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

“Smash it on the head” yelled Geranio, our guide. “Quick!” The freshly caught piranha was flip-flopping in a desperate attempt to get back to water, sharp teeth biting at air as I brought a rotting stick down upon its head. Minewa, a 60-year old local tribesman, added it to his string of dead fish and smiled at me. “Now you are a warrior!’”, laughed Geranio. < Back When Two Worlds Collide Sunday Star-Times 25 Feb 2018 “Smash it on the head” yelled Geranio, our guide. “Quick!” The freshly caught piranha was flip-flopping in a desperate attempt to get back to water, sharp teeth biting at air as I brought a rotting stick down upon its head. Minewa, a 60-year old local tribesman, added it to his string of dead fish and smiled at me. “Now you are a warrior!’”, laughed Geranio. We were fishing in the Amazon Basin on the edge of the world’s most bio-diverse ecosystem. I was there to spend time with the Waorani, one of Ecuador’s indigenous tribes who today number no more than 3,000. Not that any of that mattered to the piranha. Getting to the Amazon had been no easy task. Far from the cobblestones and thin mountain air of colonial Quito, it had taken us two days by boat. I say ‘us’ because I wasn’t the only tourist onboard; sitting ahead of me was a machete-wielding, coca-chewing, bird spotting Dutch sociologist. He had been travelling for three months now and had something of a gaunt Colonel Kurtz of Apocalypse Now look about him. The Cononaco River - one of the feeders to the 1000km Rio Napo - was low as the rains hadn’t come. The upside was that the bird and animal life were a zoologist’s dream. As we skimmed logs and scraped rocks, a Black Vulture screeched in the distance. Overhead a pair of White Throated Toucans flopped from one river bank to the other. Squinting into the Sun we could make out an Amazon Kingfisher, perched on the far branch of an even farther tree. He had been travelling for three months now and had something of a gaunt Colonel Kurtz of Apocalypse Now look about him. “Look”, exclaimed my new Dutch companion. Bringing our eyes back down to earth, he pointed to a strange animal gazing on the river bank – thin long snout, big bushy tail - a cross between a giant raccoon and a stretched pig. With a nonchalant glance the Giant Anteater ambled back into the grass behind it. On we continued. As we approached another curve Geranio abruptly raised his fist. The engine was cut. Off the bow we saw movement, a pale fin cutting through the calm brown waters. Then bubbles – and we watched in awe as a rare Amazon Pink Dolphin surfaced 30metres from us. The largest dolphin of its kind had just made our day. Still on a high by the time we got to our destination, we disembarked through the mud carrying water, camping gear and cooking supplies. I’d prepped myself for meeting the Waorani. Having been with tribes in Africa, Asia and the Pacific, I knew to expect very basic conditions, traditionally dressed people and a limited understanding of the modern world. How wrong I was. I found something even more fascinating – a tribe in transition between two worlds. While the older members were traditionally (un)dressed, the rest of the tribe were in Westernised clothing. While their malookas (huts) were built using no nails, concrete bricks were lined up for construction of new houses. While we had taken two days to get there by boat, there was an airstrip down the middle of the village. And while they hunted using blowguns and poison darts, the Wi-Fi kicked on every night. The dichotomy that intrigued me. Minewa was the personification of the old ways. With his stretched ear lobes dangling under his long hair, naked aside from twine tying up his foreskin, it was he who led us on our first hunting expedition. As we started out he gave me a closer look at his weapons. His blowgun was over 2metres long and perfectly straight, its pre-poisoned darts in a cylinder looped over his