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< Back Kanamutico meets Boston 28 Oct 2025 A portrait of Kanamutico of the Vatwa tribe will be on display in the US for the first time, as part of the Griffin Museum of Photography's Winter Solstice exhibition. T he portrait of Kanamutico looking out of his hut will be on show in the Boston gallery from December 5. One of the Vatwa tribe located in the Angolan municipality of Oncocua, he follows in the footsteps of the older men in the village who spend their days tending to crops and goats in the nearby fields of this semi-nomadic tribe. < Previous Next >

PROJECTS Shades of Otara Otara, New Zealand Just off New Zealand’s exit 444 is a social institution; a place where, for four decades now, people have come to buy, sell, laugh and sing. These images are an ode to the workers of the Otara Flea Markets, presenting the intersection between the everyday and the special, and balancing quiet moments of contemplation next to natural entrepreneurialism. Previous Next

< Back That Sinking Feeling 2 May 2017 “It’s fair to say that Tuvalu is unlike any other islands you’re likely to visit: small, isolated, beautiful, sleepy and sinking." Guy Needham's latest article about one of the smallest and most low-lying countries in the world, Tuvalu, is the cover story of this week's New Zealand Herald Travel section. < Previous Next >

Platform 3, Beijing Railway Station. And there she was - the fabled Trans-Siberian, ready to take me on the longest train journey in the world. A surreal three countries, five time zones and 8300km of steppe, snow and stations lay ahead... but first of all there was Beijing. < Back The Greatest Train Journey in the World The Press 28 Oct 2010 Platform 3, Beijing Railway Station. And there she was - the fabled Trans-Siberian, ready to take me on the longest train journey in the world. A surreal three countries, five time zones and 8300km of steppe, snow and stations lay ahead... but first of all there was Beijing. Had it not been for this trip I doubt China would have been high on my list. But the Forbidden City, where the last emperor was waited on by eunuchs, and the vast Summer Palace with its myriad of bridges, easily proved me wrong. Thankfully I’d made a pact with my alarm to avoid the hordes of flag waving guides and my reward was an aged souvenir map highlighting the Lingering Interest Courtyard and the Realm of the Multitudinous Fragrance. The palace itself was like antiquity on steroids; a make-believe world that was only opened to the public last century. It was hard to comprehend that I had got there via the modern metro built for the 2008 Olympics, at a very cheap 3Yuan flat rate ($0.60c). Of course, while there were the “must sees” for me the best part of Beijing was the unexpected. Not the Great Wall and the fried silkworms (avoid eating at all costs) but rather the old man singing in the Temple of Heaven, the veiled Chinese belly dancer, and the local in Tiananmen Square who kindly advised that if I kept my daypack on during the flag raising ceremony I risked being “spoken too”. Recent history is never too far away in modern China. But now it was time to leave all that behind. For the spotter, the correct title of the train I was about to board was the Trans-Mongolian, one of three lines that make up what is generally referred to as the Trans-Siberian Railway. Contrary to popular belief there is no express train per se that goes all the way, but instead a variety of carriages and engines that get shuntered together and pulled apart at different stations along the journey. Once on board, I met my new roommates in our 4 berth Kupe class cabin: an Aussie, a Belgian and a Colombian. We pooled our goodies – iPod, cards, bad wine, portable DVD, Lonely Planet guides and more cards – before all trying to unpack at the same time. Luckily I had the advice of a previous traveller, “two levels of packing”. I had no idea what that meant until I found my backpack buried under the bottom bunk and my food, toiletries and books keeping my toes warm. Not that they needed to. There must be an edict that says Westerners love heat and at times our carriage was turned up to a stifling 28°. It may sound odd but the clothes I wore the most were t-shirts and shorts – a striking contrast to the frigid view outside. The haunting emptiness of the Gobi Desert somehow made ‘inhospitable’ an understatement. Mongolia had always sounded like one of those exotic far-away places, and Ulaanbataar, its frozen capital, an answer we should know in Trivial Pursuit. At -13° this was the coldest place I had ever been. To have your gloves solidify moments after taking them off gives you an idea of the chill in the air. Luckily, warmth was only a bar away... or so I thought. Unbeknownst to me, we made the mistake of arriving on the 1st of