (I later learned she was actually saying ‘ su pa ’ which is ‘hi’ in Samburu language, as opposed to being really happy to meet me). Strapping myself in, we bumped our way across the east African wilderness, passing through the reserve – an unexpected safari of elephants, giraffes, baboons and ostriches. Exiting the park, a small plaque caught my eye: “In memory of Elsa, who helped safeguard this game reserve”. “You’ve heard of Elsa, right?” Tina asked. Elsa the Lioness was a young orphaned cub, adopted as a pet by game warden George Adamson and his wife Joy in the 1950s. They released her into the wild and their story, Born Free, went on to sell 5 million books and was turned into an Academy Award-winning film. I nodded affirmatively. Years on from Elsa, the presence of lions is still a hot topic. While the park is a guarded national reserve, the massive area around it is untamed land where lions and humans have co-existed for centuries, sometimes not so peacefully. Which is where Tina came in. “No lions have been killed by a Samburu since 2006,” she said proudly. Working with the Lion Conservation Fund for the best part of a decade now, her specialty is lions who are expelled from a pride – when they threaten the leader – and then become nomadic. But researching nomadic lions is, unsurprisingly, no easy thing. She realised early on that she needed the help of the moran (warriors) of the Samburu tribe, known for their tracking abilities. The moran (pron. mo-rahn) are the fearsome face of the Samburu, still traditionally dressed and armed with spears, and now with cell phones. The Lion Warrior project they are part of not only empowers them to track lions, but also helps educate their communities about the wider role conservation has to play in today’s Kenya. “It’s interesting,” she mused, “The moran have so many parallels to nomadic lions. They both are kicked out of families early in life and can’t return for a number of years.” I looked puzzled so she explained. The moran are the second stage of life for the Samburu male – after childhood and before ‘elder’ – that begins when the young male is 12 to 14. At that age they are circumcised (women are still circumcised too) and must leave home and join other moran in fending for themselves. Over the next 15 years they learn to hunt, kill, protect and live in the bush, and only after that period are they allowed to return to their boma (village), having shown that they are responsible enough to marry and raise a family. “You’ll get to meet them soon.” Sure enough, as we arrived at Sabache Eco-Lodge at the foot of the mountain O’Lolokwe, I was introduced to my helper, a young moran named Dickson. The lodge, run by the Samburu community, was far from what I expected. Described as a ‘traditional African bush camp’, my room came complete with hand-crafted furniture, stone ensuite, solar power and sundowners whenever I wanted them. Mornings started with watching elephants rummage in the riverbed below; days were spent chilling on my own private veranda; and in the evenings the campfire beckoned as dinner was shared with other guests – rock climbers, film crews, tourists and families. Over the next 15 years they learn to hunt, kill, protect and live in the bush, and only after that period are they allowed to return to their boma (village). “Do you want to meet the warriors?” asked Dickson with a wry smile.The moran were returning to camp having tracked lions over the previous few days. Once pawprints or other signs are spotted, they can identify the size and age of the animal they’re following. When they see the lions, they keep a healthy distance and report their observations to Tina once back at camp. I took the opportunity to ask them, through Dickson, what their day had involved. Suddenly, these serious young men become animated, pointing and gesturing down the valley towards the mountain. Dickson explained that three of the nomadic lions had banded together and were hunting in a mini-pack. Seeing this sort of activity in person was very rare and the moran were obviously proud. I was invited to join them for a meal. “Ohhhh, a goat! Now that’s something special,” said Tina knowingly, when I told her where I was off to. I arrived just as ‘lunch’ was being unloaded from the back of a motorbike. Held down by four warriors the animal bleated into submission, its body still. One of the moran put a knife to the goat’s throat, slowly, shallowly, slicing down the skin to part its coat under the neck. A quick nick, and then blood started flowing into the pocket of skin that had been created. One by one the moran put their lips to the pool of blood, sucking in the rich redness as the goat slowly died. The sacrifice wasn’t just because of lunch; the moran were contributing to a celebration that was being held that night. The entrails and liver were carefully wrapped and taken to the entrance of the nearby boma. “We are not allowed to eat with our family,” explained Titus, another moran, “so this is the closest we get.” My timing could not have been better. 