shoulder. Just as impressive was his spear, sharpened to a point with slight notches to make it difficult for monkeys to pull out. Following Minewa’s lead we crept as quietly as two non-Amazonians can creep. The deeper into the jungle we got, the more distinctive the loud calls of the Howler Monkeys. Suddenly Minewa took off – spear raised above his head. By the time we caught up to him he was frozen, staring down at a salt lick between a group of trees. Ahead of us were a family of Collared Peccaries (pigs) snorting through the undergrowth. With an almighty throw and not a single word, Minewa launched the spear at the boar. Narrowly missing by inches, the family rapidly grunted off, Minewa in close chase behind. When he returned half an hour later with nothing more than a look of resignation it was time to return to the village. On the way back I asked about the changes he must have seen in this lifetime. The Waorani, I was told, were only ‘discovered’ by Europeans in the 1950s. That is now four generations ago since the average age of childbirth is 16. But it wasn’t until we got to the village that we were shown the biggest impact on their way of life. Standing in front of a map, Geranio drew a circle around the Waorani territory that is officially part of the 10,000km2 Parque National Yusumi. A red line marked the border with Peru, and green shading showed where two ‘uncontacted’ tribes still roam. Most noticeable though were Bloque Petroleum – areas where the Ecuadorian government have allowed oil exploration and drilling despite the national park being a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve. Suddenly Minewa took off – spear raised above his head. By the time we caught up to him he was frozen, staring down at a salt lick between a group of trees. It was the oil industry that had brought electricity to the Waorani, levelled the airstrip, introduced the internet and built a covered basketball court, although obviously not everyone agreed with this ‘progress’. As Geranio spoke, the Dutchman and I looked around. It was nature that made the place so special, not the material things that had been brought in from the outside. Despite the accelerated change the tribe was going though, despite the encroachment into their traditional lands, the Waorani simply wanted to protect their environment. A few days later it was time to say our farewells and get back in the motorized canoe for the two day journey home. Minewa had picked up that we were sad to be leaving, but even sadder about what was happening to the tribe. As we got onboard he gave us a big broad smile and said something to Geranio. “It’ll be aright, he wants to let you know. The spirits and Mother Earth will look after them as they always have.” And with that final wave of optimism we headed back up the Cononaco, towards ominous dark clouds covering the jungle canopy, hoping that for a little while longer the Waorani can hold on to their traditional way of life. Details Getting there: Air New Zealand flies direct to Houston with a connecting United flight to Quito. Domestic Avianca flights fly from Quito to El Coca, which is the starting point for any Ecuadorian Amazon adventure Staying there: You can choose to base yourself at one of the river lodges throughout the basin or take a tour staying in tents in the villages. Ask your tour company for options. Exploring there: Your accommodation will determine how you explore the area, but you will go by boat and by foot. Depending on your level of fitness, you can go on jungle walks for the whole day or go birdwatching for an hour Services there: The lodges are fully equipped, and even if you camp at the villages your tour guide is likely to have a chef with him. There are no ATMs or credit card facilities so it is best to take small notes of the Ecuadorian currency with is US Dollars. More Information: www.ecuadorecoadventures.com www.yasuninationalpark.org Original publication: Sunday Star-Times < Previous Next >