the month which happens to be a date allocated to no selling of alcohol in an effort to cut down on rampant alcoholism. That little idiosyncrasy was just one of the rules and customs that sets this oft-maligned country apart from its larger neighbours. Knowing I wouldn’t be passing this way again I did what any tourist would do – go see Mongolian throat singers, human contortionists and demon mask dancers. With $1 equalling 1000 Mongolian Togrogs I felt I could afford anything, including venturing to Terelj National Park. Opportunity to hold a giant black hawk? Check. Visit the biggest Chinggis Khan statue in the world? Check. Stay overnight in a traditional Mongolian ger tent? Check. Mongolia was far from the backwater I expected.Back on the train and the one thing you need on the Trans-Siberian is patience. The border crossings remain, shall we say, tiresome, although thankfully no more so than the first crossing from China into Mongolia. Because both countries have a different gauge - the width between tracks - our carriage literally had to be lifted off its bogies with a clunk and a half, plonked onto new bogies and then set up ready to go. On top of Customs coming on board, searching belongings, scanning visas, walking off with our passports, coming back on again hours later and handing back passports, the whole episode took over 12 hours. China, Mongolia and Russia all require New Zealanders to get visas and with the Russian one especially there is copious amounts of paperwork. If you say you’re going to be in Russia from a certain date to a certain date – that’s how long your visa will be issued for. In my case, Iceland’s volcanic ash clouds had other ideas so it pays to give yourself some leeway. Mongolia had always sounded like one of those exotic far-away places, and Ulaanbataar, its frozen capital, an answer we should know in Trivial Pursuit. Across the border and moving again, this time with carriages joining us from Vladivostok as we moved closer to our next destination: Irkutsk. Everything you’ve heard about Siberia is right. Cold, desolate, isolated, cheerless. And that’s during spring. The main reason I’d disembarked was to visit the small fishing village of Listvyanka, a short bus ride away on the shores of Lake Baikal. This little known lake contains one fifth of the world’s fresh water and, much to the consternation of my fellow traveller from Bruges, is actually bigger then Belgium. Bruges Boy and I had been set up with a homestay in the village, and despite some initial reservations we knocked on the door. Olga (yes, her real name) greeted us with something close to a bear hug and welcomed us in after stamping the snow in the corridor. She spoke no English and we spoke little Russian but it’s amazing what spasiba (thank you) while rubbing our stomachs can get across. Unlike New Zealand, the kitchen is one of the smallest rooms, with the lounge dominating as the family centre. It was hard to comprehend that our host who was dishing up borsch (a traditional beetroot soup) had lived through Communism, Perestroika and today’s Putin-ish era, yet you got the feeling that nothing had really changed for her. After lunch Olga pointed down to two jet-skiers on the frozen lake, and thinking we had a good chance of having a ride off we wandered. We waved them down. Negotiations followed. Roubles exchanged hands. More roubles exchanged hands. Before we knew it we were zooming along at 40kms an hour skipping over the deepest lake in the world and speeding down the village’s main street – ‘exhilarating’ doesn’t even come close to describing it! After our little adventure it was sad saying dasvidaniya to Olga, but she gave us some korushka (dried fish) for our next train leg... 50 hours from Irkutsk to Ykaterinburg. Zima, Krasnoyarsk, Novosibirsk, Omsk, Tyumen – all mere 10 minute stops as we headed towards the border of Asia and Europe. Enough time to approach the platform babushkas to buy sausage, bread and some odd smelling cheesey things, and then scurry back to our cabin before we got the evils from “she who must be obeyed”: the Provodnista. From what I could gather the Provodnista’s official carriage attendant duties included waking us up, scowling, prodding us when in the way, telling us to pipe down, pointing at the hot water and yelling in Russian, and letting us know how long we had at each stop. Not that we knew what the real time was anyway; the Trans-Siberian runs on Moscow time no matter where it is in the world. All the while we entertained ourselves and some of the local workers on board by practicing words and sharing their vodka until Na zdorovje (to health) turned into a 50 hour blur. Needless to say, when the train finally pulled into Ykaterinburg there was a near stampede to get off. The city itself has a long, blood-stained history. It was here that Tsar