29 days before I arrived there had been a blood moon eclipse where the moon ‘disappeared’. In the customs of the Samburu, the only way to guarantee its return is sing at it to bring it back. Tonight was the first full moon since the lunar eclipse and I was about to attend “The Moon is Back” party. The colourful Samburu women were gathered in a group in front of me, their bright beads bouncing upwards as they jumped and sang to welcome the Moon back. Nearby, elders drank tea while keeping an eye on the excitable children. Knowing I was a photographer, the women each lined up to have their picture taken. After seeing her portrait, one of them said something in Samburu to the group which got them all laughing. “What did she say?” I asked worryingly. “Don’t worry,” I was told,” She just said that you’d whispered that she was the most beautiful!” The eating started and the celebrations got under way. Taking my leave before it got too late, I crossed the riverbed on the way back to the lodge. Under the trees I could make out the Lion Warriors sitting around a fire, finishing off the remains of the goat. Away from their family, living the traditions that has kept the Samburu strong, and having their last meal before preparing to track the lions one more time. The Moon was indeed back. Details Fly: From Nairobi, depart Wilson Airport on Safari Air / Air Kenya to Samburu Visit: Samburu National Reserve www.samburu.net USD70 entry fee Activities: Samburu safari, village visits, camping, bush walks, rock climbing, birding Stay: Sabache Eco-lodge sabachecamp.com Visa: eVisa required www.evisa.go.ke USD50, valid 3months before travel Travel tip: Check the luggage allowance of any small planes you’re travelling on. Most have a 15kg maximum allowance including hand luggage, all to be in soft bags. Original publication: New Zealand Herald < 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 >

Marden was ashen, it was obvious that the poison was starting to take effect. I knew what would happen next – the toxins making their way into his bloodstream, then his glands and finally hitting his central nervous system. With a small first aid kit there was nothing I could do. Not that he wanted me to. < Back Peru Navidad Sunday Star-Times 26 Jan 2020 Marden was ashen, it was obvious that the poison was starting to take effect. I knew what would happen next – the toxins making their way into his bloodstream, then his glands and finally hitting his central nervous system. With a small first aid kit there was nothing I could do. Not that he wanted me to. Marden, my Peruvian guide, has just taken kambo , a ritualistic poisoning sourced from the secretions of a spreadeagled giant monkey frog. Moments before, the village apo (chief) Julio had mixed the dried poison on a tamshi stick before applying it to two spots he had burnt into Marden’s shoulder. Kambo is renowned amongst the Matses tribe for giving a man more energy, greater strength and sexual stamina. The only thing rising right now though was Marden’s lunch as he began to violently vomit. Julio, his two wives and seven children looked on. I was deep in the Peruvian Amazon in a sleepy fishing village not far from the Brazilian border. I had come to spend time with the indigenous Matses (pron. ma-sez), who had only made permanent contact with the outside world in 1969. Since then spears and beads had been replaced with iPhones and adidas, but there were still some elders who followed the traditional ways. “ Passe ,” beckoned Julio, inviting me to the back of his house. Stabbed into the thatched roof were several piercing arrows which he used to hunt wild boar. As he drew his bow to demonstrate his hunting prowess, I could see a glint of pride in his eyes. Julio belonged to the last generation to have the mark of the Matses – a geometrical pattern tattooed from ear to ear. Now faded across his weathered face, his father had inked him half a century ago when he was 10 years old. It was the same marking shared by his wives, said to be done so a Matses ‘never gets lost’ amongst others. It was the same marking shared by his wives, said to be done so a Matses ‘never gets lost’ amongst others. Two of his children joined us. Beads criss-crossed their breasts and stripes of face paint represented the blood of their ancestors. One tried to hold her younger brother in place as he fidgeted with a palm headpiece. The Matses are known as the ‘jaguar people’ and older women insert whiskers of thin bamboo shoots into their noses to represent their feline association. A groan came from Marden as he supported himself against a pole. He didn’t look well. Cheers erupted outside. It was Navidad and the first fútbol match of the day was being played on a concrete court (due to the usual pitch being under the rain-swollen Rio Galvez). All the big names were here – Messi, Ronaldo, Neymar – although somewhat shorter in stature. A sharp midfield cross, a lunging header, GOOAALLL! A 7-year old crossed himself and pointed to the sky, frowning when his celebrations were cut short by the village loudspeaker crackling into life. “ Atencion, atencion!” Before the words had even finished the boys started running, shoving and pushing each other towards the community hall, knowing what lay in wait. There they joined the village’s other children, holding