PROJECTS Māori Wardens Aotearoa / New Zealand There are approximately 700 Māori Wardens who play an intrinsic role in improving the wellbeing of whānau and communities in Aotearoa New Zealand. Māori Wardens are not police, but they have legal responsibilities under the Māori Community Development Act 1962 and they give their time to supporting communities. The guiding principles of a Māori Warden is respect, awhi, aroha, and whānaungatanga. Previous Next

Y’all not from round here, are ya? Ain’t nobody drinks Budddd. This is Shiner Bock country, sir.” And with that the barman passed over a golden-labelled bottle of ale. I was in Luckenbach, Texas, population 3, a small town in the Hill Country west of San Antonio. < Back Deep in the Heart of Texas New Zealand Herald 3 May 2016 Y’all not from round here, are ya? Ain’t nobody drinks Budddd. This is Shiner Bock country, sir.” And with that the barman passed over a golden-labelled bottle of ale. I was in Luckenbach, Texas, population 3, a small town in the Hill Country west of San Antonio. It was to be the starting point for an adventure deep into the heart of Texas, a road trip to discover the smaller side of the big state. The Hill Country is known as much for its wildflowers and Harley-hugging roads as it is for being in the Bible Belt of America – a place where God meets guns, traffic yields to longhorns, and TexMex and ribs are a staple diet. Even the towns have great names; you can travel to Welfare in the morning, visit Comfort in the afternoon and spend the night in Utopia. ‘Luckenbach, Texas’ was made famous by a Waylon Jennings song and is not so much a town as a gathering of buildings. Located just off Highway 290, the post office is also the general store and the saloon is out back. It’s renowned for its live music scene so we arrived in time to see the ‘picker circle’ – an improvised mish-mash of musicians who gather under an old oak tree and pass around a pick, each playing a song with the others joining in. "Da-da ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, diiinnng," the unmistakable sound of a banjo was slowly echoed by a guitar, "Da-da ding-ding, ding-ding, ding-ding, diiinnng.” Everybody chuckled at Duelling Banjos being played, and I half expected someone to call out “Squeal like a pig, boy!” as a nod to Deliverance. Thankfully it was not to be as the banjo player ended with a flourish before passing the pick to the young cowboy on his right. He broke straight into that ol’ country classic, “Cocaine’s gonna kill my honey dead.” It was time to explore. Not far from the circle in front of a wooden building sat Cassey, co-owner of the Snail Creek Hat Co. “Howdy, y’all look like you need a hat!” While I didn’t take her up on her offer I did ask about what’s in style. “Welllllll,” she drawled, “Over yonder you can see that they come in all shapes and sizes,” pointing to the audience. “I used to be able to tell a Texan from a Dakotan just by looking at their hat but now it’s about personal preference.” She and her husband Glen use water to shape the unstructured palm leaf hats they get in. “In West Texas they angle the brim like this,” she said, folding in the sides like a paper dart. “It means the hat’s more aerodynamic and the winds just pass right on through.” Much as I was tempted to buy a cowboy hat, I opted instead to see the real thing in action, and where better than the Cowboy Capital of the World. Even the towns have great names; you can travel to Welfare in the morning, visit Comfort in the afternoon and spend the night in Utopia. Bandera, Texas, earned its moniker after the Great Western Cattle Trail drives of the 1880s, where at one stage there were more cattle and cowboys going through the main street than all the other cattle trails in the United States. More recently they’ve had a number of rodeo champions come from Bandera, which just gives extra points to their town spurs. Everywhere you look there are authentic buildings, early Americana and signs advertising the next rodeo (Friday). We were here to see the most Western event of them all – the gunslingers shootout.Every weekend the Bandera Cattle Company celebrates its heritage with a re-enactment of real scenarios from the town’s past. Taking a seat on the