Nicholas II and his young family were killed by Bolsheviks under orders from Lenin and these days it’s a magnet for those who consider the family Roman Orthodox saints. Until 1990 Ykaterinburg was entirely off limit to westerners due to “sensitivity” i.e. military bases, yet today it’s a bustling university town full of students who want to tell you where they’d like to travel to. Ykaterinburg also takes the prize for “most quirky”. Wandering the banks of the Plotinka I came across a wedding party on one of the bridges. Not ususual apart from this: the bridge was full of padlocks – heart shaped, square shaped, round-shaped – all locked to the fence. I watched as the bride and groom added a lock of their own to the bridge fence and then kissed the key before throwing it into the river, symbolising the unbreakable union of their marriage. Very far from the dour, unsmiling Russians you read about. If Ykaterinburg challenged my assumptions, then Moscow well and truly smashed them. To stand outside the Gum department store and look across Red Square to Lenin’s Mausoleum, the Kremlin and Ivan The Terrible’s onion domes of St Basils – nothing comes close to saying “this is Russia”. If you can get beyond the Moscow of fur hats, matryoska dolls and communist icons, I highly recommend taking the Metro just to see the grand socialist sculptures, stained glass windows and stunning chandeliers in the underground stations. The overall impression Moscow left me with was unabated style, and I swear they only let supermodels walk around outside. Even the train was sleek and modern as I left on the final 800km of my journey. Last stop, imperialist St Petersburg. It was a little sad getting off the train, leaving behind what had ostensibly been my home for the last three weeks. I felt I should have had some sort of official goodbye. After all, who was going to poke me? How was I going to survive normal airconditioning? The rush of the crowd put paid to that idea. St Petersburg is the most European of all Russian cities, built by Peter the Great in the 1700s to emphasise, well, how great he was. And in the midst of his greatness is now The Church of Our Saviour on Spilled Blood. Built on the site where Tsar Alexander II was assassinated (it doesn’t pay to be a Romanov), it’s almost Disney-like in its reflection in the Kanal Griboedova. Inside is just as impressive and worth every one of the 250 Roubles ($11) entrance fee. Intricate hand-crafted mosaics cover every inch of the walls and ceiling, each telling one small part of a greater biblical story. Only the world famous Hermitage museum could top it off, and as luck would have it Russian soldiers were practicing their marching for an upcoming parade to mark the end of World War II. Generally photos of soldiers are frowned upon but a quick smile and a nod and they let me get away with it. I topped off my last afternoon with a canal tour of the city – with guide, snacks and drinks on board I couldn’t think of a better way to see the “Venice of the North”. And with that my trip finally came to an end; a trip that was as much about the journey as the destinations throughout. The Trans-Siberian Railway with all its notions of romantic isolation, desolate landscapes and culture clashing cities was indeed a “once-in-a-lifetime” experience, against an ever-changing backdrop outside the cabin window. < 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 >

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

< Back Castles in the Sky 18 Aug 2019 If you want to read about why I disappointed a Nun while gazing out from ancient monasteries perched atop towering pinnacles of rock in Meteora, Greece, pick up a copy of this Tuesday's New Zealand Herald. In the cover story of Travel you'll also find out how these amazing monasteries were built, and the best way to get to this UNESCO World Heritage attraction. < Previous Next >

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

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

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 >

< Back Six Tribes opens in Barcelona 19 Sept 2019 On the back of its first showing in Athens, Six Tribes opens in Barcelona tomorrow night in the historic Raval area. The exhibition is on show for a week at L'Atelier De Pilar Güell and features tribes from Papua New Guinea to Ecuador to Kenya, with 20 images and accompanying stories in catalan, Spanish and English. < Previous Next >

< Back The Hadzabe opens in Auckland 29 May 2019 The sixth instalment of Guy Needham's tribal series opened in Auckland last night to a packed Grey gallery. You've still got time to see The Hadzabe of Tanzania, on show until June 8, and if you'd like to find out more about this fascinating tribe come along to the Q&A session this Saturday at Noon at 37 Scanlan St, Grey Lynn. < Previous Next >