out plastic mugs for Christmas cocoa and waiting for a slice of panettone cake that had come all the way from Iquitos. Ahh, humid, wet, noisy Iquitos. The biggest city in the world inaccessible by road was my starting point for the Amazon, or to be precise, a Peruvian Air Force base. Grupo Aero 42 operated the Twin Otter seaplane that was going to get me and another dodgy looking turista into the jungle. There were strict weight limits for the flight so onto the scales with my luggage I went. “ Doce soles por favor senior”. Hmmmm, maybe one too many helpings of rice the night before. Handing over the 12 soles, soon we were onboard, powering forward until our wake on the Rio Morona was no more. Once landed in the provincial capital of Colonia Angamos it was then a 7-hour boat trip to the village which would become my home for a week. Julio helped Marden to his feet as colour returned to his pocked cheeks. We ambled back to where we were staying; there was no need to rush. Weaning dogs snoozed on broken footpaths as chickens lazily got out of the way. The slow creak of swaying hammocks filled darkened doorways and in the distance children laughed and splashed. Our house was typical of the Matses. Built on stilts with the family name painted on the door, the main room was for relaxing and eating. The kitchen area off to the side had an open fire (there was no electricity or running water) and behind us mosquito nets marked out sleeping areas. I climbed into mine, too exhausted to care about the oppressive heat. The slow creak of swaying hammocks filled darkened doorways and in the distance children laughed and splashed. The next day began before dawn as our host Sebastian had offered to take us hunting. Gliding his peka-peka boat over the glassy surface we drifted silently through the parting mist. A family of spider monkeys rustled from tree to tree, disturbing a pair of Blue and Yellow Macaws as they were eying the activity below. Once on land my newly acquired gumboots were proving their $11 worth, testing rotten logs and untangling twisted vines. Sebastian, gun in hand, stopped to point out a recent hoof-print of a majoz – a favourite edible rodent. Squinting at the undergrowth ahead he stealthily moved forward while we held back. Minutes later Sebastian returned and said something softly in Matses. “It was too fast amigo !” laughed Marden with a bounce in his step. At last, the kambo energy was beginning to kick in. Details Where: Village of Buen Peru, Loreta region, Peru Getting there: Fly from Auckland to Lima, Peru via Santiago, Chile, and then on to Iquitos. Take a military seaplane from Iquitos to Colonia Angamos. From there it’s a 7-8 hour motorised canoe trip to the village. Staying there: You’ll be hosted in local houses in the jungle but spoil yourself and check into the Hilton Iquitos on the way back. Eating there: Local food includes fish heads, turtle soup, paca rodents, green bananas and yuca (jungle potatoes). Only drink bottled water though. Currency: 1 Peruvian sol (S./) = $0.45. It is best to take small notes such as 10 and 20 soles and expect to tip your guide and porter at the end of the trip. Travel tips: You are going to get hot and wet so take breathable Gore-Tex and merino. Double the amount of mosquito repellent you were thinking of taking. Original publication: Sunday Star-Times < Previous Next >

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 >

“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 >

I first saw it through a 1973 Holden Belmont station wagon’s smoke-stained window. Staring back at 11-year-old me was a blue and yellow sign: ‘Pig Dog Training School / Bookbinder’. Located just outside of Torere, Joshua Kauta’s iconic landmark still stands, symbolising the next 300 kilometres. Known yet mysterious, friendly yet wary, this is the East Coast. < Back Cruising down the Highway 35 New Zealand Herald 5 Mar 2024 I first saw it through a 1973 Holden Belmont station wagon’s smoke-stained window. Staring back at 11-year-old me was a blue and yellow sign: ‘Pig Dog Training School / Bookbinder’. Located just outside of Torere, Joshua Kauta’s iconic landmark still stands, symbolising the next 300 kilometres. Known yet mysterious, friendly yet wary, this is the East Coast. State Highway 35 is its vein, an artery of townships that have risen and fallen with the tide of resources, people and politics. And yet this narrow, storm-beaten road attracts more passion than perhaps any other. ‘35’ logos proudly sit across low-hanging trackies, XXL tees and well-worn bucket hats. 35, the TikTok sensation by the 24-rangatahi choir Ka Hao and Rob Ruha has over 5 million views on YouTube. Driving the road you can see why. Honour guards of rata canopy across the sticky tarmac while almighty ponga stand sentinel over isolated coves. Beehives and bulls fall into the rear vision mirror, as a new Haere Mai approaches. Each township has its own unique ways. Te Kaha is home to the strikingly carved wharenui Tūkākī, next to a memorial dedicated to the Māori Battalion's C Company. Just before it is the Te Kaha Beach Resort complete with swimming pool, sea views, restaurant and event facilities. The Coast, authentic