bleachers behind the Visitors Centre we watched as the period costumed cowboys slowly took up their positions, one drinking ‘whisky’, another playing cards, and our host, Dennis, sharing some of the local history. “God damn, that wasn’t meant to happen!” Dennis had just shot himself in the groin with a blank. It looked like it hurt. “You’re as dumb as a box of hammers!” yelled one of his compatriots to much laughter from the crowd. The show went on for an hour, with kids having the chance to be deputised afterwards. It was enough motivation for me to take the plunge and go buy some cowboy boots. After much assistance I settled on a pair of Justin’s that have been produced since 1879, “Made by his daddy’s daddy and his daddy’s granddaddy before him.” Quite chuffed with my new purchase we rocked up to our accommodation, a Texan ‘dude ranch’. There are a number of dude ranches near Bandera that offer accommodation, meals and activities all rolled into one – think of it as AirBnB meets the Warkworth Rodeo. We chose the Twin Elm “For Western Fun.” As it was getting dark when we arrived the owner pointed us towards the campfire and invited us to join her for ‘s’mores’. S’mores are a Texan treat where you roast marshmallows over a fire ‘til they’re ohhh-so-gooey and then add them to a graham cracker topped with a slice of chocolate. With full tummies the next morning we took advantage of our surrounds with a horse ride led by some of the local hands. Wading through the Medina River, past the fallen trees and down the trail, we got to experience their daily life at a leisurely pace. Bandera was also where I discovered how deeply ingrained religion is. On the way into town we noticed a number of flags at half-mast. I politely enquired when we got there, “We saw some of the flags were at half mast, has someone important died?” The lady stared straight back at me and said, “Jesus”. It was Good Friday. Moving on quickly after insulting the entire state of Texas, our next stop on the small town tour was Fredericksburg. Established by a German baron in 1846 after signing a peace treaty with the Comanche Indians, the town is considered the capital of Hill Country. Fredericksburg’s main claim to fame is being the birthplace of Admiral Chester Nimitz who led the US Pacific naval effort in World War II. The town houses the fantastic National Museum of the Pacific War and it made me proud to see the New Zealand flag flying (at full mast). “God damn, that wasn’t meant to happen!” Dennis had just shot himself in the groin with a blank. It looked like it hurt. The best part of Fredericksburg however is just outside of town. It’s called Wine Road 290 and comprises 15 different wineries in the area. In Texas a winery does not necessary mean a vineyard; it could simply be wine retailer. We didn’t let a wee detail like that put us off as we slowly pulled in to The Vintage Cellar. We’d already tried some of the local Bending Branch ‘Thinkers Blanc’ so that was a mandatory buy, but what caught my eye was the “Pour It Forward” chalkboard. Like a ‘random act of kindness’, the idea is to buy someone a drink in advance by writing up an occupation on the board. Unfortunately, no one had written ‘Parched Kiwi’ but if I’d been a fireman, marine, zookeeper or teacher it would have been a very boozy afternoon. Leaving the Hill Country the next day we noticed that the landscape had changed, speckled with political billboards. Texas is staunchly Republican – represented by Senator Ted Cruz – and even here it’s hard to escape the slogans in the midst of an election campaign. Looking around as the last of the sun’s rays lit up the wildflowers on the side of the road, we passed a “Make America Great Again” sign. Something tells me that the locals don’t have anything to worry about. This land of cowboys has never had a problem being great. Details Stay: www.twinelmranch.com Getting there: Air New Zealand flies direct Auckland to Houston (14 hours); Houston to San Antonio is a 1 hour flight; Hill Country is a 1 hour drive away Websites: www.luckenbachtexas.com www.banderacowboycapital.com Visas: Apply online for the USA ESTA visa waiver for up to 90 days Location: Hill Country, Texas, USA Original publication: New Zealand Herald < Previous Next >