yet polished. As the road curves a bright star appears on the isthmus. Raukokore’s church, its external beams glistening, is as picturesque as it is isolated. The Pacific laps metres away as a stallion nonchalantly looks up. A single ute’s exhaust splutters and then the quiet returns once again. Further on the gears shift down, as does the pace. Fans of Taika Waititi pay homage to Boy’s Michael Jackson moves in front of the Waihau Bay Post Office, as kuia roll their eyes and chuckle. Fisherman patiently wait their turn to use the popular boat ramp as the sea begins to settle. After Hicks Bay the first straight heads towards Te Araroa and a carpet of needles under Te Waha o Rerekohu, the largest Pohutukawa in New Zealand. I played on it as a kid; there’s now a sign politely asking you not to. The most easterly point of State Highway 35 is at Tikitiki. Atop its hill sits the historic St Marys, widely considered to be the most beautiful Māori church in New Zealand. Sunlight strikes the stained glass window depicting two soldiers kneeling at the feet of Christ, below them sit glowing pews. Kowhaiwhai and tukutuku panels bathe in the light, embracing the intricately carved pulpit. The church, which was built as a memorial to Ngati Porou who sacrificed their lives in the Great War, has been lovingly restored over the last two decades. State Highway 35 is its vein, an artery of townships that have risen and fallen with the tide of resources, people and politics. Under the watch of the maunga Hikurangi, the first place to see the Sun, lies Ruatoria. Home of Pa War s - officially the Ngati Porou inter-marae challenge – every year over 20 marae come together for a day of competing fun. As varied as the Coast’s landscape the battles range from sprints to karaoke to euchre. A chorus of ‘chur bro’ sings out as kids collapse over the finish line into the embrace of cheering whanau. Pa Wars is a welcome respite from a tough 18 months on the Coast. Floods, road closures, and of course, COVID-19 restrictions have all affected it. Erosion is no stranger to State Highway 35 either; the roads can be as uneven as the weather. Following another vehicle on the Coast forges an anonymous bond, a shared sense of navigating dips and swerving rocks, until they break away for their own journey as the road winds on. The gastronomical pull of Tokomaru Bay is too strong to drive by. Served fresh and creamy, Café 35’s famous Paua Pies fuel locals and tourists alike. Heads turn as trays breeze past, the waft of hot flaky pastry delivered with a knowing smile, making the wait worth it. The pies travel well, making their half-eaten way to nearby ‘secret’ Anaura Bay. This stunning bay embodies ‘getting away from it all’, its long sandy beach bookended by DOC and commercial camping grounds. The biggest township on the East Coast happens to have the longest wharf in New Zealand. Buttressed by easterly swells the Tolaga Bay wharf can be a stirring sight; a reminder of the respect Tangaroa commands. Light-coloured driftwood touched by fingers of ocean tentatively rests as the tide comes in one more time. A determined father with stroller heads towards the end of the pier, hair askew and hands clasped tightly. Waiting for him when he gets back are Broad Bills’ cheesy wheezies curly fries, a just reward for such a long walk. Beyond Tolaga Bay the road straightens as it makes its way to Gisborne. Behind it is a unique unspoiled land, threaded with a living, breathing highway. The Coast, like State Highway 35 itself, is still a little rough around the edges, but nothing a 1973 Holden Belmont station wagon can’t handle. Details Getting there: Self-drive from Opotiki to Gisborne or vice-versa. 4WD is best. Accommodation: Te Kaha Beach Resort, Hicks Bay Motor Lodge, Freedom camping Stop at: Te Kaha, Waihau Bay, Te Araroa, Tikitiki, Tokomaru Bay, Anaura Bay, Tolaga Bay Web: tairawhitigisborne.co.nz/see-and-do/statehighway35/ Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

“Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, cause every little thing, gonna be al-riiight…” It seemed only appropriate that Bob Marley blared out the front of the pick-up as we bounced along the dirt road. After all, this was the country of Emperor Haile Selassie, recognised by Rastafarians as the Massiah of African Redemption and head of their religion. < Back Better than a Band Aid New Zealand Herald 12 Jan 2016 “Don’t worry ‘bout a thing, cause every little thing, gonna be al-riiight…” It seemed only appropriate that Bob Marley blared out the front of the pick-up as we bounced along the dirt road. After all, this was the country of Emperor Haile Selassie, recognised by Rastafarians as the Massiah of African Redemption and head of their religion. Not that any of that mattered as we dodged goats and dug into ruts. I was on my way to the Lower Valley of the Omo, a great swathe of land in Southern Ethiopia, to spend time volunteering with the Hamar tribe. Our driver had taken a ‘short cut’ as he’d heard that one of their most important rituals was taking place: the Jumping of the Bulls. Ukuli is a three day coming-of-age ceremony that every Hamar boy must go through in order