“Why Albania?” “Why not?” “What have they done to us?” “What have they done for us?” “Nothing….” “See, they keep to themselves. Shifty. Untrustable.” < Back Why Albania Let's Travel 4 Jun 2015 “Why Albania?” “Why not?” “What have they done to us?” “What have they done for us?” “Nothing….” “See, they keep to themselves. Shifty. Untrustable.” No, not a weird conversation about where to holiday but a scene from Wag The Dog, where Robert De Niro and Dustin Hoffman are deciding who America should go to war with. Thankfully it never happened, but if it had you can bet Albania would have been ready. Dotted along its coastline are thousands of concrete bunkers to protect it from invasion - the paranoid legacy of communist dictator Enver Hoxha. It had been 20 years since communism had died and I was in Albania to see how much the country had changed. To the outside world Albania is still a mystery; a former Socialist People’s Republic “somewhere near Greece where everyone is poor and backward and ride donkeys and the women have moustaches” (they don’t). Sure, it’s not the most advanced country in the world but that’s what makes it so unique. Where else would you see grass being cut on the main square with a scythe? Or a foreign street named after George W Bush? My quest to discover today’s Albania began in its capital, Tirana. In the 1990s the former mayor - himself an artist - came up with the idea of painting the ubiquitous apartment blocks different colours, to brighten up residents’ lives. As a result the city’s a lot more attractive these days, but it’s never going to win a beauty pageant. No matter, what Tirana lacks in looks it makes up for in character. From the never-ending cacophony of horns as three-wheeled trucks fight with motorbikes navigating Skanderbeg Square, to elderly men warily drinking tea to pass the time of day, the capital of Albania is truly a mish-mash of east meets west with a victor yet to be decided. As the capital, all roads lead to Tirana and you certainly know when you’re on them. “Pot-holed” is an understatement but bouncing up and down in the back of a furgon taxi adds to the sense of adventure. In typical Balkan fashion these shared taxis have no set schedule (nor departure point for that matter); as soon as they’re full, they’re off. I managed to catch an early morning one and only had to wait 15 minutes before the chugging Mercedes starting making its way to my next destination, Berat. After two hours of Albanian viba-train I was relieved to finally arrive. “Somewhere near Greece where everyone is poor and backward and ride donkeys and the women have moustaches” Berat is a charming 2400 year old Ottoman town with houses built one on top of another, earning itself the moniker ‘Town of a Thousand Windows’. I was excitedly met by my host and taken to his ‘welcome room’ for a shot of rakija (a fermented alcoholic drink that’s probably illegal elsewhere). The room itself was magic: traditional curved brick walls, pigeons cooing on the sill, strings of onions hanging from rafters, and the waft of slowly cooking lamb. Another rakija was poured. “Are you going to the Xhiro tonight?” he asked. “It’s Monday so it should be good.” He pointed down to the town. The Xhiro (pronounced ‘giro’), as it turns out, is one of the most curious rituals I have come across. At a time when we might be watching primetime TV the inhabitants of Berat are walking back and forth down a closed off boulevard, dressed to the nines like its 1987. Furtive glances are exchanged as Europop seeps from the cafes. This is dating, Albania-style. In a country where pre-marriage relations are frowned upon and the Western version of ‘going out’ is non-existent, the nightly Xhiro is the one opportunity to size up potential partners. Like someone? Your relatives can talk to their relatives. We joined in – the walking, not the dating – and amongst the fried sweetcorn hawkers and popped collars you could sense the locals enjoying themselves. Berat was also where I saw another sign that times have changed. Mount Shpirag, behind the entrance to the township, once had the name “Enver” (after the former dictator) spelt out in huge letters on the mountainside. Today they’ve been rearranged to spell “N.E.V.E.R” – a very large, defiant statement not to repeat the past. Of course not all of the past was bad. My guide, a Tirana native who had spent much of his life in construction openly opined, “Under communism, we always had a job. No matter how small. Now look around you.” He waved his arm across the square. Men of working age were sitting around doing not much. It was 2:30pm on a weekday. He did admit though that since ‘freedom’ he now had enough money to send his daughter to Germany to study which he would never have been able to do “in the old days”. The final stop on my journey was Shkodra, a town bordering Montenegro. With a castle above and lake below it prides itself as being a little more Balkan-esque than the rest of Albania. Certainly, it has its fair share of al fresco restaurants, tourist-oriented ‘lodges’ and fresh food stalls; Shkodra was a cosmopolitan surprise. One of my favourite moments happened just as I was leaving town and looking to spend the last of my LEK on some meaningful souvenirs. An old woman at the bus stop dangled some woollen socks in my face in the hope that this foreigner would buy them - despite me sweltering in the 35 degree heat. I followed her back to her knitting, and after much hand gesticulation I gave her cash, she gave me some socks, and topped it off with an Albanian ‘smile’. As the bus pulled out I gave her a wee nod, and thought about all the changes she’d seen. After 20 years, capitalism had replaced communism and pester-power had replaced paranoia. The Albania of old was no longer there and yet, as the country was finding itself – with infrastructure and systems still to come – I felt lucky to have seen the Albania of today, knowing that it’s special quality would change again 20 years from now. < 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 >

PROJECTS Nature Global A collection of images off animals in the wild - from the plains of the Serengeti to the falls of Iguacu. 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 >

"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 >

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

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

No one knows exactly where they originally came from, not even their chief. The first indigenous inhabitants of the Onconcua region in southwestern Angola, the semi-nomadic Vatwa are one of the few tribes that imitate the dress of another, the Himba. TRIBES The Vatwa Oncocua, Angola No one knows exactly where they originally came from, not even their chief. The first indigenous inhabitants of the Onconcua region in southwestern Angola, the semi-nomadic Vatwa are one of the few tribes that imitate the dress of another, the Himba. Out of gallery < Previous Next >