to prove himself a man. We arrived just in time for the whipping. “Aiii, Aiiiiii!”, a young woman was screaming as she struggled against her mother, pleading to be let go. She broke away and ran to the half-naked man holding an acacia branch. Crack! The whip came down and her skin opened. The young woman smiled with pleasure – a showing of her dedication and love to the boy. It was an eye-opening introduction to the Hamar tribe. As the bleeding women created a bell-ringing frenzy, the men tugged the beasts into place. Tails were held, horns were gripped. The boy jumper looked nervous. He dropped his modest goatskin and leapt up on the first bull. Scampering naked across their backs he made it to the far end and back six times. He was now maza (an unmarried man who had jumped bulls), and was ready to go to the bush while his family selected a bride for him. It made our version of proposing seem a little easy. Going to Ethiopia is like going back in time. For a start they use a different calendar with 13 months in a year, so right now it’s 2008 – I lost 7 years just by getting off the plane. Not only are the years different but so are the hours. The clock starts at 6am. 4 hours after 6am it’s 4 o’clock. 2 hours before 6am is 10 o’clock. But they use both their clock and the farangi (foreigner) clock. Confusing as hell when you want to arrange a meeting time. Most of what we’ve heard about Ethiopia is shaped by images of the 1984 famine. Civil war, a drought and crop shortages all combined to make the situation so dire that Bob Geldoff put together ‘BandAid’ – a concert of the world’s biggest singers to raise funds for the suffering. Unfortunately that legacy lives on, with many today thinking the country is not much more than a dust-bowl. Although it does have serious drought in places, our camp looked out onto lush green bush speckled with brown paths. I was volunteering with an organisation called Big Beyond, an accredited NGO in the UK, Uganda and Ethiopia. They appealed because of their belief that more can be achieved through sharing knowledge than with handouts, and I also liked that they tailored projects to suit a person’s skills. My job was to document the lifestyles of the Hamar for a future cutural centre. My fellow volunteer Luke, a lawyer from the UK, was running business sessions and helping to set up a cottage honey industry. Jilly, a researcher for UK Statistics, was surveying the Hamar and tourists to see what both wanted when it comes to tourism. Crack! The whip came down and her skin opened. “T.I.A,” said Fiona, the manager when I arrived. “Huh?” “T.I.A. This is Africa. Oh and watch out for the scorpions” she added cheerily. What she meant was that if you don’t like flies and dirt and bugs and dust and heat then you’re better off staying at home. There was no electricity, no cellphone coverage, no internet, no running water. Our camp was next to Shele vilage, on land that had been gifted to Big Beyond by the head donza (elder). Shele is all that you imagine an African village to be: thatched roof huts, fenced off goat pens, cows wandering around, a boca where the donza sit, fields of maize and a water pump in the distance. We were considered part of the village and it was not unusual to find two strangers outside your ornay (hut) in the morning chatting away in Hamar, also the name of their language. The camp itself was still being finished when I arrived although it already had the luxury of our own personal huts, an outdoor shower, loo-with-a-view, parafin lamps, a dinning-cum-talking table under the cool shade and an outdoor kitchen. We also had a lame three-legged goat and two resident crows. “Rise up this mornin’, smile with the risin’ sun, three little birds, pitch by my doorstep… The days began with an orchestral warm up of percussional cowbells, a choir of birdsong, baying goats, the crack of whips and the occasional gunshot bringing them all into line. Breakfast was cooked by our resident chef Miley and usually consisted of porridge or eggs and then it was off to do our projects with the nearby Hamar. The Hamar, like a lot of subsistence tribes, still have traditional roles for men and women. The men protect and decide; looking after the lifestock and managing the crops. The women are the heavy lifters; carrying back-bending loads of firewood and sorghum – a type of maize – as well as being responsible for raising the children, cooking and looking after the household. Hamar men often have more than one wife, and the first wive is chosen as young as 7 so the marriage doesn’t take place until she reaches child-bearing age. Part of my project was spending time with a second wife, Hayto, so it was off to her hut I went. “Fiyo” I called out, contorting myself through the small, low, entrance. “Fiyene” came the reply from everyone inside – Hayto, the other wive, their husband, a younger brother, 3 sons, 4 babies and a neighbouring teacher. Everyone had squeezed in for morning buno, the local version of coffee made of dried-up coffee husks, ladelled into a half calabash shell. All eyes were on this farangi as I sat cross-legged and took the first sip. It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Hamar women are extremely photogenic, their beautiful black skin topped with copper-coloured goscha dreadlocks, a twisted mix of ochre, water and hand-shaken butter. For 5 Birr (35c) you can photograph them in all their finery: colourful chickeny necklaces, brass coils around their wrists, kashe goat skin loosely draped over their bare breasts and, unique to first wives, a leather necklace with a metallic portrusion symbolising fertility. For a start they use a different calendar with 13 months in a year – I lost 7 years just by getting off the plane. After breakfast we started the 17km walk to the nearest town. The occasional tree gave respite from the vicious sun. Vultures circled in the distance. At the edge of a dry river bed a head emerged from a deep hole and called out, offering braken water. The market was still an hour away.Turmi is a small speck of a town, a wide dirt road pimpled with concrete-walled shops. It smells of goat and sweat. The only reason to visit Turmi is the markets, where Hamar from all over the woreda gather to buy and sell – be it coffee, sorghum or tempo (a snuff tobacco). This is where the Hamar also make money by having tourists take their photo. The men’s showpiece is their hair; they take great pride in shaping their locks and often accessorise with hairpins, feathers (for the muza) or clay-moulded hairpieces. In the villages Hamar men usually walk around bare-chested or wrapped in a sheet called kardi when it’s cold, in the town they wear more Westernised tops.The Hamar have no pockets – it’s said because they have nothing to hide – so one thing men carry is their borkoto, a wooden seat no more than 15cm high. You can purchase your own intricately carved one from the market, as well as wooden dolls adorned with chickeny, goat skins to take home and the ubiquitous patterned gourds. Plus of course enough food for dinner that night. Back at the volunteer camp cooking was done over an open fire. There were always root vegetables to be had and on special occasions we ate goat, although it was a little disconcerting having lunch tied up next to you. The main Ethiopian food is injera, a type of spongy thin bread that forms the base of a dish piled with food such as chicken wat, a kind of spicy curry. You tear off a piece of injera, scoop up some wat and eat with your hand. If you’re lucky you can wash it down with some of the local areke liquor. At dinner each night we exchanged stories, listened to some battery powered music and laughed at our First World problems. The downing sun was slowly replaced by a spectacular moonrise. Under the Milky Way it was easy to appreciate the simplicity of Hamar life. Sitting around the table we all agreed that volunteering had opened our eyes to a part of Africa we would never have seen. Being in an unspoilt land and immersing yourself in another culture is not for everyone, but to see first hand the good you can do was a reward in itself. It was worth that long, bumpy, reggae-filled ride down the dirt road. “Sayin’, this is my message to you-ou-ou.” Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

The town known for those fat juicy you-know-whats, and the place where every New Zealand fundraising ride / walk / tour seems to end, is having a modern-day renaissance. Bluff is one of the oldest settlements in New Zealand but rather than resting on its oyster laurels its quickly becoming a destination of its own. < Back Why Bluff is the New Hotspot you must Visit New Zealand Herald 19 Mar 2024 The town known for those fat juicy you-know-whats, and the place where every New Zealand fundraising ride / walk / tour seems to end, is having a modern-day renaissance. Bluff is one of the oldest settlements in New Zealand but rather than resting on its oyster laurels its quickly becoming a destination of its own. So grab some cheese rolls, chase away the seagulls, start rolling your rrrs, and make plans to visit the most innovative town in Southland… The Bluffies “The demand never ceases to amaze me,” says Graeme White of Barnes Oysters, with a wry smile. Operating a number of Bluff’s oyster fleet, he’s already gearing up for what promises to be a busy season. Sustainability and health of the wild fishery is always top of mind, so scientific testing is regularly taking place. This year’s harvest is expected to outshine the last three. “The thing we hear the most from visitors? ‘These are the best I’ve tasted in the world’”. After a three year hiatus the iconic Bluff Oyster & Food Festival is back, having undergone somewhat of a revival. Expect to see those plump, succulent raw oysters freshly shucked by a pro, with just a squeeze of lemon or dab of vinegar added before being passed to eager hands. Once you reach peak oyster (can one even do that?), there’s all things oyster-adjacent to chow down on. The one day festival is scheduled for 25th May with tickets likely to be snapped up as soon as they go on sale. Don’t forget to pack a warm coat, hat and scarf, along with a decent appetite, and get that smooth, briny sweetness inside you. Kai with a twist Kaimoana from Te Ara a Kiwa / Foveaux Strait has been appreciated by local Ngāi Tahu long before the arrival of sealers, whalers and traders. Today Bluff is one of the few places where you can experience Māori cuisine with a contemporary twist. “We use sustainable indigenous ingredients all the time – I picked these this morning.” Haylee-Chanel Simeon was holding out bright pikopiko shoots that she’d foraged from Motupōhue / Bluff Hill just hours ago. Better known as Hayz, her eponymous restaurant Hayz @ The Anchorage is a full immersion experience. “We can tell you where the food came from, who brought it to us, and when they harvested it. It’s all about manaakitanga, treating those who come here with respect for sharing our love of the kai.” I looked at the menu. It was a toss-up between the tītī / mutton birds – a rich, gamey-flavoured delicacy only harvested in Rakiura / Stewart Island – and the blue cod. “If you don’t want to get food envy, this is the one to go for,” Hayz pointed helpfully. I didn’t want to get food envy. The Bluffie Board platter was spectacular: creamy pāua filling in a crispy wonton(!), salted tītī on toasted bruschetta with blueberry and balsamic glaze, freshwater whitebait fritters sourced from southland rivers, steamed Rakiura green-lipped mussels in a garlic sauce, the fresh beer-battered blue cod, all topped with those green pikopiko shoots. Gin Time A little further up the road is Ocean Beach, home to the country’s newest gin distillery and producer of Bluff Gin. The brainchild of local food entrepreneurs with the support of the wider community, it was officially opened by Sir Tipene O’Regan. Distiller Chris Fraser was there to meet me. Reaching behind the copper and stainless steel still, he handed me one of their signature bottles: a buoy-shaped cut-glass aqua-tinted vessel. “It’s a classic London Dry. Can you smell the juniper forward and citrus and spice? Goes best with East Imperial tonic. Plus it doesn’t have any seaweed or oysters!” he laughed. “We’re having it available here first ‘cause it’s all about Bluff, and then it’ll be available online and at your flash Auckland bars!” The distillery is the centrepiece of what will be a new hospitality venue looking out to Ocean Beach’s pounding surf and the silhouette of Rakiura – a bonus view as you take another sip of Bluff with a wedge of lime. Tours with bite Beyond that pounding surf lies the Northern Tītī Islands, their waters home to the great white shark. Foveaux Strait is one of only five places in the world where you can go cage diving to see these majestic predators close up, and Bluff’s Shark Experience is New Zealand’s sole shark cage diving operator. Never dived before? Not a problem says Shark Experience’s Nikki Ladd. “We’re not just for experienced divers – 90% of the people on our boat today are novices.” All the dive gear is provided and if you’re new to the underwater world you can learn how to use a regulator as part of a training session, so by the time the boat anchors you’re ready to go. You can even hire a GoPro to earn those Insta likes. Great whites are the most common sharks they see, with Mako and Blues joining in as well. So, what attracts these protected white pointers to the area? “We call it ‘amorous activites’,” says Nikki with air quotes and a broad smile. As we were leaving another two tourists came in and added their names to the waitlist, mesmerised by the close-up photos decorating the walls. Not your usual farm Bluff’s newest tourist attraction is a farm, but not the type you’d expect. Based out of the former Ocean Beach Freezing Works, Foveaux Pāua’s farm tour is a fascinating insight into Bluff’s land-based aquaculture industry. I was lucky enough to get a sneak preview of the tour from Foveaux Pāua director Blair Wolfgram. “This is the only place in the world you can tour a 100 year old meat works that’s been turned into a pāua, whitebait and seaweed farm!”, he grinned. The tour starts by paying homage to the site’s past life, passing through the old Working Men’s tunnel and walking by faded signs of stock kill numbers. On the mezzanine level, Blair patiently explained what was happening in each of the pāua tanks, from larvae through to fully grown adults. No question seemed too dumb and as we reached the ‘touch tank’ he spoke of the importance of pāua to not only Māori but also other indigenous peoples who know it as abalone. The best thing about the tour launching soon? At the end of it you can buy some pāua to take home to eat. The Heritage While the old freezing works is more recent history, it’s been 200 years since the first European was granted permission from local Māori to settle at Motupōhue / Bluff Hill - a man by the name of James Spencer who was a veteran of Waterloo (the Napoleonic one, not the ABBA one) and a survivor of two New Zealand shipwrecks. Of course, Motupōhue / Bluff Hill has always held a special place for Ngai Tahu, which was recognised with a statutory acknowledgement in the Ngāi Tahu Claims Settlement Act and also granted Tōpuni status (a legal recognition of its importance) in 2020. From the top of the hill you can look down to another slice of history – ‘Rotten Row’. This ships graveyard is a ccessible from SH1 via a 15 minute walk along a palm-fringed boardwalk to Green Point, where at low tide you can see the remains of scuttled ships left to rot on the mudflats. Former Norwegian, New Zealand, Samoan and Australian ships of the Bluff oyster fleet rest there, with viewing panel descriptions such as ‘accidentally sunk by explosives’ and ‘known for its uncomfortable crossings’. Made for walking Most people know that Bluff’s Stirling Point is the start – or end – of New Zealand’s 3000km Te Araroa trail, but lesser known are the short walks, bush walks, coastal walks, and hill walks throughout the surrounding area. After you’ve got your mandatory photo of the Stirling Point sign (all directions, all the time), why not give the coastal track a go? It’s a good 50-60 minutes one way but an easy grade with coastal scenery. If you’re after something more challenging take the Tōpuni Track – a little steeper so wear good hiking shoes – and make your way up to the 360 ° panoramic view at the top. With a little luck you’ll come across kereru and tui amongst the native rimu and rata. History bluffs (see what I did there) will be drawn to the Bluff Heritage Trail centred around historic sites associated with the town’s most famous son, former Prime Minister Sir Joseph Ward. Along the way you’ll learn about the role whaling, oystering and farming played in the development of the township. The full trail is 20km long but if you’ve got easily-distracted kids you can do it in bite-size chunks. Take in Morrison Beach on the way to the Bluff-granite War Memorial, before venturing to the Bluff Maritime Museum, and visiting the statue dedicated to the messenger boy who became Prime Minister. Street Art When you think ‘Bluff’, art might not be the first thing that comes to mind – but it will be the first thing you see. Bright, lively, site-specific murals have given the town a ‘glow up’ thanks to South Sea Spray, Southland’s mural and street art movement. Street artist Deow is the creative mind behind the community initiative and his Kaua e mate wheke, mate ururoa (Don’t die like the octopus, die like a shark) is one of the most vibrant sights on Gore St. The whole collection of aerosol artworks is stunning: works by Flox & TrustMe, Dcypher and Shane Walker, and my personal favourite, Bring the History to the Future by artist Koryu, featuring an old fisherman looking out past a rusty whaling ship to his next destination. The Pace The next destination for over 20 international cruise ships this season has been… Bluff. Now that the secret is out the town is more than just a day trip from Invercargill. Accommodation options have increased recently with new Air BnBs joining the line-up of holiday homes, local hotels, the camping ground, and the Bluff Lodge backpackers - run by the indomitable Kay Cowper. “Why wouldn’t you want to stay if you’ve come all the way to Bluff?!” she exclaims with mock indignation. It’s an enthusiasm shared by others. “There’s no need to rush your visit,” Tammi Topi of the Bluff Community Board told me, “We’re all about the people, the place and the pace. You can really slow down and enjoy it here.” It’s true that staying overnight gives you a great insight into the community, and enough time to meet some of the town’s unique characters. Thanks to Great South, there’ll soon be Bluff Ambassadors in place to welcome you and share insider knowledge of the must do’s and must see’s - no matter how long you decide to slow down for. Do it for Burt Speed more your thing? Legendary racing motorcyclist Burt Munro, whose record-breaking exploits were celebrated in The World’s Fastest Indian, is honoured every February with the classic Bluff Hill climb. Part of Southland Motorcycle Club’s five day Burt Munro Challenge, riders from all over the country race for the honour of lifting the Fastest Time Trophy. They need to be quick though: this year’s winner took out the 1.4km climb in 44.09 seconds. The crowd certainly gets behind them (and the safety barriers) as the bikes roar round the bends, weaving their way to the top. At $20 a spectator ticket it’s a bargain for some only-in-Bluff high-octane cheering. MTBing It’s not just motorbikes that love Motupōhue / Bluff Hill. Long popular with members of the Southland Mountain Bike Club, and past venue of the National MTB Event Series, the hill is about to become even more of an MTB mecca. Work is currently underway to create new trails as well as upgrade the existing ones , and when the new Bluff Hill Motupōhue Active Recreation Precinct opens in July it’ll consist of 11km of world class mountain biking trails. Catering to total beginners like me (Grade 2) up to the super experienced pros (Grade 4 and 5), there’ll be enough squiggly lines to keep any rider happy no matter what your age, skill or fitness level is. On ya bike then! Details Bluff is 25km southeast of Invercargill on State Highway 1 by self-drive/ride. Air New Zealand operates non-stop flights to Invercargill from Auckland (2 hours), Wellington and Christchurch. Discover more Bluff Tourism Bluff Oyster Festival South Sea Spray murals Hayz @ the Anchorage Bluff Gin Shark Experience Foveaux Pāua Burt Munro Challenge Southland Mountain Bike Club Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >