Destinations represents a new breed of travel magazine. In print and digital form, we connect divergent people, places, cultures, lifestyles, and perspectives through intelligent, thought-provoking written and visual storytelling. Our mission is to inspire, challenge, and inform, providing a compelling medium for global engagement. We create goals to aspire to, and entice those who have an innate curiosity for the diverse world in which we live.
Living like a Local addresses the common desire to experience the ‘reality’ of a place rather than being caught in a tourist trap, by considering whether this can be achieved, and if so how, in both the short and long term. For the entrepreneur, we provide tips on how best to conduct business in different cultures, and showcase properties suitable for extended stays. We also profile those who have built careers particular to expats with the travel bug, and those who have settled in their dream location far from home after their working life is over. For readers looking for slightly less of a commitment, we explore opportunities to eat, sleep and wander with the locals, to experience the true substance of a place through their eyes.
JULY-SEPT 2015
WHAT’S INSIDE?
74.
38.
LIVING LIKE A LOCAL SPECIAL FEATURE
24. For The Love Of Lingo Language is central to being human: Nicole Gray talks about links between language, biological evolution and cultural development.
116. Extended Stays A home away from home can be hard to find, but now there are some exciting new options for the long-term traveller.
32. Home Is Where The Heart Is The concept of home and a ‘place to stand’ in a world where nearly three billion people fly across the globe annually.
122. On Second Settlements At some point in most lives, the issue of ‘where to retire becomes a burning issue’: we run through some of the options.
38. Nomad Photographer Matt Brandon explores what it means to be one of northern India’s khanabadosh – quite literally ‘people with their house on their back.’
134. Stepping On Stereotypes Cultural stereotyping is hardly new, and Marianne Matthews explores looking at modern China and the world in general through a Western prism.
74. A Custom Curation Festivals are an important part of many lives and cultures: we explore the diversity and some of the meaning associated with these unique gatherings.
138. Destination Domino Anna Pollock, of the Conscious Travel website, discusses the concept of travel that goes beyond catering for a few, to being “Better for More”.
CAREER COMMUTER
52. Tokyo A night out with one of Tokyo’s gaijin and his salaryman friends in the rabbit warren of “Golden Gai”. 60. New York A stranger in a strange land: the beginner’s guide to starting out in the urban jungle of New York, the 'Capital of the World'. 66. Afghanistan Working on sustainable energy projects in the previously strife-torn Bamiyan province has its challenges, but also moments of insight. 70. Philippines In Tacloban, Veronica Shumack discovers the meaning of getting ‘down and dirty’ as she works with an international aid team in the Philippines.
52.
THROUGH MY EYES
COLUMNS
90. Tasmania The back streets of Hobart in Tasmania offer an enticing array of delicatessens and art galleries — and then there’s the “death room”.
16. Talk Travel Contributors share their views on what ‘living like a local’ means to them and touch on subjects ranging from globalization to drinking beer.
100. Buenos Aires Exploring the history, mystique and techniques of the Tango — a uniquely Latin form of communication and physical expression.
20. For People Going Places Australia’s ‘spice queen’, Christine Manfield, talks about culinary tours of India, books on food and ‘pop up’ collaborations with other chefs.
104. Fiordland Into the wilds of New Zealand’s Fiordland on the trail of large eels, spectacular podocarp forests and the historic trade of pounamu.
200. Bazaar News, events and promotions from the international travel industry.
110. An Inconvenient Bach “Baches” are an iconic New Zealand concept — the carefree, seaside retreat — but times and baches are rapidly changing.
JULY-SEPT 2015
WHAT’S INSIDE? ISLANDS ON OUR MIND 144. Santorini Constantly reshaped by the forces of nature and occupied by successive civilizations over some 4000 years, Santorini is truly the ‘island of the gods’. 154. Majorca Escaping Majorca’s tourist beaches to explore spectacular mountains, villages down hillsides and the ‘donkey trail. 162. Aceh The 2004 Boxing Day Tsunami is synonymous with Aceh, but organisations like Ecosystem Impact are helping to create a new future for the region.
144.
EPICUREAN TRAVELLER 168. Land Of The Locals ‘Buying local’ is part of a counter-cultural reaction to globalization of the world food market; Sally Blyth explores this movement. 176. Back To The Future Virgilio Martinez sources ingredients for his acclaimed restaurants and the Mater Initiative from the jungles, deserts and sea of his native Peru.
176. CRUISE JOURNAL
186. Under The Midnight Sun Nick Walton heads north of the ancient city of Bergen and cruises Norway’s fjords on the edge of the Arctic Circle. 192. Living Afloat In Sausalito Venturing across the Golden Gate Bridge to experience the unique house boat culture of Sausalito. 196. Cruise Family Robinson Buying a modern multi-hulled boat and leaving Cape Town with the family for open seas may seem like a dream — or is it?
186.
YOU’LL TO RELAX IN SAMOA. Enjoy long walks on uncrowded beaches...
swim in pristine mountain pools, dive in the sparkling ocean or snorkel in the tranquil lagoon... it’s so relaxing you may never want to leave... HOLIDAY THE SAMOAN WAY. www.samoa.travel
Publisher Stephen Brown Editor Rowena Bahl Associate Editor Dominique van de Klundert Cruise Editor Michael Hooper Editor-at-large Glenn A. Baker Proofreader Anna Varghese Graphic Designer Tristan Lewis Production Executive Anita Sanghera Contributors Brian Furbush, Nick Walton, Timothy Wakely, Nicole Gray, Ana Barbono, Aleksandra Winters, Jessie Broad, Scarlett Cook, Zara Bowens, Christina Huntington, Thai Neave
Marianne Kodaira Matthews, Tim Gray, Sally Blyth, Justine Tyerman, Matt Brandon, Nadeesha Godamunne Account Executive Shannon Lawton Printed by Image Centre Distribution Print: Netlink Online: PressReader, Zinio Subscriptions subs@destinationsmagazine.com Editorial Enquiries editorial@destinationsmagazine.com Destinations Publishing Ltd Destinations is a registered trademark of Destinations Publishing Ltd. Destinations publishes four editions each year. The contents of all are copyright and cannot be reproduced without the consent of the editor. Destinations Publishing Ltd’s acceptance of all contributed material, words, images and illustrations, is on the basis that these will be used internationally in all forms of the magazine’s distribution and marketing, be that print, digital or social networking.All articles, images and illustrations submitted will remain open for reading, reference and retrieval without time limit through all forms of distribution. All material is received on this basis only. Contact Physical: Level 4, 156 Parnell Road, Parnell, Auckland 1151 Postal: PO Box 137-067, Parnell, Auckland 1151 Email: mail@destinationsmagazine.com Phone: +64 9 377 1234 Website: destinationsmagazine.com Social: facebook.com/destinationpublishing | twitter.com/destytravelmag Instagram/destinations_mag
On the cover: Gujjar woman Photo by Matt Brandon Read story on page 38
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JULY-SEPT 2015
EDITOR’S WORD
BELOW. Rowena explores the cuisine of Peru with Virgilio Martinez.
local [loh-kuh l] adjective 1. pertaining to or characterized by place or position in space; spatial. 2. pertaining to, characteristic of, or restricted to a particular place or particular places 3. pertaining to a city, town, or small district rather than an entire state or country Language evolution is an incredibly slow process. Technology changes our lifestyle faster than we can revise our forms of communication. However, we can take action to ensure that our language evolves alongside us. The dictionary definition for the word 'local' is certainly dated in its restrictiveness. We spend so long creating boundaries that we end up limiting our worlds. Therefore, in this edition Destinations celebrates the diversity to be found within the very notion of 'local'. We discover the ways in which 'local' takes on new meaning: nomads, whose homes are continuously moving, provide evidence that locality is forever in flux and far from restricted, as do more 'modern' travellers who spend prolonged periods in many a destination — hearts and ambitions flying from place to place. If our hearts, jobs and homes are here, there and everywhere, then what is 'local' and how does this abstraction affect our sense of place? Deconstructing the notion of 'local' means we are able to step out of prescribed boxes and explore the world through new lenses.
Rowena Bahl — Editor The Idealist
JULY-SEPT 2015
PUBLISHER’S WORD
For the last 18 years, Destinations magazine has set out to inform, excite, entice and guide the travelling public. During much of that period, our quarterly publication laid the foundation for the dissemination of travel-related information and concepts, with periodic annuals supplementing the core magazine. However, when Tim Berners-Lee first created a nascent World Wide Web in November 1989, the digital age effectively arrived, and with it a fundamental transformation of media across the globe. This movement has only accelerated in recent years, and Destinations is no more immune to transformation than any other publication or mass media vehicle. This evolution is already reflected in Destinations as our readers see it. The deliberate movement of Destinations towards a ‘coffee table’ style publication is reflected in the magazine’s in-depth articles and superb photography, while the replacement of one-off annuals by sections within each magazine — ‘Cruise Journals’, ‘Islands on our Mind’ and ‘The Epicurean Traveller’ — has both expanded the breadth of information in each quarterly and allowed us to consolidate our print production. However, this will be counter-balanced over coming months by the rapid expansion of destinationsmagazine.com. Over the rest of 2015 and into 2016, we will embark on major changes to our website that are designed to complement the printed magazine, but also greatly expand its content — to inform and inspire in ways that go well beyond the limits of print media. This is reflected in our first experimental production of video ‘essays’ and will rapidly evolve in the near future. Some have said that the impact of the World Wide Web means the slow demise of print, but we see an opportunity to expand on the editorial foundation provided by our quarterly magazines. Hopefully, our readership will join us for what promises to be a fascinating period of growth and development.
Stephen Brown — Publisher The Sophist
JULY-SEPT 2015
TALK TRAVEL
Marianne Kodaira Matthews The Provocateur
Tim Gray The Dilettante
Tristan Lewis The Escapist
Sally Blyth The Raconteur
Can you share with us a favourite memory of 'living like a local'?
Can you share with us a favourite memory of 'living like a local'?
Can you share with us a favourite memory of 'living like a local'?
Can you share with us a favourite memory of 'living like a local'?
In Korea I tried a rushed student’s convenience store breakfast, a grandmother’s home cooking, and street food from zealous vendors, to lunch at a popular ma and pa restaurant and iconic children's snacks. I got a sense of an insider’s perspective of nostalgic flavours. What would be your advice to travellers who wish to live a little more like a local when travelling? Buy local toiletries and experiment with foreign toothpaste. Dining: I like to venture in somewhere random that seems inviting (and hygienic). My preferred mode of transport is to wander around on foot like the dandy flâneur I’m not. How do you think globalisation has affected local cultures? Many interpret globalisation as an entitlement to bring ‘home’ with them, as opposed to discovering it elsewhere. We discuss this external omnipotent force, when it’s realised through the actions of every one of us. We can all add to a positive amalgam.
My wife and I got talking to some ladies in their late 60s who were on the organising committee for our local shrine's summer festival. They drafted me in to help carry the omikoshi (a portable Shinto shrine) around the neighbourhood. Those things are heavier than they look. What would be your advice to travellers who wish to live a little more like a local when travelling? It sounds trite, but make an effort to speak and understand the language. It opens many new doors, and is a good confidence boost that will lessen your feeling of culture shock, whether travelling or living abroad. How do you think globalisation has affected local cultures? In most cases globalisation has irreversibly shifted cultural axes. I think we can minimise any sense of loss by understanding that cultures have always been fluid and evolving, and the ways in which they have responded to global culture often produce positive outcomes.
I spent a year working as an English teacher in Korea. The initial culture shock quickly gave way to a deeply rich and fulfilling experience, which will stay with me forever. I will always remember exploring the streets of Seoul in summer with my partner, gambling on new restaurants every night, and the happy faces of the cheeky children I taught. What would be your advice to travellers who wish to live a little more like a local when travelling? For me living locally means leaving the tourist rush behind and taking it slow. Split from your group, ditch the guide and wander. There is so much to be learned from pausing and simply watching people go about their lives. How do you think globalisation has affected local cultures? Globalisation is a tough one. I feel anything which opens up communication between cultures is a positive thing, but I worry about homogenisation.
I spent time in a spacious, sun-drenched artist’s studio in a tiny village in southwest France, learning new art techniques, consolidating my French and getting to know the local community. Creativity flourished. What would be your advice to travellers who wish to live a little more like a local when travelling? Sitting and talking with the locals will provide more insight than any guidebook. Ask them about everything. There are no stupid questions when you’re in new territory. Follow their lead. Put yourself in their shoes. Observe and absorb. How do you think globalisation has affected local cultures? Heading overseas to experience once unknown corners of the globe used to be so exotic and coveted but now that we have the world quite literally in our pockets, that sense of quest is not quite the same. Travellers arrive with a sense of expectation that locals strive to meet.
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JULY-SEPT 2015
TALK TRAVEL
Dominique van de Klundert The Philosopher
Scarlett Cook The Impressionist
Brian Furbush The Observer
Justine Tyerman The Soul Seeker
Can you share with us a favourite memory of 'living like a local'?
Can you share with us a favourite memory of 'living like a local'?
Can you share with us a favourite memory of 'living like a local'?
Can you share with us a favourite memory of 'living like a local'?
It’s a tie between being introduced to Korean barbecue, or galbi, while living in Daegu, and an extended period in LA with a friend's crazy Mexican-Norwegian family, of which my memories are all pool parties, international perspectives, and amazing hospitality.
On a trip to New Caledonia. I stayed with a local family, and going to the supermarket and eating pizza with the family, talking about our lives and our homes, gave me some of my best memories.
In Providencia, Colombia I stayed in a no frills posada on a bluff, and chatted daily with the lovely owner Carmeni. I had the pleasure of visiting the school where Carmeni taught special needs children and high five all of the awesome kids.
What would be your advice to travellers who wish to live a little more like a local when travelling? I skip typical landmarks in favour of sites that really call to me on a personal level. We get to know our own neighbourhoods through the ways they intersect with what's important in our lives, and I try to find that same kind of personalised intersection wherever I go.
What would be your advice to travellers who wish to live a little more like a local when travelling? Just wander — walking around a new city is a great way to really get a feel for a place. It helps if you know anyone in the country you’re visiting. If you don’t, strike up a conversation with the locals. Talking to people who live there can provide an invaluable perspective on life there, as well as having the best recommendations for things to do or see.
How do you think globalisation has affected local cultures?
How do you think globalisation has affected local cultures?
As literary critic-slash-political theorist Fredric Jameson argues, we tend to think of international relations in ethical terms, obscuring the real question: whether ‘progress’ as we define it is desirable in the first place.
The fact that it’s increasingly possible to learn about and visit even the most far-flung of countries is one of the key benefits of tourism and travel, if it’s done responsibly.
While not quite angels, Kate and Matt Belcher, who own and guide Revolution Tours' cycle trips at the head of Lake Wakatipu, are delightful. They introduced us to their local friends, family, cuisine, wines and their heavenly part of the world.
What would be your advice to travellers who wish to live a little more like a local when travelling?
What would be your advice to travellers who wish to live a little more like a local when travelling?
I love staying in quaint B&Bs or renting an apartment from a local. Eat where the locals eat: don't be afraid to wander in to a restaurant where nobody speaks your language — that's half the fun.
Avoid hotels and look for accommodation owned or managed by local people. It takes much longer to research and find than simply booking a hotel room or a package tour, but it’s infinitely more rewarding.
How do you think globalisation has affected local cultures? Our increasing connectedness is a positive in that it helps to facilitate travel and contact, including with locals. However, it’s also left us constantly checking social media and seeing what is happening back at home, rather than fully experiencing a destination.
How do you think globalisation has affected local cultures? It’s a classic double-edged sword. The impact on a small island like Santorini is profound. Each day it’s crammed full of frantic foreign tourists on a tight timeframe. It’s bedlam — but without them, the island’s economy would not survive.
JULY-SEPT 2015
FOR PEOPLE GOING PLACES Words by Tim Wakely
Known as Australia’s ‘Spice Queen’, Christine Manfield is not one to pass up an opportunity, especially when it can be life-changing. For the past two decades, Manfield’s career has gone from strength to strength. She’s written eight successful cookbooks, owned and operated restaurants in Sydney and London, toured the world, and developed products for her jam, spice and paste range, Christine Manfield Spice Collection. Manfield’s passion for food is inextricable from her love of travel. She recalls that “It really was travelling to different places, exploring different cultures that opened up the world to me and the possibilities that came with the world of food. Food is one of the integral ways of understanding and appreciating the culture of each...place.” Vice versa, Manfield firmly believes the best way to discover culinary delights or to gain an understanding of a region’s food is through local knowledge. “The first stop in any new place is the local market... I like to cook wherever I am and use the local ingredients, what’s in season... and cook in a way that reflects time and place,” she explains. When Manfield was asked to host a gastronomic tour to India, Morocco and Italy in 1999, she never anticipated that 16 years later, she would be continuing to organise and host such trips. Each one is tailor-made to a target group and allows guests to relish opportunities to live like locals by exploring food, architecture, art and other cultural experiences that are often missed by tourists. Manfield says the secret to ensuring her guests have a unique, personal and rewarding experience is to limit the tour group to 8-10 people. Further, when it comes to choosing a destination for the gastronomic tours, the location has to meet three criteria: offering fabulous accommodation, engaging hosts and varied food experiences. “I check out places that locals have suggested or take me to, then weave what I like into every itinerary. Most guests would never have considered eating street food before travelling with me, but they usually conclude that they have been amongst the most memorable experiences,” Manfield observes. She also chooses a gastronomic destination based on the sights and experiences it offers through its architecture, art, cultural events and spirituality. Manfield’s last gastronomic tour in February allowed her to revisit one of her favourite culinary destinations, India. Manfield guided guests on a 14-day once-in-a-lifetime adventure, showcasing the unique architecture, landscape, cuisines and culture of central and western India. The ‘Off the Beaten Track’ themed tour allowed guests to experience these regions from a local point of view, visiting markets and other locations often missed by the tourist gaze. Manfield enlisted the help of local guides and experts to ensure guests accessed the best grassroots experiences. When Manfield isn’t travelling the world giving one-of-a-kind food tours, she is often working away on a book or serving up her signature dishes. At the moment, she is putting the final
BELOW. Making chocolate curls for a dessert
BELOW RIGHT. The cover of Christine's new cook book, available globally in October 2015
Photo by Anson Smart
touches on her latest cookbook, India and Bhutan: a Personal Journey, which will be published in November. Making use of all the local knowledge she has gathered over the years, Manfield describes the book as an essential guide to the best places to sleep and what to eat when visiting the two destinations. Although Manfield regards her final restaurant, Universal — which shut its doors in 2013 — as her swan song as a restaurateur, she still enjoys the buzz which comes from leading a busy dinner service. She has recently finished up a
6-week stint as the head chef at Berta, one of the most dynamic restaurants in the Sydney hospitality scene, and expects to round out her year by hosting a pop-up event at Eighty-Six restaurant in Canberra, before flying over to Thailand to work as a guest chef there. Before the year ends, she also plans to travel to Indonesia, Turkey and South America. Manfield reflects, “It’s great to be able to do pop-up events like this... I love collaborating with other chefs without being bogged down by the enormous effort involved in running and managing
a busy restaurant business.” Her advice to anyone wanting to be successful in the culinary arts is to be prepared to work ridiculous hours and, put everything into it: “It is one of the most exciting and rewarding industries to work in, but you can’t do it half-heartedly. It demands all your time and energy, so don’t be fooled that it’s glamorous.” She notes the necessity to “stay true to your vision, [and] remain strong and resolute about what you’re doing” — a drive and dedication that is apparent across all Manfield’s many and varied successful endeavours.
JULY-SEPT 2015
WANT MORE? Destinations readers can now experience the written word spring to life with Layar. When selected stories are scanned with this app readers can uncover additional photography, video and stories.
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IN THIS EDITION PAGE 79. See the incredible spectacle of the human towers in action. PAGE 107. Take a video journey through New Zealand's Hollyford track. PAGE 153. An extended photo essay on Santorini with Brian Furbush. PAGE 161. Additional photography for the sun-soaked isle of Majorca. PAGE 181. Footage from the Mater Initiative in Peru.
PAGE 79
PAGE 107
PAGE 153
PAGE 161
PAGE 181
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24 / Living like a Local Special Feature
FOR THE LOVE OF
LINGO WORDS BY NICOLE GRAY ILLUSTRATIONS BY TRISTAN LEWIS
BELOW. Whispering words – the evolution of language
What makes us human? The quality that separates us from all other creatures — that is irrefutably, uniquely ‘human’ — is language. Language is exquisite in its properties and its potential. We use it to convey information; describe places, objects and others; to recount the past and plan the future; to emote, imagine, invent. But how did language first begin, and how did it evolve into a tool that allows us to produce potentially infinite meanings?
of the fittest’ — that great catchphrase — work to ensure that beneficial traits are inherited by subsequent generations, making certain individuals more effective in their ability to reproduce. If an early human was a more effective communicator, this may have led to a greater hunting ability, resulting in a more reliable, consistent source of food (one of the key indicators in species’ success) and therefore a better chance of survival. Think of it as ‘survival of the linguist’.
When we explore the ‘evolution’ of anything to do with humanity, it is impossible to do so without citing Charles Darwin and his seminal notion of the origins of species. Wildly controversial at the time, Darwin’s idea is often considered to be the most profound and powerful theory of the last 200 years, and provides the frame of reference for most discussions about who we are and how we came to be, including how language evolved. For his part, Darwin believed that language was an adaptive trait — that is, the ability to use language and communicate made humans better adapted to their environment and therefore more successful as a species.
Darwin included gesture and facial expressions in his definition of language, and noted that the ability to use sound to express thoughts and be understood by others was not unique to humans. Indeed, many animals have their own particular set of calls, gestures an d facial expressions they use to communicate with each other. For example, with little trouble, we are able to distinguish between the tones of our pet pooch’s bark, from woofs of warning, to yelps of excitement. Although it has been documented that monkeys emit different noises that seem to convey a variety of meanings, and chimpanzees (our closest animal relatives) have been taught to use sign language, no animals have been able to produce language anywhere near the complexity of humans’ capabilities.
Language, like the rest of the human condition, evolved gradually over time through the process of natural selection. This will ring a bell even for those of us who slumped through high school Biology with one eye open. Natural selection and the ‘survival
One theory suggests that humans initially vocalised by mimicking animal cries, and then accompanied these with
gestures, such as pointing and waving in order to support or strengthen the meaning of their sounds. In the context of an early human’s existence, these vocalisations would have centred on hunting and food gathering, perhaps using particular sounds to represent the animals they were hunting — much in the way we now use ‘meow’ to represent a cat, or ‘moo’ to represent a cow. An alternative view proposes that the reverse is true, and that language first began as hand gestures. Any communicative language relies on shared understanding and convention of meaning, and early human language was no different. Humans required a way to convey their thoughts to each other, and used the unique ability of hands and arms to represent spatial concepts, such as shapes and actions. For example, a manual sign might depict an object such as a tree with less ambiguity than a sound could. Further evidence in support of this theory involves the convergence of other biological adaptations, namely bipedalism (upright walking). Proponents of this viewpoint suggest that bipedalism freed up the hands and arms to be used for gesticulation. Eventually, these gestures were in effect ‘swallowed’ so that they became gestures of the mouth, lips and tongue, manifested as vocalisations. Certainly, hunting would have been much more effective in these circumstances — sneaking up on an animal is easier if they aren’t frightened off by the noises a hunter makes. It also seems to make sense when we think of our readiness to revert to using hand gestures when words become ineffective. Consider for a moment how we communicate with a person who doesn’t speak our language — manual gestures play a vital role in getting the message across. Or in the case of a misheard spelling of words over the telephone — an ‘s’ in place of an ‘f’ — articulatory gestures (those made by our mouths, lips and tongue) are made clearer when we can actually watch someone speak. One of the world’s best known linguists, Noam Chomsky, agrees that language developed gradually through the process of natural selection, while also maintaining that humans have an innate ability to produce grammatical language. According to Chomsky, all humans share a ‘universal grammar’ — a set of rules that can generate the syntax of all human language — located in the brain. Chomsky believes that precisely because language works within a framework of rules, and because we can use language to express such profoundly complex ideas, there must be a neurological structure that is responsible for this ability. Chomsky’s theory of innateness explains several phenomena. Firstly, there is the fact that, at birth, humans have the potential to learn any language — as they learn to speak, children follow
grammatical rules despite being surrounded by grammatically wobbly adult speech. Language, with all its rules for word order and word endings, is just too complex to be learned by observation and imitation. Chomsky concludes that children must therefore possess some inherent knowledge of language that enables them to acquire it. Steven Pinker, another widely cited linguistic researcher, refers to this ability as ‘the language instinct’, and points to the FOXP2 gene (thought to play a role in the production of speech) as ‘the grammar gene’. The difficulty faced by language researchers, regardless of their discipline, is that spoken language is by its very nature impermanent. Unless recorded, speech ceases to exist the moment it leaves our mouths. And this is a sticking point for all theories of language evolution — the lack of concrete, archaeological evidence to unequivocally support any theory of how language evolved. If our understanding of our biological and physiological origins is pinned to the scattered and incomplete skeletons of million-year-old species, then language — in all its ephemeral glory — is quite literally left behind. According to archaeological evidence (fossils, to you and I), around 200,000 years ago, the first of our human ancestors emerged in Africa, and by about 100,000 years ago began to migrate. By about 60,000 years ago they left Africa, and by about 40,000 years ago they had reached Europe and Asia. Many scientists believe that this kind of migration would simply not have been possible without some system of communication; indeed, as early humans spread over the planet, their material and symbolic culture became richer. Although they disagree on the timeline specifics, most researchers do agree on one thing: that something — perhaps a number of different things — occurred to cause a shift in human brain development. Some suggest there was a sudden genetic mutation — a DNA ‘big bang’ — that gave rise to a number of changes such as an increase in brain size and a change in neurological organisation. This increased mental capability resulted in sophisticated tool use and the creation of art, and also the ability to represent these objects through language. The ability to discuss objects, and perhaps explain how to use them, would certainly be beneficial to humans in their daily search for food, or in the increasing complexity of their social groups. Other than the physical or biological evolution of language, there is the notion of cultural evolution, which has probably had the greatest, most recent impact in human evolution. Around 10,000 years ago, humans began to domesticate animals and develop agriculture, transitioning from a hunting and gathering lifestyle to farming. Keeping livestock and growing plants to harvest ensured that human existence became more static, and people
RIGHT. Quentin Atkinson, Associate professor, School of Psychology, University of Auckland, on the island of Tanna in Vanuatu.
“EVOLUTIONARY PSYCHOLOGIST QUENTIN ATKINSON HAS COMBINED STRATEGIES FROM POPULATION GENETICS AND LINGUISTICS TO ATTEMPT TO TRACE THE ORIGINS OF LANGUAGE BY APPLYING THE CONCEPT OF THE ‘FOUNDER EFFECT’, WHEREBY GENETIC DIVERSITY IS DECREASED WHEN A SMALL POPULATION BREAKS OFF FROM A LARGER ONE, AS NOT ALL THE GENES ARE CARRIED WITH THE SMALLER GROUP...” began to live in larger communities that could be supported by these plentiful and reliable food sources. With the development of farming, communities began to spread further afield, acquiring more land to farm in order to sustain larger populations. It is thought that early humans would have required a more developed form of communication in order to organise trade and resolve disputes. But how have we ended up with the 6000 languages (or thereabouts) we have presently? Many scholars have likened the development of a multitude of languages to evolutionary theory: the process of species evolution is analogous to an enormous tree, with multiple branches, multiple twigs and multiple leaves. Just as species split off to form new species, languages split to form dialects and completely new languages. Similar to the way the common ancestor of all mammals gave rise to the whale, the horse and the orangutan, early (or ‘proto’) languages serve as the common ancestor for the thousands of languages we hear in the world today — the trunk of the linguistic tree, so to speak. For example, the main language groups of Europe such as Germanic (comprising English, German, and the Scandinavian languages, including Icelandic), Slavonic (comprising Russian, Polish, Czech and several others used in Eastern Europe) and Italic (comprising Latin and the Romance languages of Italian, French, Spanish and Portuguese), are members of a larger branch of the linguistic tree, known as the Indo-European languages. Other twigs on the Indo-European branch include Greek, the Baltic languages, the Celtic languages (Welsh, and Irish and Scottish Gaelic), Farsi, and even the Indian languages of Sanskrit and Hindi. It has been suggested that these languages all evolved from what linguists call Proto-Indo-European, the evolutionary
common ancestor of many of the languages of the northern hemisphere. Evolutionary psychologist Quentin Atkinson has combined strategies from population genetics and linguistics to attempt to trace the origins of language by applying the concept of the ‘founder effect’, whereby genetic diversity is decreased when a small population breaks off from a larger one, as not all the genes are carried with the smaller group. Atkinson argues that “The same scenario can apply to elements of language, including phonemes… the sounds that each language uses to make up words.” Noting that biologists have used the correlation of decreasing genetic diversity with increasing distance from Africa to support the idea of an African genetic origin for humans, looking at the number of phonemes used by various languages throughout the world he found “a clear decrease in [linguistic] diversity with distance from Africa… [which] suggests that like our genetic ancestry, our language ancestry can be traced back to a single origin in Africa.” Another way in which linguistic researchers can explore the evolutionary roots of languages, is to study ‘cognates’ — words that are etymologically related (please refer to Figure 1 on page 29). Derived from the Latin cognatus, meaning ‘blood relative’, cognates are useful because they allow researchers to explore the similarities and differences between languages, based on knowledge of their origins. Language researchers consider the existence of cognates as evidence of today’s languages having the same common ancestor, much like all humans are descended from one common ‘ape’ ancestor. One suggestion is that our linguistic antecedents evolved into the many languages of today in a process similar to dialectal variation. A form of communication is often defined as being
a language if there are two or more people that are able to communicate and be understood by each other. When two forms of communication are so different that it is impossible to establish an understanding, then they are regarded as two separate languages. However, it can be the case that two speakers of the same defined language have difficulty in understanding one another — for example, there are many varieties of English, and a speaker of American English may find a Londoner incomprehensible. This is often due to dialect forms of the same language. This is one explanation for the existence of thousands of different languages — that they evolved due to groups of people migrating, settling, and becoming geographically isolated from other groups. Eventually, their forms of speech changed in pronunciation, structure and word meaning. It is thought that this dialectal variation continued until these forms of communication became distinct languages in their own right.
development, and may also add weight to the idea of a ‘hardwired’ or innate grammatical ability, as Chomsky has maintained. All this might bring new meaning to our understanding of what it means to be a human: we all use language to detail our daily lives, to express our experiences, to explain our emotions. If, as the current body of scientific evidence suggests, we are all descended from a common ancestor, then we are not as different as we might believe. And if we search for common ground, perhaps it is best to search for that which represents the ideas we all share — then we will stand a greater chance of communicating effectively. When one considers that all humans are born of a mother and a father, and that our words for these concepts are linguistic ‘blood relatives’, it makes one question whether our languages, rather than separating us, actually unite us. Figure 1. Table of Cognates
TABLE: COGNATES (MOTHER/FATHER) However, another argument stems from the idea of creolisation. In the recent past — during the days of colonial expansion — traders and colonisers developed a form of language, called a ‘pidgin’, in order to be able to communicate with indigenous people. Pidgin languages have very little or no grammar, but were effective in the exchange of simple ideas. Pidgins can develop in complexity and over generations can become more sophisticated creole languages, which do have grammatical ‘rules’.
English Father Mother Latin pater mater Sanskrit
pitar
matar
French père mère There is disagreement between linguists as to whether creoles are truly distinct languages, or whether they might just be dialects — but their existence may explain how different languages have developed. Indeed, that people of differing races and cultures are able to ‘create’ a language in which they can successfully communicate is the flipside to the exclusivity of dialectical
German vater mutter Norwegian
far
mor
Irish
athair
máthair
the death of diction Jessie Broad examines the endangerment of our global language diversity, and the efforts to turn back the tide
Just as many languages have sprouted over the millennia since language put down its first roots, along the way many have fallen out of use and died. It is estimated that an entire language dies every 14 days, and that by next century more than half of the world’s 7,000 current languages will cease to exist. For many, this merely represents the cycle of evolution and progress — but what is actually lost forever when a language becomes extinct? Language endangerment is a phenomenon that is not widely known, but one that is incredibly important to slow down. UNESCO (The United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization) have created an ‘atlas’ of the world’s languages which outlines how relatively vulnerable each one is. Languages are only considered ‘safe’ if the younger generations are learning them naturally — therefore, even if there are many speakers of a language, if no children are learning it then it is still considered at risk. Currently, only 10 percent of the world’s languages fall into
the ‘safe’ category. The remaining are being documented, and, where possible, taught, to prevent them being lost forever. The biggest killer of our languages is cultural assimilation. Communities become bilingual by force or out of necessity, and eventually the dominant language takes over. While this has happened throughout history, as communities become more multicultural and mobile the rate of decline has begun increasing dramatically. Governments have been the biggest influence here, by setting the dominant language for business and schooling. Often, to have any influence or opportunities, one needs to speak the chosen language (think Arabic over Egyptian in Egypt, or English in many countries) — so the use of native tongues falls out of favour. Many elders of such communities fail to pass on the native language, as they feel it could limit their children — the language simply isn’t considered to be as useful or valuable. These lines of thinking have major flaws,
however. Children can learn two or more languages from birth effortlessly — and along with each language, they learn new ways of looking at the world. By letting these languages fall by the wayside, the unique perspectives and traditions of each culture are lost. Many old languages have connections with the natural and cultural world that are only just beginning to be understood by Western thinking. An example of this is language of the Seri Indians, who are indigenous to the Gulf of California in Mexico. There are as few as 650 Seri speakers left, as the community must speak Spanish in order to obtain basic life necessities such as water, which is trucked into their town. However, the Seri language has more than 50 words for family kinship, and words that have no appropriate translation. Scientists are also currently learning about plant behaviour from their wealth of ancient knowledge. Another critically endangered language is that of the Euchee Indians of Oklahoma, USA. They have only four fluent speakers left, all elderly, who are fervently trying to save their dying language. Euchee is
unusual in the fact it is a ‘language isolate’ — it has no connections with any other language. ‘Outsiders’ have never learned it, although some words were borrowed for local place names. The language has two distinct forms of speech — one for men and another for women. It has more phonetic sounds than English, and many layers of tense, structure and grammar that make it incredibly difficult to master. The last male speaker has a huge weight on his shoulders — at 86, K’asa Henry Washburn is the only one who can pass on the male version of the language. He drives 16 kilometres every day to teach it to Euchee children, and has vowed to continue to do so for as long as he physically can. If these languages lose the fight for survival, the loss of cultural identity would be profound. In addition to material artefacts, any culture comprises beliefs and worldly concepts, values, and guidelines for behaviour, as well as the ‘plan of living’ that is passed on from generation to generation, which describes how different aspects of culture are to be continued. All of these are articulated through and contained within language in very specific ways. Cultures are changing just as they always have done— customs evolve with the times — but the essence of a culture’s uniqueness lives within its people and their ability to think and communicate from the position of their own worldview, represented by their language. When these hugely important factors go missing, it isn’t just the communities themselves that suffer. The world loses the knowledge that was contained in that language, and global cultural diversity slowly becomes impoverished. The Māori language of New Zealand is currently classed as ‘vulnerable’, and represents another culture that is important to save. As Kylie Brown, a representative for the Māori Language Commission, explains, “Languages are the carriers for the culture within which they are spoken and are therefore the only vehicle for their own ideal cultural transmission. Teaching Māori to our younger generations is existential. If we don’t transmit the carrier for our cultural memory, our knowledge, our philosophical world view, then our cultural fabric, the stuff that makes us ‘us’, becomes significantly weakened.” For example, Brown continues, “Māori language and cultural values [have] imprinted the New Zealand way of life. Place and land feature names are an example, capturing Māori histories, their life and events from a time long ago, carrying the culture and memory of our nation’s history.” If the meanings
of these words — their stories — were lost, the gap in New Zealand’s history would be significant. We wouldn’t have the knowledge of why particular places were special, or what happened to lead them to be named as such. This is also a concern with cultural concepts, expressed through language, that relate to cultural heritage. For example, the twin concepts of taonga and tapu are incredibly important within Māori culture, as they signify the sacredness of certain people, places or objects, and the concomitant protocols around interacting with them. If these words were no longer in use, thousands of protected archaeological and historical places and objects could be treated sacrilegiously, and their stories forgotten. Antique weapons and pendants that are passed down through families would lose their reverence, and with it their true meaning. Language preservation efforts are increasing, and there have been successes already. The Māori language is still classed as ‘vulnerable’, but its status continues to improve through the introduction of kōhanga reo, or ‘language nests’ for children, and language classes for adults. The ‘nests’ take an immersion-based approach, with young children spending their early years with older members of the community, communicating only in Māori. The Hawai’ian community also modelled their schooling systems on this approach, to great success. In the 1920s, the Hawaiian language ceased to be spoken after English became mandatory in schools. By the early 1980s, fewer than 50 children spoke their mother tongue. Nowadays, children can learn their language in preschool, and continue by taking many of their classes in Hawai’ian right through until university. Another preservation program is the Enduring Voices Project, a joint venture between The Living Tongues Institute for Endangered Languages and the National Geographic Society Mission programs. The project aims to increase
awareness of the language endangerment issue, document endangered languages and provide support and resources for indigenous communities to revitalise their languages. They focus on language ‘hotspots’: regions of the world with the highest level of linguistic diversity and endangerment, as well as the least-studied languages. Technology has helped incredibly with these goals, with the use of cameras, film and audio allowing elders’ stories and traditions to be archived. The Enduring Voices Project uses customised language software to record these oral treasures, and language technology kits are then created for the communities. Some forward-thinking communities are further harnessing the power of technology by teaming up with large companies to create video games and language apps to encourage their younger members of the community to learn. Most notable is the award winning game ‘Never Alone’, created by the Iñupiat people, native to Alaska. Nearly 40 Alaskan Native elders, storytellers and community members contributed to the popular game. A young Iñupiat girl and her Arctic fox are off on a mission, and along the way encounter stories of her indigenous folklore. It is the first of many planned ‘World Games’ that delve into the traditional lore of rich and unique cultures to share them in an authentic and engaging manner. There is hope for the future of our world’s languages as communities are becoming more aware of how important their vocabularies are; how rich, diverse and imbued with cultural memory, ideological thought and philosophical worldview. Some of these views will inevitably be lost, but with the help of technology and the dedication of those willing to do the legwork, we may be able to prolong the life of the ideas and cultures kept within these languages. For more information about The Enduring Voices Project, see livingtongues.org.
“THE BIGGEST KILLER OF OUR LANGUAGES IS CULTURAL ASSIMILATION. COMMUNITIES BECOME BILINGUAL BY FORCE OR OUT OF NECESSITY, AND EVENTUALLY THE DOMINANT LANGUAGE TAKES OVER..”
HOME IS WHERE THE HEART IS WORDS BY SCARLETT COOK ILLUSTRATION BY TRISTAN LEWIS
‘Home sweet home’. Once a simple adage that has adorned embroidered cushions, door mats and other domestic decorations for years, it no longer seems like such a straightforward statement. In a day and age when our personal and professional lives aren’t constrained by post codes, state lines or even borders, and when travel — the desire to move — becomes the norm, the question of where we call ‘home’ grows ever more pertinent. According to a 2013 report by the United Nations, approximately 3 percent of the world’s population live outside of the countries in which they were born. That means roughly 232 million people don’t currently call their country of origin ‘home’. Whether drawn away by a loved one, enticed by the prospect of a new job opportunity, or simply feeling an urge to live somewhere different, a considerable proportion of the global population are reinventing the very concept of ‘home’. The word can evoke a range of connotations, depending on who is asking — and answering — the question. Traditionally, questions pertaining to home tended to mean the place where one was born or where their childhood home was. However, if the places we called home as a child changed frequently, or where we were born was merely a matter of coincidence, this set of criteria may not be such a good measure. Further, as expat lifestyles and long-distance relationships are becoming more and more common, these examples may not be as concrete or
definite as they once were. Perhaps it’s best, then, to turn our attention to the homes we’ve had throughout our adult years. While they say that we can’t pick our family but we can pick our friends; university flats, young professional house-shares or the various dorm rooms of an extended period of travel could all be considered homes that we’ve selected ourselves, and the people that fill them our extended, chosen family. These are the places we ‘decided’ to be based, where often our first memories of developing our education, shaping our careers or nurturing our personal relationships came to fruition. But what happens if, as part of that journey of self-discovery, we feel ourselves called to a city or country thousands of miles away, that we may never have been to before but feel compelled to visit or live in? There may be no other reason except for the desire to up and go which calls us there, but we just know it’s somewhere we’re meant to be. That’s how we end up on planes or trains, with nothing but suitcases and a head full of dreams, ready to start anew. If we therefore have childhood homes, places we’ve lived for educational, professional or personal reasons and then places we feel connected to in other ways, when — and how — does one accept the transition from the idea of ‘home’, singular, to that of multiple homes? And how do these interact, working with or against one another in the formation of our identities?
For me, I realised this multiplicity most recently after returning home to London — the city where I grew up and where my parents live — after an extended period of travel. I had come back from New Zealand, where I had gone to reconnect with family who had moved there nearly a decade ago, as well as being inspired by its geographical remoteness — I don’t think it’s possible for me to get any further from ‘home’, in a sense. There’s something special about my childhood home and a part of me will always be attached to London because it’s where my family and school friends are. However, returning to the city, I no longer felt as connected with it in the way I had done before — people had moved on, areas had changed and at times I felt out of sync with the fast-paced nature of life there. This sense of reverse culture shock — feeling like what once was so familiar was somewhat foreign — is common for many people to experience after living overseas. I found that I was also looking forward to returning to New Zealand as well, which is the place I have chosen to call home for the past year and that I continue to do so now. Each time I landed back at Auckland airport after a month in Australia or a spontaneous trip to New Caledonia, I felt a sense of coming home then, too. What is it that creates these feelings, and why do some places hold such power over us in this way? Turning to the trusty dictionary, the word ‘home’ is defined in a
ABOVE. Arthur's Pass, New Zealand
FOLLOWING PAGE. London in the morning
Photo by Kurt McManus
Photo by Shatabda Saha
number of ways. However, what unites the different definitions is a recurring mention of permanence. Perhaps it’s intrinsic to us as human beings to have a need for stability, and loved ones or work obligations are just some of the things which can anchor us to particular locations. Interestingly, if we look to Maori culture, the concept of turangawaewae could help shed some light on why people are drawn to certain locations. The meaning of this word — ‘a place to stand’ — refers to the feelings of empowerment and connectedness we draw from a given place. While turangawaewae in the traditional sense is related to the ancestral connections embodied in the physical landscapes around us, the overriding sense of grounding implied by the term may also be present for other reasons in places we’ve chosen to live. As the UN data shows, world travel is an ever-growing trend, and this in turn is changing the nature of our society and the rules and norms which define it. As a fairly frequent flyer myself, what has always struck me is how on just about any given day of the week, airplanes and airports are busy. Waiting for my flight from Auckland to Hong Kong on a Wednesday afternoon earlier this year, the departures lounge was full. And it didn’t stop there. The flight was packed out. Where are all these people going, and why? Looking around the café in departures, it was clear to see there were a mixture of travellers waiting to get on their way. Smart suits and the clicking of laptop keys suggested passengers who were going to or coming from business meetings or other work-related travel. More chatter and a whir of activity seemed to come from families, who were perhaps flying off to or ending a holiday or reunion. Plane travel used to be seen as an exotic and glamorous form of transport. However, with an increasing number of workplaces spanning multiple global locations, or families spread across continents, air travel is now more of an everyday means to an end rather than an occasional luxury. According to the Benefits Beyond Borders report by the Air Transport Action Group, 2.97 billion people took flights in 2014, and that’s with a total global population of 7.2 billion. If we know from figures like these that the world is becoming a more accessible, and in some sense, a smaller place, then it’s no wonder that something as equally definitive — the concept of ‘home’ — is also in flux. In my own experience, while at first I struggled with not feeling ‘at home’ when I returned to London, I came to the realisation that maybe what was needed was a change of definition. With this new outlook, I decided that it was perfectly acceptable to have multiple homes, which exist both concurrently in the present, and also in my memories of the past. Instead of looking outwards and attempting to locate and secure one home in one city, I realised that I have many homes across the world. While this could seem to be unsettling, in fact, I found in this way of thinking that sense of stability we all seek, knowing that in whichever corner of the world I may be, a friendly face or familiar feeling may also be there too.
38 / Living like a Local Special Feature
N O M A D If we assign our homes by the places we spend the most time, what does this mean for those who are constantly on the move? The nomadic Bakarwal Gujjar people give new meaning to the idea of living like a local
WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHY BY MATT BRANDON
riving the roads of Jammu and Kashmir in early spring, it would be unusual not to be stopped by a flock of goats or sheep clogging the motorway as they are herded towards their summer pastures. In fact, the very roadway we are on follows the route that shepherds carved out centuries ago. These shepherds are a unique people called Bakarwal Gujjars, a transhumance people who travel seasonally from the relatively warm climates of the Jammu in winter to the lush green meadows of Kashmir in the summer. In their own language they often refer to themselves as Khanabadosh, or 'people with their house on their back' — nomads. Bakarwal Guijjars have close cousins who are slightly less nomadic, called Pahari Gujjars. In the Jammu and Kashmir region of India both groups are Muslim and often share the same mountain
meadows. The Pahari Gujjars live all year in the Kashmir Valley while their relatives, the Bakarwals, travel back and forth between the hot plains of Rajouri and Punch, close to Pakistan, to the high meadows of the Pir Panjal. Circling the Kashmir Valley, the Pir Panjal is one of the mountain ranges that make up The Himalayas. The Bakarwal Gujjars' herd has hundreds, sometimes thousands of goats and sheep, and they travel the same route by horseback and on foot year after year, camping in homemade patchwork tents along the way. Their traditional lifestyle is at risk, as the government of India has on several occasions tried to settle the Bakarwals into permanent communities. So far, these planned settlements have failed, but where the government has been unsuccessful, economics and modernity are making inroads.
TITLE PAGE. A Gujjar man rides proudly on his horse in Lidderwat, Kashmir, India.
ABOVE. A Bakarwal herds his flock over a an ice field to green pastures. Kolahoi, Kashmir, India.
BELOW. These Gujjars stay close to the fire to stay warm during perperations for a wedding meal. Pahalgam, Kashmir, India.
RIGHT. At 3,900 metres a Gujjar woman makes salt tea in her hut on the slopes of Mt. Kolhoi. A shaft of light beams down through the smoke from the vent in her sod roof. Kolahoi, Kashmir, India
PREVIOUS PAGE LEFT. A Bakarwal, Gujjar mother and child sit together in their hut. Note the distinct hat and plaits on the mother. Lidderwat, Kashmir, India
PREVIOUS PAGE RIGHT. A classic Gujjar face framed by his distinct turban and woolen shawl. Pahalgam, Kashmir, India
LEFT. A green eyed Gujjar girl with a cup of salt tea. Lidderwat, Kashmir, India
BELOW. Gujjar men rest after a day of packing trekker's camping gear through the mountains. Lidderwat, Kashmir, India
ABOVE. Pahari and Bakarwal children sit in front of a fallen tree for their photo. Lidderwat, Kashmir, India
ABOVE. Six Pahari Gujjar men take refuge from the snow under the eves of a barn. These men wear the Kashmiri, "pheran" or woolen poncho to stay warm. Pahalgam, Kashmir, India
CAREER
commuter Those who have lived and worked in various countries walk us through their experiences, providing a window onto the challenges and rewards of moving long-term to a foreign destination.
We experience a night in the life of the iconic salaryman in Tokyo. and find out whether the dream still exists for those clamouring to ‘make it’ in New York City.
The process of bringing sustainable enterprise to Afghanistan reveal some business and life lessons, and the local culture of the Philippines exerts a positive influence on a post-disaster volunteer force.
RIGHT: PHOTO BY ANDREW STOREY
52 / Living like a Local Special Feature
t o k y o
WORDS BY TIM GRAY
Location: TOKYO
It wasn’t always like this. I started my career like many other young lawyers, spending the first 3 years working in New Zealand for a mid-sized firm. I had shunned the idea of working for a huge firm doing (what I regarded as) menial corporate work, and instead cut my teeth on family and employment law, which no-one could call dull. After spending the next couple of years in London doing child protection law for a local authority, I made the dubious decision to follow love to Tokyo, with thoughts of my career far from mind. Sheer luck resulted in a job at one of Japan’s biggest law firms. It’s not something I want to do forever, but it can be difficult to carve out a career niche here as a gaijin (foreign person). There are wellworn paths for career commuters: English teaching or hospitality jobs (with equally nocturnal hours), but a fast-devaluing yen (thanks, ‘Abenomics’) has made those less attractive options, particularly for those of us with spouses and children to worry about.
It’s 10:30pm on a Friday night, and somewhere on the 28th floor of a skyscraper in Roppongi, my work phone is ringing. “Uh, hello?” My eyes are struggling to focus on the caller ID, having spent the last 3 hours glued to a Share Purchase Agreement that now leers at me from my computer monitor. “You sound like a man who needs a drink,” my friend Denny shoots back with an unjustifiable perkiness. Now squarely focused on the flickering keyboard cursor, the enormity of the task before me begins to sink in. Working at an internal workstation will drive the sanest man crazy, and I decide what I actually need to do is take an evening stroll and reassess. Get a fresh perspective.
I duck into one of the long-since-emptied corner offices, which enjoys a panoramic view of the nocturnal cityscape, including Tokyo Tower. The city below hums with activity and beckons to me, but I take solace from the number of office workers I can see pacing around in neighbouring buildings. A few floors down, I see a surprisingly animated man presenting to a meeting, flapping his arms as if preparing to leap out the window and take flight. I think to myself that he must be feeling frustrated and overwhelmed, then realise I am probably projecting. Denny was right: I do need a drink.One of the inescapable facets of working in a country so dependent on exports and foreign business is the hours. They tend towards the long and unusual, and nowhere is this more evident than among expats. When clients and colleagues are primarily based in New York, London, or somewhere in between, Japan seems to adjust to accommodate those hours. For many of the bengoshi (Japanese lawyers), this means days that begin at 9:30am and end at 4am. For gaijin like me, the rough edges are slightly blunted, and instead I work 2:30pm - 11pm most nights, with smatterings of overtime that keep me at work well beyond the last trains (which, even in a huge city like Tokyo, generally stop running around 1am).
LEFT. Evening settles over Tokyo's seemingly endless sprawl. Photo by Joshua Davenport
PREVIOUS PAGE. Admiring the cook's technique while waiting for seats at a neighborhood ramen stall. Photo by Saret Son
Determined that tonight will not be one of those nights, I head back to my desk to return Denny’s call. There is an initial pause before Denny breaks into a deep, malevolent chuckle. I feel I’m conceding something, but I don’t know what. “Where are you guys drinking?” “Golden Gai.” He sounds smug now. “See you at the station in 10.” I try my best to hide it, but I am secretly thrilled about our venue. Goruden Gai (‘Golden Street’) is a rabbit warren of rickety, interconnected dive bars and watering holes, tucked up the back of Shinjuku, predominantly built in wood and sheet iron. It was once a hotbed of prostitution and the dark arts, but it has since been claimed by a bohemian sect of Tokyo that is otherwise invisible, at least in the cold light of day. It is precisely the opposite of the kind of place that Denny, and most young gaijin in Japan choose to go, substituting the endless vertical columns of neon so ubiquitous in Roppongi or Shibuya for cheap, flickery lamps and chalkboard. With most of its bars only opening around 10pm (and clearing out around 5 - 6am to coincide with the resumption of train services, perhaps the only similarity it shares with Tokyo’s dance clubs), Golden Gai has traded the ‘oonst-oonst’ for unheard-of jazz records, and the glittery, made-up young ones give way to an interesting, damaged crowd in their 30s to 50s. Given that most of its bars seat only 6-10 patrons each, it ensures a level of intimacy in a city where eye contact is a rare and precious thing. Establishing a network of friends and supporters in Tokyo can be tough. Not only is there a (slowlyeroding) language barrier, but gaijin are often regarded as temporary novelties, rather than longterm friendship material. This perception is not totally unwarranted, given the country saw largescale desertion by expats following the March 2011 earthquake and ensuing nuclear catastrophe — resulting in the word ‘fly-jin’ entering the popular vernacular. Moreover, like any big international city, Tokyo’s population tends towards the transient, with much of its workforce hailing from outside Tokyo, staying a number of years, and then moving on, which can make forging long-term friendships an exhausting prospect.
This is reflected in my company for the night: Denny, a University of Toronto law graduate who has joined my team for a year as an intern, and Toshi, a single 30 (40?)-something engineerturned-lawyer from Osaka, who plays bass guitar in a doom metal band and builds robots for a hobby. In addition to his apparent agelessness and variety of interests, Toshi has a breadth of life experience and open-mindedness that is lacking in many of his salaryman (white-collar male worker) peers. In the post-bubble Japanese economy, Toshi is one of a fast-decreasing number of Japanese men who’ve had the courage (and financial means) to spend a couple of years living abroad, and with that comes insight into the challenges that foreigners face overseas. In other words, he is exactly the sort of local any gaijin wants at their side in the labyrinthine streets of Tokyo, especially when one has Denny as their charge. With around 200 bars scattered through Golden Gai’s six small alleys, Toshi takes a gamble by leading us into the curiously named Kangaroo Court. He has never been here before, but the clientele looks promising: two redfaced salaryman are already in full, loud-speaking, back-slapping mode, and in the corner a palefaced lady dressed exclusively in black is blowing smoke rings (Japan has no laws restricting smoking in bars or restaurants, although some more reputable establishments have established policies of their own), her eyes fixed on an ash-tray already piled high with discarded cigarettes. “Three beers, thanks.” My Japanese, though not brilliant, is perfect for these sorts of encounters. “And four waters,” chimes in Denny. “Uh, three will do thanks.” I assume Denny is just struggling with his counting in Japanese. “No man, I need two waters" — Denny looks hurt and has reverted to English — “don’t you see how sweaty I am?” Denny’s voice moves from loud to obnoxiously loud. “It’s like in that film with all the cartoon characters — if they touch that green dip they start to melt. Well, I’m like that, except the opposite: if I don’t get my two waters I’m going to melt right here on the floor.”
Even as he rambles, Denny’s gaze seems fixed on Smoke Rings, who shows no interest in returning it, and whose hair has fallen over her eyes. Denny continues: “Who Framed Roger Rabbit? Yeah. That’s it. Well water is my dip, except the opposite of that.” “That sounds more like The Wizard of Oz,” Toshi chimes in with unexpected aptitude, although his intonation suggests he would quite like the conversation to end here. “Yes. Like that. I’m like the Wicked Witch of the West, but I need water, so I’m more like the Good Warlock of the East.” Presumably not feeling sufficiently concealed, Smoke Rings exhales a near-impenetrable blanket of smoke that removes her from the situation entirely, and I wonder whether she will still be there when the smoke clears. The Backslappers have stopped their loud-talking, and their crinkly-eyed smiles have morphed into sincere looks of concern and embarrassment for our group. I feel the prickly heat of shame creeping up my face, and Denny, still grinning broadly, looks like he wants to take this metaphor further. “Um, so, busy tonight?” Toshi looks to the barmaid for an escape, as she hands us our four waters. It’s a fact of living in Japan that one will meet some pretty unusual gaijin. It’s hard to say whether they started out this way, or whether living here slowly dissolved their social filters. Whatever the case, Japan certainly provides a neutral space in which their idiosyncrasies can be fully expressed. Which is not to say that gaijin are, as a whole, badly-behaved (they are not) — just that compared to the Japanese salaryman, there is no escaping that we are the Other: welcomed and well-tolerated as guests, but not expected or especially encouraged to establish a permanent abode here. Once our beer arrives, things slowly move on for the better. It turns out that the Backslappers are cram school teachers. One of them, who teaches French, spends some time trying to arrange a date between me and his 23-year-old daughter. He employs the powerful opening gambit of telling me that I look like Daniel Radcliffe (I respond that he looks like Jackie Chan), and after I rebuff the invite, suggests I could meet his 21-year-old son
instead, who has recently come out as gay (quite unusual in Japan, and certainly unusual for a father to speak about publicly). Eventually I deploy the nuclear option of showing him photos of my wife and son. Other travellers file in and out as the morning wears on: an Australian banker and his Japanese girlfriend are visiting from Sydney, and want to know where to go clubbing. I suggest our eight-stool bar is probably not the place to look, while a young lady with two miniature dachshunds in her purse arrives and promptly unloads them onto the bar (it seems that hygiene inspections are not a great priority here). Even Smoke Rings turns out to be friendly, although she casts especially fierce looks at the barmaid each time she wants her ashtray replaced. Sometime after 5am, it strikes me how bright it’s become. The night has receded and light streams in through small, windowlike cracks. Toshi’s head is slightly bowed and his eyes are closed, having apparently fallen asleep mid-conversation with the barmaid. Denny wants another beer, but the barmaid puts on Radiohead’s The Bends set to ‘obnoxiously loud’, which I take as a pretty clear signal she wants us out. We are, after all, the last customers. We pay up and shuffle a near-catatonic Toshi into the blinding morning light. A gentle rain has begun to fall, and I wonder how this will work out for the littering of salarymen who have opted to sleep on the streets between Golden Gai and the station, briefcases and belongings scattered around them. Denny stops mid-step, preparing to turn around. “Ramen,” he says decisively. “We need to get some of that ramen at Nagi. We can deliver our verdicts on the Kangaroo Court.” Nagi is famous in Golden Gai for its ramen with a special broth made from dried baby anchovies. Japan has many such stronglyflavoured breakfast offerings, and while ramen is excellent at soaking up alcohol, the thought of standing in a queue in the rain with tens of other people suffering early morning existential crises is not the most enticing prospect. I imagine my 15-month-old son is probably waking up about now, and feel a sudden urgency to get home. “Uhm… no, what I need is sleep. Good night.” Although it is no longer night by any stretch of the imagination — and I’m aware I said something similar about 8 hours earlier — this time, I mean it.
PREVIOUS PAGE. Ramen on every corner
BELOW. Golden Gai at night
Photo by Juan Gonzalez
Photo by Nakana Focus
Travel Tracker
Things we love about Tokyo The city blends tradition and modernity, embracing the best of global trends and creating plenty of its own. It has more Michelin 3-star restaurants than any other city in the world, and plenty of places to drink and wash it all down.
Language Japanese
Getting there A range of airlines fly direct to Narita daily from most major travel hubs worldwide, though cheaper deals can be had with a connection elsewhere in Asia.
Climate Tokyo's climate varies, with very hot summers and occasional snow in winter. Spring and autumn are mild and pleasant (but short), and there is a secret 5th season (the rainy season) that lasts from the beginning of June to mid-July, during which umbrellas are practically compulsory.
Transport Tokyo has one of the cleanest, cheapest and most sophisticated public transport networks in the world, and car ownership rates are low as a result.
Currency Yen
60 / Living like a Local Special Feature
new york
WORDS & ILLUSTRATIONS BY NADEESHA GODAMUNNE
Location: NEW YORK
Before I left home to chase this dream, I was lecturing fashion illustration. I was fortunate to have my mentors support my big move and connect me with The Academy of Art University in San Francisco. As a result, I managed to get a one-year ‘J1’ work visa. Though it wasn’t quite New York, the opportunity was too great, and off I went. Here, I taught fashion drawing to freshman classes for a semester and worked alongside one of my greatest idols, Gladys Perint Palmer, an extremely influential fashion illustrator. The experience was rewarding and immensely challenging. I adored the job, and after the first semester, I was torn as to whether to stay, or leave everything for New York, where I would be starting from scratch with no job, friends, or accommodation. Expressing my doubt to Gladys, she told me something that has stuck with me to this day: “Everybody knows good from bad, but New York knows good from great.” That settled it. I packed my bags and left for New York.
A friend once told me that every time he flew over New York City, his heart dropped. When my turn came, I was waiting for mine to do the same — and boy, did it. Peering through the aeroplane window, the city’s vastness was unfathomable. With my eyes opened, nervousness took over: I realised everything was at my fingertips, and that the world truly was my oyster. This city had a magnetic energy, and I felt insignificant and small. It was a refreshing feeling, but I was also naïve to the challenges I would soon face. Most people romanticise a city they have always longed to live in — New York was it, for me. As a teen, watching a documentary on Andy Warhol’s beginnings as a fashion illustrator was my trigger. If I wanted to really be amongst it, I had to relocate: I needed to be immersed in it. Ironically, there was something beautiful about the idea of being a struggling artist in a big city, and despite the small niche for fashion illustration, I knew I had to take the risk. I wanted to make my mark, I was extremely passionate, and my head was racing with possibilities. It all seemed so simple.
On a professional level, I simply wanted ‘make it’; I had dreams. But aside from that, I wanted to grow personally, too: I wanted to do it on my own, and see if I could support myself — a large part of me simply wanted to find ‘me’. I had never flatted before, nor held down a proper full-time job. I was thrown into the deep end — and I liked it. The fear was exciting and the culture shock was enlightening. Everything was in my face: the people, the energy, the pace... and the competition. However, after 3 months of searching for work, rewriting cover letters, moving from apartment to apartment and trying to make friends, New York broke me. Nothing was simple: anything that required two steps in New Zealand required five more steps in New York. Everything took longer, and there were 50 times more people applying for the same jobs, the same apartments, the same visas — everyone was fighting for the same thing. It felt like for every 100 jobs I applied for, I received about five replies. It was probably one of the most stressful times of my life to date, mostly because I felt alone. Not only was it taxing, it was depressing. I was hard on myself, but eventually these challenges became normal. I came to terms with the fact that things in New York took time. In the end, finding an apartment that I could call home
PREVIOUS PAGE. New York Building
BELOW. The beards of New York
RIGHT. Father and Son
took a full year. I moved six times before that, and believe me, my room certainly didn’t have a window that oversaw the Manhattan skyline, as I’d dreamt. Searching for apartments on Craigslist was… interesting, to say the least. Friends of friends and Facebook pages for foreigners residing in New York became my preferred method to find sublets. I would sublet for 3 months at a time (getting my name on a lease was tricky because I had no credit). However, being a nomad was surprisingly fun. I managed to live in three different neighbourhoods, which taught me a lot about the vibe I responded to. Moving in a cab with my three suitcases became a ritual. I finally settled in Clinton Hill — treelined blocks and brownstone living was for me. As for the subway, I was bad with navigation to begin with, so it took me a while longer than others to get the hang of it. I would always accidently catch express lines, and end up somewhere way uptown or downtown — but to pass the time as I made my way back on track, I would just sketch the interesting people I saw on the subway. I never used Google Maps — I just spoke to people when I was lost, and in doing so made friends. I was surprised how welcoming New Yorkers were: everyone was willing to help out, make me feel at home, or invite me to a party. Being poor wasn’t even an issue — there was always a way I managed. ‘Hustling’ became my favourite word, because that’s exactly what I did. New York is wonderful in the sense that inspiration and food are cheap. I could eat tacos for US$6, and inspiration was on the streets for free. My sketchbook captured all my highs and lows. Over the course of my settling in, the New York fairy tale quickly vanished, so I had to constantly remind myself why I was
here. I learned to hold my head up, and not be shy — people sensed vulnerability. I quickly realised that building connections and relationships were more important for my survival than my master’s degree, and that talent would only get me so far — I had to sell myself. People here really knew how to make a statement, be bold and dress the part. I was brought up to be humble, to think that saying I’m brilliant at something may even come off cocky. But here, it was a necessity. I learned to believe in myself, and manifest what I wanted. I finally decided to become an intern. At first, I couldn’t get over the fact I was interning at this stage in my career — until I met people with doctorates doing the same. My first internship was with Abby Lichtman, a start-up textile design company. Abby’s whole ethos was to hand-draw prints — a stark contrast to the commercial computer-generated work one sees at textile shows. An average day involved creating and painting, then using the heat press machine to place prints on to fabric. We would then go to design houses to showcase the season’s collection. Abby taught me that finding a commercial gap with my skill set was possible, and helped land my first paying gig in New York, as an assistant textile designer — a role that taught me that the film The Devil Wears Prada is indeed based on reality. It tested my will, patience, purpose, and my relationships with people, and taught me to be tough. After 8 months, my visa was about to run out, and I was nervous. I heard about the ‘O1’ artist visa (a 3-year permit designed for anyone in a creative field). I approached a lawyer about it and after 3 months of prepping my portfolio and organising reference letters, I applied for the visa and — just in the nick of time — I got it. I felt
extremely fortunate to have bought myself some more time in the city. As fate would have it, around this time I met someone at a dinner party, who mentioned her brother was an illustrator too. I met up with him over coffee and found out he was one of the illustrators at Ralph Lauren. Little did he know, I’d had my eye on that job since my university days. He saw my work and loved it; he said that if anything popped up, he would put my portfolio forward. Just a month or so later, I was at Ralph Lauren being interviewed, and I landed the gig. Things may not have moved as fast as I would have liked, but it was worth the wait.Almost 3 years later, my love for New York still remains. It’s one of those places one has to love if they want to live in it. Visiting this city and living here are entirely different things. I have realised the struggles people face to be here, and the work ethic people have — many holding down three jobs to make it happen. All said, it makes me strive: the energy doesn’t slow down, so I know I had better keep up. For those whose idea of success is to have a home by the age of 30 and live on their own, this isn’t their scene. But if the ideal is to experience, learn, stumble and fall, and perhaps even make their dreams come true, this is the place. New York is on a different time schedule. Things take longer — and not just apartment and job hunting. It’s normal to be single at 37, to still be discovering one’s passion at 30. Although I turn 28 soon, I feel like I’m 18, learning every day. Moving to New York was much more difficult than I expected, but I have reaped some great rewards, made some talented and driven friends, and get to draw every day for a living. I am so thankful for all of that. I don’t know what the future will hold, but for now, New York is where I call home.
BELOW. Cafe - Avenue of the Americas
Travel Tracker
Things we love about New York The energy, the sunsets, the bagels and Froyo, walking over the Brooklyn bridge, the endless amount of culture and inspiration on the streets, the copious amount of exhibitions, and of course, the people.
Language English.
Getting there Fly in via the west coast from Oceania or direct from major European and Asian hubs.
Climate Extreme: super hot and humid in the summer, and crazy cold in the winter. Spring and Autumn don't last long, so gear up. Investing in a good down jacket is a must.
Transport The subway system in NYC is fabulous — get a monthly unlimited pass. Its not only easy to get around, but also running constantly — great for those late nights.
Currency US Dollar.
66 / Living like a Local Special Feature
afghanistan
WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHY BY TONY WOOD
Location: AFGHANISTAN
their own energy generation systems, while avoiding the high failure rates that have plagued other similar initiatives in the past. Simply put, the hardware is only half the story. Training and support of the installation after construction is equally important, and is an aspect that development agencies have frequently overlooked. This approach of stressing long term service was deployed in Bamiyan, and we carry this into our future projects, most of which are centred on commercial-scale power generation in challenging environments as well. My journey to bringing sustainable energy to Bamiyan began with a degree in Production Engineering, followed by postgraduate qualifications in Business and Development Studies. The idea to work in the field of energy really came from seeing first-hand during a bicycle trip through Africa and South Asia in the early 90s just how inefficient energy production and consumption patterns were in these regions. Add to this the fact that I have always had a bent towards challenging environments, and getting a 9 to 5 engineering job at home was never going to hold my attention for long. For me, the challenges that come with trying to get complex projects working the way they should in difficult locations is what I enjoy. And yes, there are times when it is very challenging indeed — but as the old saying goes, the road less travelled is bound to be the most interesting.
I arrived in Kabul, Afghanistan in 1999 in a small Cessna from Pakistan. Kabul airport was a complete wreck: utterly shot to pieces and deserted. Some Taleban were trying to get a fighter jet working on the runway, without much success. We hopped out of our plane and wandered through the terminal, straight out into the street. We kept walking until we found a cab, and went into town — it took a couple of days to find the right Taleban office with the immigration entry stamp. After numerous other trips, I found myself back in Kabul in 2012 in a newly refurbished airport. We were headed to Bamiyan to begin a project to improve the socio-economic position of the local population (predominantly Hazara Muslims). I can appreciate that when the word ‘solar’ is mentioned, the reaction is that it is an environmental project. However, this wouldn’t be strictly accurate in this case, as the priority was to facilitate economic and social progress — while doing so in both an environmentally and financially sustainable manner. Sustainable Energy Services International (SESI) has worked in the field of community scale energy infrastructure since 1996. Our focus has been on assisting communities to own and operate
We split our time in Bamiyan between a local style house where we slept on large cushions on the floor and lived pretty simply, and staying with other expats in a more western-style house with running water and power (from our solar array). The latter was equipped with local staff, to help us stay focused on working on the project rather than cooking and cleaning, so we spent some time teaching the cook, Baqir, to expand his range of meals. This was great fun — he was an excellent team member. He would shop for fresh fruit, vegetables and meat (which we would call ‘geep’, as nobody ever knew for sure if it was goat or sheep). He could cook pretty much anything one could imagine in a pressure cooker. Despite these conveniences, we had the usual teething issues with the house, such as the well water freezing in the winter — or running short in the summer. There was the odd scorpion around. The place was always dusty, despite the best efforts of Ali, our cleaner, who affectionately named his brand new vacuum cleaner his ‘magic broom’ due to its mysterious ability to make dust disappear off the floor. The local house where we would also stay was a bit more relaxed. Typical evenings would involve a meal of meat, rice, tomato and salads, followed by a couple of
hours of Turkish soap operas on TV, which the Afghan staff followed closely. Still, the dust remained constant. The drive to work was never far — 2 or 3 kilometres in a four-wheel-drive Hilux, or sometimes on a Chinese motorbike. Security in Bamiyan was excellent, so there was a nice relaxed feel to the place. Unfortunately I didn’t get to see the Buddhas before they were destroyed in 2001. I wish I had. What a terrible waste: armed ignorance versus unarmed history. However, the longer period of time I spent in the region meant that relationships and trust with local people could be deeper and more informative than it is possible to generate as a traveller passing through. Conversations can turn to topics that may normally be off-limits, such as politics or religion, discussed at depths that have helped me understand the nuances of how the locals see things. There were many situations where it was possible to ask one or two trusted acquaintances questions about topics that would have been impossible to ask in a wider group. This isn’t unusual in itself, as we would have the same situation in our home countries too, but the interesting thing in Afghanistan was the disjuncture between the responses to questions that are asked in a group setting and the answers in a trusting, personal conversation. I was often surprised at how liberal some of the locals’ attitudes were on a one-on-one basis, compared to the group-think that exists in wider society (it’s still conservative by our standards, but less so than one might otherwise expect). Different political and cultural contexts do have an impact on what we at SESI do and how we do it. This can at times be an advantage — and at other times not so much. The engineer in me tends not to be very politically correct, wanting to
proceed as we would in our own home environments. However, the pragmatic side to me understands that this is not going to work: it is a case of trying to mitigate a situation, rather than force a western viewpoint that, while it may be ‘correct’, is never going to be accepted. A prime example of this is the idea of setting tariffs for electricity consumption. Frequently in developing countries, there is a wish to charge businesses more for power than households. To my mind, this is counterproductive on many levels, but in communities that have been brought up on communist or socialist ideals, it would be very difficult to accept a flat tariff. Therefore, it is a case of supporting the community through the process of implementing a split tariff and being ready to assist to move towards a flat tariff in future if they can see advantages in it. Another example is our training of female staff in technical and managerial roles in Islamic communities where this is not the norm. Participating in a country’s development does not mean automatically accepting the status quo as acceptable or correct — but it does mean understanding that this is the starting point, and being willing to work with it, with the understanding that real change may take generations to occur. I believe that participating in these projects has helped me to be more patient with the pace of change, and to understand that just because something like a flat tariff or equal opportunity employment makes perfect sense to one side, there is a counter-argument that may be based on a very different set of considerations that are equally valid to another party. Being willing to work with a set of arguments that I may not agree with — accepting them as a start point for change — was hard to learn, but it is particularly important to try to see things from another person’s perspective.
Once there is a common understanding, it is possible to move forward without positions being entrenched. For example, in Afghanistan we had to understand that even if a community may wish for assistance with a certain project, that may not mean it is easy for the community to accept a whole lot of western staff wandering around the community doing what they need to do. Under some circumstances this can be simply dangerous — so a little understanding of how this looks from a local perspective can save a lot of angst. Our way of dealing with this is to train local staff to an international standard, and remove the need to have westerners on site at all. Ultimately it is much, much cheaper — as well as less risky — to send Afghan technicians to Germany or China for training than it is to have westerners on site with armed escorts. We have found that this kind of approach has led to more successful projects, less risk to all parties and better community engagement and cooperation. Some development agencies can see the advantages of this, and some, unfortunately, cannot. These days, we all travel. We all have experiences of other countries and cultures that our grandparents could not have dreamed of. We now Facebook, ‘tweet’ and Skype from the most remote corners of the world, and this is ultimately leading to a much wider sharing of information, opinions and experiences, in all directions. As a result, I am finding that there is less and less surprise from local populations at what developed countries have access to and what underdeveloped countries lack — along with more frustration at why these disparities can’t be addressed faster. I think that is the challenge — to avoid making excuses and help reduce the gap.
BELOW. View of the Hyderabad and Bamiyan New City solar arrays, with Bamiyan in the distance
TITLE PAGE. Staff of SESI walking home after a day working on the solar arrays, delivering to some houses their first ever supply of electricity
Travel Tracker
Things we love about Bamiyan It has a visual history that is much more than just the remains of the Buddhas. Getting there There are daily flights to Kabul from Dubai, Mumbai and other regional cities. Travel to Bamiyan from Kabul on East Horizon Airlines, which run 3 or 4 flights a week, depending on the season. Transport Local taxis are available, and there are also hotels that can arrange drivers for day trips to local sights.
Language Dari, but there is a lot of English spoken too. Currency Afghan afghani, but US Dollars will do. Do not rely on there being an ATM — bring enough cash to get by, or banks can do Western Union transfers if needed. Climate In summer the temperature reaches the early 30s (Celsius) and winter can be well below zero — there is a fledgling ski industry in Bamiyan.
70 / Living like a Local Special Feature
philippines
WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHY BY VERONICA SHUMACK
Location: PHILIPPINES
I had signed up to become a volunteer in the city on the coastal edge of Leyte, working in disaster relief following typhoon Yolanda in November 2013. The impact of Yolanda was immediately apparent. Tacloban was worn. The airport was reduced to a broken shell and there were no tall buildings in sight. My journey to the volunteer base via ‘Tent City’ immediately exposed me to the worst of the disaster zone. It was similar to television coverage of any disaster — thousands of UNICEF tents. The water had come over the peninsula with such force, it had demolished homes and vegetation, leaving the land barren. A year on, little had changed — except the tents stopped feeling so temporary, instead giving the impression they were here to stay. Being aware of the issue of mismanagement of funds within the pay-to-help model of volunteering, I had chosen the organisation All Hands for my trip, due to their non-profit structure and transparency. Upon arrival, I could see this was the real deal: a 60-strong community of aware young people, banding together under the brand of an organisation with solid principles. And we took our efforts sincerely. We were the only charity with a curfew: a necessity if we wanted to make the 7:15am departure for work, 6 days a week.
As I filled in the application form to volunteer in the Philippines, it never occurred to me that two months later I would be covered in mud, living without hot water, eating unknown foods — and having the time of my life. But in my experience, all great journeys begin this way – with a ton of spirit, a bit of mystery and a sense of adventure. I felt welcome in the Philippines from the moment I arrived. I was met in Manila by Yolly and Vic — retired teachers and parents of an acquaintance of mine — who kindly offered me a room. They planned an afternoon excursion that ended at the fish markets where I chose from a variety of live seafood to be cooked across the road for a grand meal eaten with my fingers. Yolly, well into her 70s, insisted on waking at 3 o’clock the next morning to cook a local breakfast before my early flight: dried fish, beautifully seasoned, with a feast of accompaniments to set up my day. At the departure gate, Vik handed me a folder with notes and pictures representing our afternoon together, to share with my friends and family. Such warmth and kindness lingered for the rest of my stay. On the plane, a doctor and mother of seven adopted children introduced herself and gave me her son’s contact details should I need anything. And when I arrived in Tacloban, two vivacious female officers escorted me to a tuk-tuk and ensured I got safely on my way.
Our work took many forms. We dug drainage for the New Kawayan transitional shelter, built 86 homes in Tagpuro, interviewed families for the provision of fruit trees and brought down buildings to make way for community facilities. A permanent team managed projects and communications with the local community and every night after dinner we were given the opportunity to choose our location for the following day’s work. It is impressive how quickly the body adapts to the heat and hard work. Most volunteers were acclimatised within their first week and constant sweat became an indifferent part of living. Coming from an office environment, I was looking forward to the manual labour. I found it alarmingly therapeutic digging mud, swinging a sledgehammer and shovelling rubble. We were free to tune out and work away. Jeff, the American, barely spoke during his stay, popping on his headphones, only interacting at break times. As my brain de-stressed, it allowed me to take in the international conversations. For those feeling social, we shared our life stories, debated movies, catalogued who in the group we would want on our team in a hypothetical zombie apocalypse, took a bath or two in the mud, and sang along to popular tunes. No one was there to judge, and as a result, I relaxed into my skin and was at my best.
PREVIOUS PAGE. The team responsible for moving 42 famiies from tents that had been their homes for over ten months, to new transitional homes in Tagpuro.
RIGHT. A baby girl, now living in the New Kawayan transitional shelter was left traumatised by Yolanda. During the typhoon, her family were urged to take refuge in the astrodome that eventually became immersed in flood waters with her family struggling to stay alive as waters rose to shoulder height.
As our work was in the community, we also spent a lot of time talking to the locals about their lives, the typhoon and life thereafter. This was the most significant part of my stay — seeing how the locals lived their lives and what they valued. Their resilience was breath-taking. More often than not, I was the one crying as they recalled their stories of surviving one of nature’s strongest storms.
sustained on the assumption that everyone advances together. As happiness comes from the barangay (village) in which they live, it is understood that one cannot prosper while their neighbours struggle. So in the wake of the typhoon, Filipinos shared resources, fed friends when they lost their jobs, lent their time and energy to repair homes and waited patiently in queues for water rations. The sense of community was overwhelming.
I met Riza at her new home. As she held baby Ube in the archway, she recollected standing, at 7 months pregnant, in the town evacuation arena as it slowly filled with water. People began to perish. However, in her retelling she focused on how truly grateful she was at having made it through, and how thankful she was that not all of her family had died. She had been moved to another village far away and was without power or running water, yet she always smiled. We became friends, getting to know each other over 2 weeks. I sought her out every morning, making sure we shared a smile and a wave.
I’ll never forget moving day in the worst hit area of town. I sat underneath the communal shelter, watching men fan their friends’ babies to sleep, volunteers entertaining the children with Frisbee, friends cooking together, and the rest loading up the truck, irrespective of whether they were going or staying. Everything is done for the good of the community. This mentality permeated onto the All Hands base and created a team environment of which any business would be envious. Both the Filipino and volunteer culture were genuinely embracing of any soul, supportive of their ideas and eccentricities.
My stay became a collage of these kinds of positive interactions, like the young children who danced the night away at their village party, or the boy who helped me move sand bags while we swapped dance moves and laughed without a word in the same language. The Filipino community was very kind, always offering a smile and something nice to eat. Their hospitality was genuine and warm-hearted.
After a month of hard labour and fun, I had to move on, but not before I swapped details and Facebook profiles with a host of people. I feel certain I would be welcomed back to Tacloban any time, and could touch base with a variety of the volunteers should I ever be in their town. I am proud of my decision to volunteer. It was a leap of faith to journey off alone and fulfil my need to get involved. The experience was an eye-opener — I just have to make sure my eyes stay open as I return to the corporate world and life at home.
I credit the Filipino collective spirit for this. Communities are
Travel Tracker
Things we love about the Philippines The people, natural beauty and a bottle of rum for US$2
Language Filipino, and the regional language Tagalog.
Getting there Many airlines fly via major hubs to Manila. Hop on a local airline to fly direct to Tacloban, or catch one of the many ferries that travel between the Filipino islands.
Currency Philippine peso.
Transport Catch a tuk-tuk, taxi or tricycle from the airport and make the most of the jeepneys locally.
Climate Relatively high temperatures and humidity, with a fair bit of rain during typhoon season from July – October.
74 / Living like a Local Special Feature
A CUSTOM
curation When a festival beckons — offering a legitimate and fabulous excuse to dress up, relive old times, stand in amazement, pay homage to ancestry, be a little daring and outlandish or simply kick up heels — people eagerly unite in large numbers to immerse themselves in a unique piece of culture. Whether revering the past or saluting the future, a festival is sure to bring memorable merriment for the masses. Sally Blyth takes a look at several festivals of significance
WORDS BY SALLY BLYTH
NAADAM, MONGOLIA This mid-summer 'feast of sports' offers a thrilling showcase of Mongolia’s sporting passions. The colourful opening parade is imbued with military precision and tradition, after which horses and their child jockeys set off on endurance races requiring great stamina, archers take careful aim with bows and arrows made of traditional materials, and wrestlers of all weights and sizes are pitted against each other like warriors from the past. Everyone else gets busy making merry, soaking up local music, food, crafts and culture against the impressive backdrop of the steppes. Photo by Alex Zarfati
TITLE PAGE. The Humantowers Photo by Antoni Coll
CONCURS DE CASTELLS, SPAIN Large teams of people clad in bright colours strategically build themselves into complex living human structures up to ten levels high. Competing in this quintessentially Catalan competition, held every 2 years, requires a combination of strength, balance, courage and common sense. Intricate and deliberate tactics come into play as human towers rise from the floor. Grand heights are reached and a child is balanced on top. Arms stretch into the air above, a final signal of triumph — and then the dangerous dismantling begins. Photo by David Oliete
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HADAKA MATSURI, JAPAN During this 'Naked Festival', held in February in Okayama, almost 10,000 men crowd together, forming a colossal mosh pit of hope and kinship. Clad in white loincloths, they purify their bodies with cold water and cram together to try to grab a pair of lucky wooden sticks (shingi) thrown by a priest. Each member of the vigorously chanting crowd believes that a year’s worth of good luck comes to whoever catches the shingi. Reaching out in boisterous anticipation, each man hopes the luck will come to them. Photo by Kurt K. Gledhill
UP HELLY AA, SCOTLAND Taking place in Lerwick, Shetland on the last Tuesday in January, Up Helly Aa is a Norse themed sub-Arctic bonfire party on a grand scale. Recognised as Europe’s biggest fire festival, there are marches by day and torchfire by night. Men dressed as Vikings lead a procession through the town and, as night arrives, a thousand torches light up the sky as they set fire to a long boat in the city centre. Amidst singing and revelry, the fiery glow burns and celebrations continue long into the night. Photo by David Gifford
ALBUQUERQUE INTERNATIONAL BALLOON FESTIVAL As fall arrives in Albuquerque, so do thousands of balloon enthusiasts from around the world. Powered by the perfect October climate, the daily ‘Mass Ascension’ of hundreds of hot air balloons effortlessly into the crisp dawn skies leaves those below overwhelmed. Assorted colours, patterns, shapes and characters float majestically overhead like liquorice allsorts tossed into the air. Evening arrives and, as ‘Balloon Glow’ takes shape in the night sky, this marvellous moving picture show becomes an illuminated display of pure enchantment. Photo © Rivkah Ita Photography
HOLI FESTIVAL, INDIA Along with the arrival of spring, Holi brings a cacophony of colours and an abundance of action to welcome in a new phase of life and growth. It’s a special time of abandonment, a time to play, laugh, and frolic; and to restore, renew and anticipate. With its focus on ‘good over evil’, this Hindu carnival of colour begins with the lighting up of a bonfire and continues with blessings, hugs and celebration, amidst a flamboyant riot of dazzling colour. It's a curious and colourful cleansing. Photo by Achal Mishra
THROUGH
my eyes As wise lawyer Atticus Finch famously advises in To Kill A Mockingbird, "You
88 / Living like a Local Special Feature
never really understand a person until you consider things from his point of view... until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."
Applying this lesson to global exploration, our contributors experience destinations from an insider's perspective, looking through the eyes of local people to gain a greater sense of place.
The friendly residents of Hobart are more than happy to share their epicurean and artistic bounty, while the Buenos Aires tango scene provides the perfect opportunity to walk the walk.
Shifting focus to New Zealand, we consider how bach culture has changed over time, holding varying meanings for those who use the land for work and leisure; and we see Fiordland anew through the lens of the local Ngai Tahu tribe as we follow in ancestral footsteps.
RIGHT: MAX SVEKOLSKY, THE OBSERVER, 20111
tasmania An insight into Hobart’s creative artistic and epicurean empire
WORDS BY DOMINIQUE VAN DE KLUNDERT
Location: TASMANIA
— one of many touches that set the MONA experience out of the ordinary. I feel a small sense of achievement having completed my epic ascent of the steps, and along with the rest of the crowd enter excitedly into the museum itself. I begin an ominous descent: down, down, down a spiral staircase to the ‘beginning’ of the exhibition space. Here I am introduced to my companion for my visit: the ‘O’, MONA’s iPhone-style interpretive device, which uses positioning technology to replace traditional wall labels with summaries, ‘art wanks’, comment from museum founder and benefactor David Walsh, and audio material relevant to works in the vicinity as one moves through the exhibition spaces. It’s highly intuitive, and in many cases a lot more fun than conventional labelling: the comment on an untitled work by Jannis Kounellis featuring two small goldfish swimming in a white bowl, accompanied by the menacing yet inert presence of a large, sharp knife? “Poor little bastards.” This is emblematic of the MONA experience: being a private museum, the work can and does push boundaries, creating extreme responses (another major feature of the O is the ability to vote ‘Love’ or ‘Hate’ in relation to each piece), but it almost always evinces a dark sense of humour on the part of artist, patron, and indeed, visitor.
I land in Hobart bright and early, the thick blanket of cloud giving way to one of dense green vegetation before the peninsula city itself comes into view. Once on the ground, I check in at the Salamanca Wharf Hotel, a sympathetic new build among the surrounding historic sandstone warehouse structures. It is still early but the friendly staff happily relieve me of my bags, and I set off on my first local adventure. The Museum of Old and New Art (MONA) has loomed large over Hobart’s, and indeed Australia’s artistic and cultural scene since its inception in 2011, and I am anxious to see just what that impact looks like up close. As I enter the Brooke Street Pier where the ferry to MONA departs, along with my surprise at discovering that the pier itself is a barge — floating on the water and rising and falling with the tides — I am struck by the volume and variety of local produce on display, from salmon, cheese, and various brewed and fermented beverages to crafts and soaps. With both ferry and museum entry ticket in hand thanks to the helpful MONA staff, I browse leisurely before heading down to board the ferry. In no time we are disembarking at the museum site. As I climb the 100 steps to the entrance, counting each one almost superstitiously, I look back and notice the distinctive camouflage exterior of the vessel
As I make my way up through the galleries, I find myself in line for the ‘death room’, where entry is restricted to two at a time. Eventually my turn arrives and I head in alone. It is 'deathly quiet' in here, I think to myself — a morbid pun that suggests the MONA sensibility must be rubbing off on me — save for the drip, drip, drip of water, somewhere in the corner of the room. I pick my way carefully along a pathway of white stones surrounded by an inky pool and approach the casket of the mummy of Pausiris — one of several ancient artefacts, the ‘old’ art, in this museum. The real Pausiris, to my left, is rivalled by a digital representation to my right which slowly reveals the interior of the casket, piercing through wrappings and tissue and down to bones. Pausiris is accompanied by a close-up posthumous portrait by Andres Serrano, more beautiful than shocking, and all the more affecting for it. I take a deep breath, soak in this sacred space, and head back out into the real world — up the spiral staircase and out into the (very) fresh air. Suffering ever so slightly from museum fatigue, on my return I am pleasantly surprised to find my luggage has already magically made its way to my loft penthouse at the Salamanca Wharf Hotel. Along with custom furniture formed from Tasmanian timbers,
PREVIOUS PAGE. A wharf in Hobart Photo by Tom van Geytenbeek
ABOVE. Chapel, 2010 to 2011 Wim Delvoye (Wervik, Belgium, 1965). Corten steel, etched stained glass, steel, lead Photo by: MONA/RĂŠmi Chauvin Image courtesy of the artist and MONA Museum of Old and New Art, Hobart, Tasmania, Australia
BELOW MONA Museum of Old and New Art. Southern facade viewed from Little Frying Pan Island, south of the museum. Photo credit: MONA/Leigh Carmichael Image courtesy of MONA Museum of Old and New Art, Hobart, Tasmania, Australia
the suite features Antarctic photography by adventurer Laurent Dick — a nod to Hobart’s relatively sizeable population of polar and ocean scientists who use the city as a gateway to the frozen continent. With the climate outside seemingly attempting to match that of its southern counterpart, I draw a bath in the deep tub and settle in for a cosy evening at home. The next morning I survey my temporary kingdom from the apartment’s wide balcony, with the Salamanca precinct on one side and the harbour on the other. However, I have little opportunity to pause: I am to begin my exploration of Hobart city with Mary of Gourmania Food Tours. We meet at the Tassal Salmon Shop, just down the street in Salamanca Square, and we do not waste any time getting down to business. Before I know it, I am seated in front of a plate of gravlax, and cold and hot smoked salmon. As we work our way through, tasting the substantial differences between the varieties, we learn about the processes involved in their creation, and also the salmon’s origin. This is a major industry for Tasmania, with the imported Atlantic salmon doing particularly well here due to the mix of fresh and sea water available in the region. As we traverse the city, we sample incredible wares at the Hobart outpost of Bruny Island Cheese, learn about the area’s cool climate wines at the appropriately-named Cool Wine store, are overwhelmed by the selection of smallgoods at Wursthaus Kitchen, and have a memorable encounter with the harbour’s resident seal, Sammy, as we enjoy fish and chips by the water. The day is punctuated by discussions with each producer about the specificities of the local environment and the ways in which this affects the final product. For example, I am fascinated by the existence of saltgrass lamb, whereby sea salt is whipped up from the surrounding ocean by the area’s infamous winds, to be deposited on each blade of grass on nearby Flinders Island, whence it makes its way into the cutlets before us. Undoubtedly one of the benefits of experiencing the
tour with Mary is not only the high quality local produce we’re able to discover, but the inside knowledge she carries with her as a long-time local in the food industry herself. She points out the recurring characters at the Retro Café, a Hobart institution where most food workers have done a stint, and recounts her own time cooking at Jackman & Mcross, and Smolt, two highlights of the tour: the former offering tasty baked treats and great coffee, the latter spoiling us with a selection of such original ice-cream flavours that it is difficult to pick just one. In these ways, we are able to gain an appreciation not just for the products, but of the people behind them. This theme is continued over the course of my next appointment, with Christine from HobART Walks. Christine arrives as we are wrapping up at Smolt, and it is no surprise to find she and Mary know each other — this seems to be that kind of town. We begin our art walk at the Salamanca Arts Centre, where, after checking out the wares at design store Oyster & Pearl, we take in a collaborative show by two emerging artists, Kate Piekutowski and Bethany van Rijswijk, before heading up to the studio of Adrian Barber. Adrian explains a little about his process — in addition to his larger-scale paintings, he is currently experimenting with combining smaller square panels in various ways, taking his cues from naturally-occurring patterns on wood and rocks in the local mountain landscape. Next up are the dealer galleries — Handmark, Colville, and Despard — all within a short distance. Christine introduces me to the owners and staff of these establishments, and we discuss the work on show. Adrian has just splashed out on a pair of extremely fine porcelain bowls by Andrea Barker, and we admire these at Handmark. At Colville I am taken with the fascinating print work of Milan Milojevic, under whom Christine trained as a young artist.; I learn he was a major reason for her move to Hobart in the first place, decades ago now. The gallery’s Director, Trudi Young, educates me on the fantastic ‘Collect’ scheme, which provides interest-free loans for people to purchase Tasmanian art.
LEFT. The view from Lighthouse Hill on Bruny Island Photo by Ahmad Alswailem
Perhaps one of Milan’s pieces is not so out of reach after all. As we stroll past the Hothouse, a temporary bamboo structure-in-progress which is to be a venue for the upcoming Dark Mofo winter festival, we discuss MONA’s influence on the Hobart cultural scene. Christine explains the way in which Dark Mofo is intended to get people out and about during a season when they would otherwise be tucked away in their homes; the intention is to bring light and warmth to a dark, and often bitterly cold time of year, and in so doing, to create a sense of community that can be easily lost when people are isolated. Arriving on the other side of the port, Christine shows me around her old stomping ground, the Tasmanian College of the Arts. A highlight of the day, the school is housed in an old jam factory. As we walk through, running into established Tasmanian artists here and there, I notice it retains remnants of its former life in the form of exposed beams, pulley tracks along the ceilings, and curious doors to nowhere. However, strongest is the impression left by the open workspaces with large arched windows that look out onto the bay — these are some very fortunate art students. Beyond the calibre of teachers to whom they have access, it is easy to see why they choose to develop their craft here. Our final stop is the exclusive Henry Jones Art Hotel, where Christine undertakes her day job as curator of the establishment’s extensive art collection. We wander the halls, and Christine explains her curatorial process, along with the processes and significance of each of the featured artists. As I race back across the docks in the rain toward the beacon of twinkling lights adorning the trees along the esplanade, in conjunction with my longing to get ‘home’ for the night it strikes me how familiar I am feeling with the area already. Safely ensconced back in the apartment, I
make use of its full kitchen to construct a simple dinner, keeping in mind that I have another epicurean extravaganza awaiting me in the morning. Before 8am, I am collected by Nicole, the outgoing and knowledgeable guide for Pennicott Wilderness Journeys’ ‘Bruny Island Traveller’ tour. We take the scenic route to the ferry terminal at Kettering, driving through the streets of historic Battery Point and out past the casino where David Walsh, somewhat of a mathematical genius, made his fortune counting cards. Along the way we talk house prices — with waterfront properties close to the city going for an absolute steal compared to the mainland, I can certainly see the appeal for those who choose to settle here. Once on the island after the scenic ferry crossing, our first stop is the Bruny Island Cheese Company. Having tasted their artisan cheeses the previous day, I am excited to see where the magic happens. We are set up inside by the fire with a view to the cheese storage rooms, and work through several delicious varieties accompanied with almost equally impressive fresh wood-fired bread, made in an oven right outside. Though it is hard to tear ourselves away, we are on a mission. Next stop is Get Shucked, Bruny’s oyster farm. I am not usually a huge shellfish fan, but I have resolved that this is the day I will give oysters a try. Fortunately there is another member of our party in the same boat, so I am not alone in my inexperience. We approach the laden plate with trepidation, and are rewarded for our bravery with mouthfuls of briny-in-agood-way freshness — it is the taste of the ocean that we spy just outside. Once we’ve had our fill, it is on to Adventure Bay, one of the island’s main townships which fills to the brim during holiday periods, and the base for Pennicott’s boating operations. We are not left without a morsel for long; here
we enjoy a freshly-baked muffin with a hot drink before taking a walk on the expansive beach. However, the main attraction is the population of rare white wallabies who have run of a former beachside campground, now maintained by the tour company as a reserve of sorts. We inch along in the van, keenly looking out for any sign of the elusive creatures. We are not disappointed: they soon pop their unmistakeable snowy heads out of the brush. We get out of the van and creep as close as possible before they bound away. Before the day is over, I will enjoy a fantastic pinot noir with a memorable lamb lunch — again by the fire — at Bruny Island Premium Wines, followed by a sugar overload at Hiba’s very cute fudge and chocolate store, topped off by a warming liqueur at the beautifully-situated House of Whiskey. All of this indulgence has to be worked off, so it is fortunate we have the opportunity to climb the many steps to the lookout over the Neck, a sandbar that is the thinnest point of the island. As I’m refreshed by the whipping wind, I look out to sea and back across the land, and reflect on the abundance of local produce available on such a small, isolated island. Those who live here are close to self-sufficient, and despite the rugged landscape, this is starting to seem like a luxury rather than a hardship. As I walk outside early the following morning to catch my ride back out to the airport, I pass stallholders setting up for the iconic Salamanca Market — a Hobart institution that I will unfortunately miss this time — and I can see the Hothouse has inched closer to the realisation of its designers’ vision over the last few days. Although my time getting to know this town is drawing to a close, life goes on for the lucky locals who get to stay, and I am glad I have had the chance to see what brings and keeps them here.
BELOW. Morning fog blankets Hobart Photo by Tim Lake
Travel Tracker
Things we love about Hobart The friendly locals, exceptional produce, and sense of history.
Language English.
Getting there A variety of airlines fly to Hobart from all Australian cities.
Currency Australian dollar.
Transport Buses and taxis are the main forms of transport, though many attractions are within easy walking distance.
Climate The city’s location on the 40th parallel means Hobart has pleasant long summer evenings and biting winters.
100 / Living like a Local Special Feature
buenos aires Walking the walk in Buenos Aires’ tango scene
WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHY BY JENNY WADSWORTH
Location: BUENOS AIRES
On my first explorations of the downtown barrios (suburbs), I was grateful for the regular grid pattern of the streets. Each street had a slightly different look and feel depending on the time of the day or night, the weather and the varied opening hours of bakeries, bookstores, mechanics, gyms, electronics stores, galleries, a nd museums. After several city tours, history books and passionate conversations with porteños, I began to appreciate that street names tell the stories of great explorers, leaders, revolutionaries and moments in the history of Argentina. As one travels throughout South America, these stories and their main characters link together to form the history of the entire continent. For those wondering about the origins of tango, be warned that there are numerous threads to that answer. There are lines of influence from the candombe ceremonies of African slaves and distinctive melodies and movement arising from the working class barrios of Buenos Aires and Montevideo, as well as the effects of the European popularisation of the emerging art form in the early 1900s. Regardless of exactly how all those threads weave together, it is evident that tango isn’t just about the steps and the technique.
No matter which country or culture we visit, everyone shares a bodily structure that makes us fundamentally human. From the moment we are born, we instinctively reach out into the world and begin to interact with it through movement. Prior to learning language and fully developing our logical mind, our body offers us a unique communication channel. To dance our way through our travels takes us far beyond our intellect. Around the world and throughout history, an endless variety of movement and dance styles have evolved out of different ways of living, culture and landscapes. The rhythms and dance moves of Kwaito music in South Africa, Maloya music in Reunion Island and traditional Ainu music in Japan are now embedded in my body. In fact, my travel experiences never feel truly authentic until I have joined in on some local moving and grooving. It had been my lifelong dream to spend at least a month living in Buenos Aires, learning Spanish and dancing as much tango as my feet would tolerate. For anyone who has already fallen in love with tango, this is an alluring travel dream. But even for those with different motivations for travel, I would argue that Argentina reveals so much more to those who are tango-curious. To experience the nuances of the dance offers a portal to more fully appreciate the place, the people and the culture. Based on the wisdom of my fellow tangueros, I took advantage of discounted monthly accommodation rates in Buenos Aires and settled into a renovated historic warehouse in San Telmo. This was the original port-side Spanish settlement from which the city of Buenos Aires grew. Even today, locals still affectionately refer to themselves as porteños — ‘people of the port’.
Tango is deeply embedded in the urban fabric of Buenos Aires. Tourists typically end up seeing a live show at a restaurant or theatre, or maybe even stumbling upon some informal tango at street level. However, the real world of tango comes alive around midnight. The closed window shutters and doorways on the same streets I explored in the daylight concealed the real world of tango. Behind the uninviting façades I would discover tango music, tango singers, live bands — a multitude of venues, dance floors, formality and legacy. Numerous websites and guides, such as tangauta.net or landingpadba.com, exist to advertise locations and times for classes, practicas (practices) and milongas (social dancing events). However, some milongas are not even advertised. They are either so well-known that there is no need to advertise, or so exclusive that one can only attend if they know the right people to be invited in the first place. There are long-standing codes of conduct: etiquette to honour, politics to be played out and social webs to be carefully navigated. At the extreme end of milonga formality, arrangements will have been made in advance for exactly which table each person will be seated at for the best line of sight across the dance floor. Many hours after sunset, I would transform myself into a perfect balance of sophistication and seductiveness. When I locked my front door behind me and the soles of my shoes touched the dusty pavers of that Buenos Aires sidewalk, I’d feel a spark of excitement. I was venturing out into the city’s tango embrace, most likely until the very early hours of the morning. As I opened that inconspicuous door to the milonga, enchanting tango music would make a grab for my heartstrings and draw me inside. The host would greet me in a flurry of besos (kisses), small talk and introductions before promptly
escorting me to my allocated table. For a regular milonguero (dancer), this process would most likely take a lot longer, being greeted as if they were entering the house of old friends. Everyone is here for the love of tango — whether that is the dance, the music, the company, the history, the experience, or all of the above. It is perfectly acceptable to explain to the host that one is not planning on dancing at the milonga. In fact, many older milongueros do exactly that. The milonga is their life: their social network, their home, their Buenos Aires. Tango is as much about watching others dance as it is about being watched. In a very traditional milonga venue, friends of the opposite sex may be escorted to the far side of the room. This can be a confronting initiation into the subtle art of eye contact as yet another form of wordless communication in tango. The cabaceo is an invitation to dance. It occurs when a man makes eye contact with a woman across the room. To accept the offer, she will reply with a subtle nod. Their dance is underway as he crosses the room and extends his arm to lead her to the dance floor. To decline, she will simply avert her gaze back to watching other couples on the dance floor, waiting for the music that resonates with her — or turn back to her conversation with friends. Once on the dance floor, entering a tango embrace is a transformative experience
in itself. Regardless of whether one is sharing their personal space in an open or closed embrace, tango is an embodied conversation (leading and following), ultimately based upon trust. This is where the magic of tango reveals itself. Each dance is a unique product of the silent conversation between two people. Good tango etiquette relies upon meeting one’s partner exactly where they are at in that particular moment. Energy levels, concentration, emotion, poise, balance and technique all influence the result. The strong steady rhythm and seductive fire of choreographed show tango is perhaps the most well-known tango style, but there is so much more to it. Many different styles of tango music and dance provide scope for the expression of a wide range of emotions. For example, joy and playfulness characterise the older Canyengue style, while Vals follows a 3/4 waltz beat with smooth and flowing movement, and Milonga (yes, it is also the name for a style of tango music) is fast and energetic. Tango Nuevo (New Tango) is one of the most modern styles, blending electronica with tango music and creating sultry, flashy dance moves enjoyed by a typically younger dancing community. Regardless of the style, there is a certain steadiness to the tango. The music is played in sets of three to four songs (known as a tanda), followed by a cortina (which is an obvious musical pause for couples to leave the dance floor). During such pauses, I found it fascinating
to practice my rough Spanish with such a variety of people and personalities as are found at milongas. The style of conversation differed drastically between the older and the younger generations. Aside from the common questions of “Where are you from?” and “Do you like Argentina?”, more in depth conversations led into the topics that Argentinians love to discuss the most, such as family, football, food and politics. Milongas were a great place to ask around for recommendations of people’s favourite local bakeries, restaurants and other gastronomyrelated questions. Medialunas (sweet pastries), empanadas (baked or fried stuffed pastry) and Malbec wine are all important accompaniments to the tango experience. They are a source of great Argentinian pride and at a milonga, they help to activate smell and taste senses — in case they’ve been left behind by the cacophony of sensations from the dance. In the world of dance, cultural and language barriers can easily be overcome with genuine body language, keen observation and willingness to become absorbed in the music and the movement. To dance tango in Buenos Aires is to walk in synchronicity with Argentina’s history. Who would guess that a dance based on walking could hold so many stories and so much culture within its footsteps?
Travel Tracker Things we love about Buenos Aires City-wide street art, iconic cafés seeped in rich local history, and the infamous history and architecture of Avenida de Mayo.
Language Spanish (with a very unique Argentinian twist). Many service providers speak English.
Getting there Fly into Ministro Pistarini International Airport (also known as Ezeiza International Airport) 22 kilometres southwest of Buenos Aires city centre.
Currency Argentinian pesos, but US dollars are accepted everywhere. Watch out for exchange rates and credit card surcharges.
Transport Taxis are plentiful and reasonably priced: look for authentic 'Radio Taxis'. The subte (subway) is fast and reliable while collectivos (buses) and bus stops can be tricky to navigate alone.
Climate Warm humid temperate climate with hot summers (December to February) and no specific dry season. Autumn and spring are ideal times to visit.
104 / Living like a Local Special Feature
FIORDLAND Following in the footsteps of early Māori on the Hollyford Track in New Zealand’s South Island
WORDS BY JUSTINE TYERMAN
Location: FIORDLAND
Fiordland is a magnet to me: profoundly nurturing of the restless spirit and deeply satisfying to the eye. So much so, that I find myself drawn back time and again to drink in the majesty of the landscape — the steep valleys and fiords, snowy peaks, mirror lakes, crystal-clear rivers, thunderous waterfalls and remote wind-swept beaches pounded by the relentless surf of the Tasman Sea. A ‘Mainlander’ marooned in the North Island of New Zealand, I need regular pilgrimages to my own land to stay sane in the tame, green rolling countryside I now call home. So we — my North Islander husband and I — head south to hike every year, usually in March when the weather is crisp and clear, the crowds have vanished and the hillsides are beginning to catch fire with autumn colours. This year we hiked the Hollyford Track for a second time, not because we had run out of choices but because the region is as rich in history as it is in scenic beauty. For a ‘historyphile’ like me, this is a double blessing. The easy-paced, 43 kilometre Hollyford Track guided walk begins 100 kilometres north of Te Anau and traverses a UNESCO World Heritage site deep in the Fiordland National Park. The largely flat track meanders along a glacier-hewn valley through ancient beech cast vivid green and fern forests, beside a startlingly clear Hollyford River. We reach the track's highest point at Little Homer Saddle (168 metres above sea level) on the first day. It is resonant with the voices of early Māori, ancestors of the present-day Ngai Tahu tribe, who purchased the guided walk business in 2003. Māori first established a coastal village at Martins Bay between 1650 and 1800, gathering abundant food from the sea, lakes, rivers and forests, guarding the highly-prized pounamu (greenstone or jade) and trading routes of the region, and building waka (canoes) from the giant trees of the forests. The magnificent Mt Tutoko, a backdrop to the Hollyford Valley, is named after an important Māori chief who lived at Martins Bay. The tallest peak in Fiordland at 2746 metres, Mt Tutoko is one of the Darran Mountains, which served as practice climbs for Sir Edmund Hillary before his successful attempt at Everest in 1953. Composed of hard granite and gneiss, the range is excellent for mountaineering.
Chief Tutoko, his wife and two daughters were the first Māori that gold prospectors Captain Alabaster and Skipper Duncan came across in the area when they arrived in 1863. They were startled when the chief greeted them wearing a full American Civil War uniform, possibly acquired from an American sealing or whaling vessel operating in the area. Far from being ‘dangerous savages’ as the settlers had been led to believe, Chief Tutoko and his family were extremely obliging and hospitable, and loaned a waka to the men, who paddled up the lower Hollyford River to Lake McKerrow… but found no gold. Hollyford Track guide Kahurangi Mahuika, a direct descendant of Chief Tutoko, says walking daily in his ancestor’s footsteps is a spiritual journey, re-enacting the role played by Māori who were guides to early European explorers long ago. “This is my spiritual home,” says Kahurangi. “Chief Tutoko was the last major chief to live at Martins Bay, protecting the Hollyford Valley. He is my tipuna, my ancestor, so guiding groups on the Hollyford has deep significance for me,” he explains. “I want to share my knowledge of this special place with all people, especially Ngai Tahu youth and family, so they can have a better understanding of where our people come from.” The friendly smiles of our Pyke Lodge hosts are a welcome sight at the end of our 20 kilometre hike on day one. After refreshments and hot showers, we are treated to elegant canapés and fine New Zealand wines beside a roaring fire, followed by succulent venison, and passionfruit cheesecake. Later in the evening, we follow our gumbooted guide to the river, where we watch him feed a seething mass of huge, voracious eels. We then visit tiny glow-worms whose lights are so bright they compete with the star-studded canopy above us. The second day starts with an easy walk to Lake Alabaster, a mirror lake where wisps of mist veil the dark, bush-clad mountains. The lake was an important place for Māori, who used it as a waka-building centre. They felled logs into the lake, cut off the branches and spun them in the water for several weeks until they were water-logged and achieved a natural equilibrium. The logs were then taken across Lake McKerrow to a village where they were hollowed out and fitted with outriggers and sails. The vessels were fast; Captain Cook recorded a waka paddled by four Māori men passed his cutter at an astounding rate. We cross the Pyke River on Fiordland’s longest swing bridge to view the start of the infamous Demon Trail, which we happily bypass by jetboat, whizzing 24 kilometres down the rapids of the Upper Hollyford River and along Lake McKerrow to historic Jamestown. Standing by a small plaque at the centre of where the ill-planned settlement once stood, guide Graeme Scott explains that Jamestown, founded in 1870, was supposed to become the capital of the South Island. He tells us heart-breaking stories of the early European pioneers who led harsh lives in this most remote of outposts and the promised supply ships that sank or bypassed Jamestown due to foul weather and the treacherous Hollyford bar. We also hear about the legendary Davey Gunn, who began guiding guests through the valley on horseback as part of his cattle musters in the 1930s. Davey became a hero on December 30, 1936, when a light plane crashed into the sea at Big Bay, injuring the pilot and five passengers, one of whom died soon afterwards. Davey rowed and ran for 20 hours to fetch help, a
TITLE PAGE. A meandering creek in Hollyford Park
BELOW. Seal from the Long Reef Colony
Photo by Victor Ruiz
Photo by Victor Ruiz
90 kilometre trek that would normally have taken 4 days. He was awarded the Coronation Medal for his heroic deed. Davey died tragically on Christmas Day 1955 crossing the Hollyford River while on horseback with a 12-year-old boy. The horse stumbled and both riders were drowned. His body was never found. Apart from a wealth of history, we also learn about the traditional usage and medicinal properties of many plants along the way. The koromiko or hebe is an extraordinary plant used by Māori to treat many ailments, including diarrhoea and vomiting. During World War One, soldiers chewed the leaves to combat dysentery, and because it burns very hot, preEuropean hunters used the wood to cook the extinct moa — a giant, flightless bird similar to the emu and cassowary. A useful plant to have dotted around a sandfly haven like Martins Bay is the native flax which produces a black jelly at its base that can be used as an effective remedy for insect bites, heat rash, blisters and gashes. Māori also used flax fronds to make roofing, flooring, clothing and woven baskets. The humble cabbage tree or native cordyline is often found at old Māori camp sites — the leaves were used to make moccasins and the tap root was cooked as a source of protein and sugar. Finally, Māori used the fungi found on dead trees as fire-starters, taking the
smouldering fungi in a basket or kete from one campsite to the next. Late on day two, we emerge at Martins Bay from the podocarp forest of giant rimu, totara, kahikatea and rata, to the deafening sound of the Tasman Sea smashing against the rocks and sand of the wild West Coast beach. A colony of fur seals and the rare Fiordland crested penguin inhabit Long Reef, a sequence of exposed headlands at the northern end of the bay. The big-eyed seal pups are exceptionally photogenic as they play in the sheltered rock pools while their parents are away deep-sea fishing for dinner. As the sun slips towards the watery horizon in a blaze of celestial fire, luxury awaits us at Martins Bay Lodge, where our party of nine share wine, hors d’oeuvres and animated conversation by the fire before feasting on delicious hot-smoked salmon and the best brownie I have ever tasted. Our last day is spent at Martins Bay Spit, exploring the 8 kilometre stretch of granite sand beach and surreal, storm-blasted sand dunes. We see evidence of Māori fire sites, umu (earth ovens), and middens (rubbish dumps) dating back hundreds of years. In ancient times, the kilometrehigh glacier that carved the Hollyford Valley stretched 10 kilometres out to sea from where we stand. The area had been subjected to extraordinarily violent weather, and possibly a tsunami in the
1700s. The grand finale is a breathtaking helicopter flight from Martins Bay Lodge down the rugged West Coast and up the whole length of Milford Sound, passing close by world-famous Mitre Peak and the Stirling, and Bowen Falls. I am left with a wealth of images, memories and local knowledge which settle into my consciousness: a reservoir for me to draw on when I return to my other, northern home. I will remember the manaakitanga, the hospitality, which filters down from the owners of the Hollyford Track. As Ngai Tahu Tourism Chief Executive Officer Quinton Hall explains, “Manaakitanga is the core value that drives the way we do business. It is more than just being an excellent host — it’s also about establishing the responsibilities of the host and implies guardianship of the manuhiri (visitors), whenua (land), taonga (treasures), and tangata (the people).” Ngāi Tahu Tourism are fitting caretakers of this pristine place, and we are privileged to walk in their footsteps.
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BELOW. On the track to the falls, Fiordland National Park, New Zealand Photo © Kapil Sabharwal
Travel Tracker
Things we love about Fiordland The region's remote, untouched, pristine beauty that draws visitors back time and again. Getting there Fly direct to Queenstown from major cities in New Zealand and Australia. Transport Coach transport to the start of the Hollyford Track departs from Queenstown or Te Anau, with pre-tramp briefings at both locations.
Language English. Currency New Zealand Dollar. Climate Fiordland is a high rainfall area so wet weather gear is essential (Hollyford Track Guided Wilderness Experience provides 100 percent waterproof jackets and day packs for those who do not have their own equipment).
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Tramping on Mt Howitt, Hooker Range, high above the Landsborough Valley Photo: Mark Watson / Highluxphoto
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AN INCONVENIENT BACH Getting back to basics and tracing the evolution of the classic Kiwi bach
WORDS BY ANA BARBONO
Location: NEW ZEALAND
GUESTS IN THE LANDSCAPE I am visiting Otahome, Tora, and Cape Palliser: three tiny towns in the Wairarapa, all about 2 or 3 hours’ drive from Wellington city. This coast contains pockets of some of the oldest inhabited land in New Zealand. For decades, casual beachcombers and the odd farmer or two have stumbled across Stone Age adzes, ancient shell tikis, and fishing tools. Traditional Māori (indigenous) stories tell tales of the famed Polynesian voyager, Kupe, living along the coastline. In the 1770s, Māori rowed out from the area to meet Captain Cook’s ship, intent on trading with the people on board.
‘Bach’ culture in New Zealand represents a pared-back lifestyle where the scenery, tides, and changing weather take centre stage. However, the bach and the lifestyle that comes with it may slowly become a quaint reminder of a more egalitarian past. It’s 1995, my family is new to the country and we have been invited to a bach in the Marlborough Sounds. There is a private jetty, a steep dirt track to the house, and muddy shoes lolling outside the front door. The water is a flat emerald. There is most definitely no TV. I am an awkward pre-teen, struggling with English. The word ‘bach’ is totally foreign in both sound and meaning. The owner’s daughter, Helen, is my age, with long caramelcoloured hair, and freckles. She is confident and intimidating. Her older brother, Angus, pretends I do not exist and I return the favour. In the afternoons, we go out in a dinghy. I am taught how to tie a sinker and a bit of mussel to the end of a fishing line and dangle it into the water. In the evenings, the adults stay in the house while we kids play cards in a tent pitched on the front yard. Baches — New Zealand holiday homes or beach houses — are often characterised by what they are made of, usually cheap and readily available building materials. Kevyn Male recalls in his book, Old Kiwi Baches and a Few Cribs Too, that his father was the master builder of their family bach. It was made of fibrolite, corrugated iron and second-hand windows and doors. There were car seats on the front porch on which to sit. Bits of driftwood were hung around the place for decoration. Beyond the actual structure of the building, however, baches inspire nostalgia. I have no memory of what the Marlborough Sounds bach looked like, let alone what it was made of. I cannot even remember where I slept. All I remember is watching Helen and Angus together, sure-footed in the surrounding bush, wheeling through the trees and ferns, not needing to look where they were going. They tied their fishing knots without having to be taught and they knew which bits of wood would be good for the burner. Through these daily rituals, Helen and Angus demonstrated an innate connection with their surroundings that left me in awe. Their actions were the product of many childhood summers spent at that bach. It was in their blood, imprinted onto the subconscious, and coded into muscle memory. More than 20 years later, as I travel and stay in cosy baches along the Wairarapa coast and on Lake Tarawera, I am chasing a connection with land and roots, with sky and sea. I am chasing what that Marlborough Sounds bach triggered so long ago, a deep yearning to travel but also to belong.
While people have lived in this part of the country for centuries, it is sometimes hard to find their traces. Civilisation struggles to put its stamp here. In 1827, a French explorer attempted to drop anchor in Palliser Bay and was rebuffed by the huge surf. In a petulant fit, he named it ‘Useless Bay’. Even now, the wilderness is constantly threatening to swallow whatever attempts at convenience or shelter people attempt. Our Cape Palliser bach is a study in architectural defiance, a definite curvy concrete swoosh against the sky, a home fit for the Jetsons or at least a Le Corbusier fan. It is clustered with a handful of other houses at the foot of the enormous Aorangi mountains. This tiny Cape Palliser neighbourhood huddle together, finding safety in numbers. One has to be tenacious and resolute to live in these villages. The environment can be inhospitable but also starkly beautiful, redolent of those 19th century Romantic paintings of ships crashing against the shore. The sand and surf is ever-shifting. Even the flowers lining Cape Palliser Road are restless carpets of purple, orange and yellow petals opening and closing with each dawn and dusk. We walk an hour down the road towards the candy-striped Cape Palliser lighthouse and the seals bray their warning, reminding us that we are in their territory, not the other way around. It is much the same in Tora, where we hunker down in a Nissen hut bach painted bright blue. The wind is constant, howling along the coast like it has something to prove. We arrive in pitch black night, leaving behind a 2-day storm that tore through Wellington city, flooding motorways, shutting down parts of State Highway One, and leaving one poor, hapless man dead in his water-logged car. Signs of that same storm are present on the Cape Palliser roads, reclaiming entire chunks of land, leaving along the road precarious drops into the sea. As night falls at the baches, stargazing is more compelling than TV. There is very little light pollution around these parts. In Otahome, we turn all the lights off inside and let the moonlight wash the interior of the house silver. A friend has brought her telescope and we take turns to observe the craters of the moon magnified umpteen times. Similarly, in Cape Palliser, we get the wood fire going, light one candle, turn off the lights and roll up all the blinds. The sky is an expansive spatter of constellations and galaxies. I feel like the captain of a spaceship or an ancient Polynesian explorer, navigating by the billion-year old light of the stars. The silence is all-encompassing. These Wairarapa baches and their surroundings are a slow seduction. I watch the sun rise from the sea in Otahome. The wind skims the froth from the top of the huge surf breaking on the water, creating drapes of shimmering mist in the distance. It is a romance novel kind of landscape, making me forget that for the locals, life here is less about romance and more about subsistence. In the 1800s, early immigrants came and made their money from sheep farming. Near Martinborough, in 1844, the country’s first sheep station was established. Much of the local economy
BELOW. Otahome sunrise
TITLE PAGE. Evening falls on the Grey Bach
Photo by Ana Barbono Photo by Hamish Trounson
continues to rely on farming; at Tora, sheep graze in our front and back yards, and the cows get the best view of the sun rising straight from the sea near our remote Otahome bach. Farmers pop up as tiny dots on the horizon, speeding along on their quad bikes, their working dogs running alongside. We are guests in a busy landscape that carries on its usual business. For us, there is not much to do and not much to be done. The days roll into one. Our existence winds down to our barest needs: tending a fire for warmth, cooking pots of pasta for sustenance, reading a book or gazing at the stars for entertainment. Out of the usual high summer tourist season, these tiny little settlements reveal themselves for what they really are: places for farmers or fishermen living off the land, the stunning views of sea, sky, and mountain a mere backdrop to their daily life. CONVENIENT BACHES One could spend a lot of money in Takapuna on Auckland’s North Shore.
There, designer Karen Walker’s brainchild, The Department Store, is a quietly luxe and deceptively laidback haven of silk dresses, organic cotton baby clothes, and lace underwear for lissom girls. In the early mornings, ladies in yoga pants and the latest Nikes throw sticks back and forth for their dogs to chase. A weekend would not be complete without brunch at the muchacclaimed Takapuna Beach Café, housed in a sleek and low-slung building. Eighty-four years earlier, famed New Zealand writer and poet Frank Sargeson moved into a fibrolite bach in the area. Sargeson, as Michael King notes in The Penguin History of New Zealand, observed how the economic difficulties of the Depression turned people towards “a country way of life: you see members of relief workers and sustenance people providing for themselves by forgetting about their specialised jobs and developing…a Crusoe-like resourcefulness. These people have learned to put up with inconvenient baches, to keep and milk cows, to grow their own vegetables.” Sargeson’s own inconvenient bach is now
a part of the busy motorway approaching the main strip of Takapuna city. During rush hour, the roads are choked with traffic to and from Auckland’s Harbour Bridge. Over his years of writing many famous works in that tiny structure, Sargeson acquired an Olivetti typewriter, a sickle to cut down the grass, a whistling kettle, and a patchwork quilt made by fellow author Janet Frame, all of which are still visible on site today. His inconvenient bach is now a museum — visitors can hire a set of keys from the local library and give themselves a self-guided tour. When I scoop up the keys to my temporary lakefront bach on Lake Tarawera, it is like giving myself my own self-guided tour of someone else’s home. I invite a friend over for dinner. She is a local, born and bred in Lake Okareka, 20 minutes away. I tell her about the wood stored tidily next to the fireplace and how the owner has left us strict instructions not to use the ‘show wood’. Instead, we have to walk out to the side of the house where the log pile is. She laughs. “All these houses along here are owned by rich Aucklanders,” she says, as if that explains the ban on, indeed the
BELOW. Cape Palliser Photo by Ana Barbono
existence of, show wood. Walking along the lake front, people’s front lawns are cluttered with all the accessories and modcons: jet skis, boats, enormous barbeques that look like the flight decks of 747s, Cape Cod chairs, dinghies and kayaks. Not only must people be incredibly well-off to be able to afford a home around these parts, they also need enough left over in the bank to afford all the trappings of the modern bach lifestyle. On the kitchen counter, the owner has left us typed pages containing a potted history of our borrowed bach. It was a family home built in the 1950s for Mr Scobie, a school teacher. At its peak, there was a potato patch by the lake’s edge, where Scobie buried fish heads and bones
to enrich the soil. His son built the house next door and still lives there, puttering out to sea in his boat to catch fish during the dawn. When the owners purchased this place, there was no oven, just hot plates, and the Matai wood floors and walls were orange with neglect. The bach is now a lakeside splendour, with three bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a seven-seater spa on the front deck. There is nothing ‘inconvenient’ about it. The hot plates are long gone, replaced by a gleaming gas oven. Instead of Mr Scobie’s potato patch, there is a Japanese red maple, trimmed lemon trees, and a veggie patch full of marigolds, microgreens, basil and mint. I wake up in the early morning and play long weekend barista
for the family, twiddling with the Rocket espresso machine. Out the front window, Mount Tarawera looms in the distance. If Frank Sargeson turned up to see his bach in Takapuna today, he would find the structure itself largely unchanged. He could still make himself at home, thanks to the powers that turned it into a fanciful museum for the literary-minded. Mr Scobie, though, would be in for a shock at Lake Tarawera. I wonder what he would make of his bach now — whether he would shake his head and wonder where his potato patch had gone. In turning these inconvenient baches nto convenient second homes, what exactly do we gain, and what exactly have we lost?
BELOW. Cape Palliser Photo Ana Barbono
Travel Tracker
Things we love about the Wairarapa The four sublime S'es - sunsets, sunrises, stargazing, and the big open sea Getting there Fly into Wellington, hire a car that can take the gravel roads, and drive. Alternatively, take the Wairarapa Line from Wellington Central Station. Transport The train on the Wairarapa Line goes through the bigger towns like Featherston, Masterton and Carterton. A car to get to the wildest and prettiest parts of the region.
Language English. Currency New Zealand Dollar. Climate Ranges from exposed and blustery on the coast to temperate and warm inland.
EXTENDED
s t a y s A home away from home can be hard to find. However, fortunately for the long-term traveller, there are some exciting new options on the market. Annalee Jones presents some innovative solutions: part hotel, part holiday home; these properties for an extended stay combine the best of both worlds to provide an insider’s perspective like no other.
WORDS BY ANNALEE JONES
AKA APARTMENTS
AKA has a strong pedigree, being run by Korman Communities, who pioneered the furnished apartment business in the 1960s. Founder Steven Korman was one of the first to offer flexible leases to accommodate people who want a place to stay for more than a night or two, but less than a whole year, and AKA is the group's latest venture. Starting out in New York in 2006 and going international in 2012, AKA combines luxury inner-city living with all the comforts of hotel accommodation in some of the globe’s most coveted urban areas. Always innovating to keep up with their clientele,
AKA has recently introduced 'AKA Live It!' in its New York City apartments. This programme encourages visitors to make the most of their extended stay by immersing themselves in the culture of the city. In particular, it encourages the pursuit of passion and self-expression. For example, AKA's recent collaboration with Chelsea Market provides residents at all four properties the chance to try on-demand, private cooking classes with purveyors from popular market retailers. Chelsea Market cookbooks are also found in each apartment, so residents can create signature NYC dishes as they please.
United Nations Right on the doorstep of the United Nations building in Manhattan’s Midtown East, these luxury apartments have been designed to cater to international dignitaries, business executives, and highend travellers. Ninety five fully furnished one-bedroom apartments make the most of the space available, with Europeaninspired living and kitchen areas, and sleek bedroom décor. The apartments also offer residents a picturesque view of the East River and New York skyline from private balconies. As if that wasn't enough, visitors have access to a private rooftop lounge, for an even more breathtaking look at the city that never sleeps.
Central Park Just one block from Central Park, AKA’s extended stay apartments on 58th Street give travellers the chance to have the world’s most famous urban oasis as their backyard. These one- and two-bedroom apartments are elegant and sophisticated, while still maintaining a homely feel. Complimentary Wi-Fi, cable TV, and a state-of-the-art kitchen are found in each suite. Wander down the street and one will find themselves amongst the country's top flagship stores on Fifth Avenue. Many of New York’s main attractions are also just a short walk away, and the location leaves guests spoilt for choice when it comes to food. This place is perfect for accessing a truly authentic New York experience.
OASIS COLLECTIONS The idea for Oasis Collections was instigated in 2006, when co-founder and CEO Parker Stanberry headed to Buenos Aires to live. With no contacts and no Spanish, Stanberry’s adventure was tough at first, but with persistence and effort, he got to know the place pretty well. After speaking to some other travellers and expats, he discovered that those trying to get acquainted with a brand new home need more than just a place to stay and a guidebook — they need a way to truly immerse themselves in a new culture.
A few years later, Stanberry co-founded Oasis Collections, with the aim of establishing an exciting new category in travel, based on the insider’s perspective. Using local knowledge to pick the best houses in the best parts of the city, the team not only hands visitors the keys, but also brings them into the local community for their stay. With 24/7 support and the chance to draw on the expertise of an inthe-know concierge, this is a great way to get up close and personal with some of the most exciting destinations on the planet.
Buenos Aires: The Aerie In the place where it all started, Oasis Collections have set up The Aerie, a twobedroom duplex in Palermo Soho. Homely hardwood floors and shelves lined with books balance out the apartment's sleek, modern design features. Combining old with new creates a feeling of both relaxation and luxury — perfect for an extended stay. Palermo Soho is part of a very trendy area within Buenos Aires’ largest barrio (suburb), and has seen a lot of development in recent times. The Aerie is just a stone’s throw from its main drag, Santa Fe Avenue, where travellers can find stores, cafés, restaurants, and access to transport 24 hours a day. And if the hustle and bustle gets too much, the Plaza Italia is also nearby, providing a beautiful respite in its botanical gardens.
Rio de Janeiro: Modern Elegance As Rio has few affordable, quality hotels, renting a private property is an excellent idea for a stay in the city. Nestled into the seaside suburb of Flamengo, Modern Elegance provides a great home base between trips out to see Rio’s many attractions. Inspired by all things artistic, modern pieces contrast with marble accents to create beautiful, gallery-like spaces. With four bedrooms, five bathrooms, and its own hot tub and sauna, this stylish home is a paradise in itself. And its location isn’t far off paradise either — one can step outside to find views of the Pão de Açúcar, while Copacabana and Lapa are only 15 minutes away. Quiet and residential, but just a few blocks from the best of city life, Modern Elegance makes a great home away from home in the midst of one of the world’s biggest tourist attractions.
ON SECOND
settlements It is our final dream — to drift away, towards the end of our lives, into the sunshine or solitude of retirement. Now, more than ever before, we are choosing to hang up our boots in foreign countries. The promise of a new life, so unlike the majority of our working one, is tempting.
However, the alluring options of places to spend the rest of our days are so plentiful and varied that it is difficult to know where to begin when deciding on such an important move. As well as taking into account concerns about affordability, health care and a comfortable transition, it is vital that we choose a place that will greet us with what we really seek, whether it be new adventures or withdrawing from it all.
Zara Bowens looks at some of the most desirable places around the globe to live life after work.
WORDS BY ZARA BOWENS
ABOVE. Stockholm's Old Town Photo by Anders E.Sk책nberg
PATAGONIA Patagonia’s remote beauty draws in travellers and permanent residents alike. It is celebrated for its breathtaking landscape, from rugged mountains and glaciers to striking, deep azure, skies. The cost of living is relatively inexpensive, with reasonable healthcare and housing costs adding to Patagonia’s appeal. Retirees can also take advantage of an impressively wide selection of outdoor activities, good food and an active social scene to keep them content. Lago Pehoé Photo by Rudi Sebastian
BELIZE Belize is a natural paradise, with striking inland and coastal scenery to admire. As an established retirement destination, where the Englishspeaking locals are more than welcoming, it is an easy place to settle into as a newcomer. With various social gatherings set up for expats and access to outdoor activities, retirees won’t be short of things to do. Just be prepared to encounter a medical system that is still very much a work in progress. A private pier on the water Photo by Joe Hendricks
SKOPELOS, GREECE As one of the greenest islands in the Aegean Sea with a diverse wildlife and mild climate year-round, it is easy to see why Skopelos is so attractive to retirees looking for a blissful hideaway. The white stone houses overlooking sapphire waters and golden beaches, radiate the holiday feel that many seek. Living and housing costs are affordable, even more so as Greek’s financial crisis unfolds, and this can only make the Greek idyll a more realistic dream. Skopelos town during sunrise Photo by Laura Zulian
VIETNAM Vietnam has become a retirement hot spot in recent years. People are drawn to the pleasant weather, low cost of living and the lively culture, not to mention the beautiful beaches and countryside. Modern health care facilities are also accessible in the big cities. Despite the many positives, there can be some complications with retirees meeting official visa requirements, although these constraints can often be worked around. Hoi An, Quang nam Photo by Ho Y
MALAYSIA A life of luxury on a budget is realistic in Malaysia, especially in places such as Kuala Lumpur and Penang, where high-quality rentals are affordable. The delicious local food is cheap, internet and transport are efficient and health care is highquality and affordable. The diverse and underrated landscape is also an asset, with lovely beaches, jungles and hill side retreats at one's doorstep. Sunrise at Maiga island Photo by Muslianshah Masrie
SWEDEN Sweden is a top-ranking place to grow old. For many, its charm lies in the lack of traffic and pollution, replaced by a wealth of lakes and lush open spaces. In summer the country’s outdoor lifestyle is unbeatable, but the contrasting winter season has its benefits for those who enjoy skiing and photography. Living costs are not as expensive as one would expect, and the healthcare is first class. Nässundet, Värmland County Photo by Jim Holmberg
NEW ZEALAND New Zealand, though somewhat isolated, holds its own when it comes to being a great place to retire. Whether one prefers to live in a humble Kiwi 'bach' by a lonely beach or in a modern city apartment, it caters to all types. New Zealand is known for its hospitable people and outdoor lifestyle, as well as being nicely isolated from the world’s trouble spots and likely areas of international tension. Lake Tarawera Photo by Adrian Hodge
STEPPING ON
stereotypes Annalee Jones and Marianne Matthews parse the debate on cultural appropriation and stereotyping
PHOTO BY THAI NEAVE
Coachella, 2015: a hotbed of great music, chill vibes, and good times. The festival has a reputation as not only one of the best indicators of what’s hot in music, but in street fashion, too. As the filtered selfies flood social media, we see 70s overalls with bellbottom flares, fringed cowgirl vests, and adorable summer jumpsuits. But we also get a glimpse of the latest in cultural appropriation. Religious and tribal attire, such as Native American headdresses and Hindu bindis, grace the heads of festival-goers, while hashtag activists butt heads with those who cry ‘PC gone mad’. The debate around cultural appropriation rears its head once more. To some, using a pretty set of religious jewels to decorate one’s forehead or donning a feathery Native American headdress with no cultural reason to do so is nothing more than an innocuous attempt to make a fashion statement. But to others, those objects are much more than a superficial costume. They represent thousands of years of tradition, intertwined with the culture they live every day. Taking those items out of context and stripping them of their true meaning is seen as distasteful at best, and more often as flatout offensive. For years, the west has incorporated customs and rituals from around the world into our own cultural canon, and diluted the significance of others. Japanese kanji are sported as tattoos for their aesthetic, rather than their meaning, and ‘ethnic’ food, which is simply ‘food’ to some, is romanticised as an exotic adventure. A particularly high profile example of cultural appropriation was apparent at the 2015 Met Gala in New York — the Costume Institute’s event celebrating the opening of its annual exhibition — for which this year’s theme is ‘China: Through the Looking Glass’, on show through to August 16. According to the Institute, the presentation is an examination and celebration of “the impact of Chinese aesthetics on Western fashion and how China has fuelled the fashionable imagination for centuries.” As celebrities ascended the blood-red steps of the Metropolitan Museum, Vogue’s André Léon Talley was on the beat. “Do you like Chinese food?” he asked Cher. Approached by a radiant Sofia Vergara, he demanded, “Do you ever just splurge and binge on Chinese takeaway?” On the one hand, these are not unreasonable questions by any means: Chinese food is exceptionally delicious, and we all like to reserve the right to intersperse cardboard box dining with our regular meals on the odd occasion.
However, though Talley is arguably known more for his amiable, larger-than-life personality than for shrewd journalistic tactics, couldn’t there have been more pertinent questions to ask a starlet at this particular event than whether she likes to indulge in chow mein and egg rolls? We’re not so deficient in optimism as to suggest these were humourless questions, nor that Chinese food isn’t an integral part of its country’s culture and history. But when such fragments of China’s identity — in this case, cheap takeout — become its sole visibility in Western culture, it feels problematic. For more than a few digital commentators, the sheer spectacle of the ball was plainly evocative of Orientalism and Edward Said’s eponymous critique on the historic Western exoticisation of Asia, with parallels drawn between the night’s extravagant costumes and a wilfully-maintained fantasy of an opulent, hedonistic East. It seemed hardly a coincidence, either, that the exhibition’s title features a blatant reference to Lewis Carroll’s tales of a whimsical ‘wonderland’. Further intensifying the malaise towards the Institute’s ‘homage’ was one of the more authentic dresses adhering to the evening’s theme: while the majority of other stars interpreted the theme via the Mandarin collars and brocade of domestic designers, Rihanna’s yellow imperialinspired haute couture robe by Chinese designer Guo Pei became a widespread social media joke within hours, the dramatic train of the piece likened to a slice of pizza. Perhaps not the Met’s intended statement, but a statement nonetheless: China, despite its looming shadow over the global economy, must travel through a Western prism to be accepted on the world stage. In the absence of a nuanced sense of the absurdity of reducing an entire country to a dress-up theme, this became a vampiric exercise in appropriating and assimilating Chinese culture, rather than celebrating it on its own terms. The Institute did emphasise that this was China through a Western lens — but isn’t this just a politically correct way of saying, ‘we know this isn’t really China, but this is the only way we will accommodate China into our cultural vernacular’? Such a narrow framing of the terms of inquiry in this way — consciously focusing on the Western interpretation of other cultures — is not a new technique: the 1980s critical furore over the treatment of African artefacts within the Primitivism exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art, the Met’s NYC cultural
counterpart, springs to mind. If the Met Gala is anything to go by, it would seem the Eurocentric bent of our major cultural institutions has remained constant in the intervening decades. Jarune Uwajren makes a notable point about how “western culture invites, and at times, demands assimilation,” observing that an Indian American needs to wear a business suit to participate in dominant culture, whereas not all Americans need to own a sari — one is universally-accepted formal wear, while the other is a costume, celebrated as exotic and mystical. This example shows that there is a definitive difference in status between the dominant culture and what is deemed to be the exotic ‘Other’. This difference in status is what turns the symbols and rituals of many cultures into an entertainment for the West; it’s why we see bindis as a cosmetic adornment, tribal headdresses as feathery headbands, and ‘China’ as a set of stereotypical signifiers. This shows us that at the moment, the West is doing a pretty good job of dominating culture in general. It seems there is a long way to go before suits and saris have the same amount of cultural capital. To give the Met’s endeavour — as beautiful as it was misguided — a sliver of hope, perhaps this was all an elaborate attempt to create a ‘positive’ stereotype, a new way for China to exist in the international forum through the lucrative medium of fashion. Stereotypes are certainly not always negative, in the pejorative sense — often, in fact, we attribute ‘positive’ stereotypes to far-flung places and their people: Paris as the city of romance and beautiful strangers on mopeds, New York City as the ‘Centre of the Universe’. However, even these positive viewpoints can have negative ramifications: when confronted in actuality, the less-thanfantastical reality of another country seems peculiar and odd to us, and sometimes disappointing, with rich traditions and customs too often reduced to the clueless kitsch of cultural performance, party costumes and cheap trinkets. Even ‘positive’ stereotypes perpetuate distorted caricatures: although some are slightly more flattering than others, all are reductive and limiting. Stereotyping does owe its roots to primitive biological instincts from the dawn of cognizant man. Neatly categorising new phenomena — racial, cultural, religious, gendered – according to the code of the tribe we belong to is a knee-jerk mental apparatus conducive
“FOR YEARS, THE WEST HAS INCORPORATED CUSTOMS AND RITUALS FROM AROUND THE WORLD INTO OUR OWN CULTURAL CANON, AND DILUTED THE SIGNIFICANCE OF OTHERS. JAPANESE KANJI ARE SPORTED AS TATTOOS FOR THEIR AESTHETIC, RATHER THAN THEIR MEANING, AND ‘ETHNIC’ FOOD, WHICH IS SIMPLY ‘FOOD’ TO SOME, IS ROMANTICISED AS AN EXOTIC ADVENTURE"
to social solidarity. Certainly, the reason why stereotypes become so ingrained in the general psyche is because they always carry some element of reality, reinforced by an observable commonality. We notice patterns and consistencies in different norms and habits, or behaviours made tangible and reinforced by texts, pictures and symbols. However, the manipulation of these innocent observations into mass generalisations beyond any immediate realm of relevance is the decisive stepping-stone towards self-serving ideologies — in simple terms, racism; and at worst, the systemic dehumanisation that can come with it. In understanding the thought process behind and the effects of stereotype formation, do we still prefer to think of foreign peoples as theatrical mannequins, book-ended by gift shops and room service dinners, rather than as their authentic, myriad individual selves? Does this make them easier to understand — or just more palatable, possibly even easier to judge and to ridicule? The elusive, faceless stranger serves to strengthen our own national or cultural identities — in creating an image of ‘them’ we fortify the image of ‘us’ — but as modern travellers and global citizens with access to advanced technology and communicative tools, we need to do better than that. We ought to question that ingrained process a little bit more. But where should we begin? In a world that is more diverse with every passing day, the ethics of cultural appropriation are hardly well-defined. The exact dynamics of cultural interchange vary from case to case. To unpack this further, let’s look at a textbook case of the intricacies of defining cultural appropriation: yoga. In practicing yoga, many westerners have grown to respect its origins in Hinduism, and recognise that yoga stems from a spiritual place. With this understanding,
some would argue that such practice is a cultural exchange, rather than an instance of appropriation. By participating in this cultural exchange, a person is invited to be part of the ritual by those who take ownership of it. In this way, the participant shows respect for the ritual, and understands that it is not theirs to use as they wish, but rather, theirs to experience as a guest welcomed into a new context. However, it can also be argued that wider appropriation of yoga has stemmed from that cultural exchange, and has turned it into the phenomenon we are familiar with today. To the west, yoga is now known as a great workout, and its meditative aspect is simply a useful tool for dealing with a stressful schedule. This way of conceptualising yoga in the west is so widely accepted that in a case that questioned whether or not yoga programmes in public schools is against the separation of church and state, a Californian judge decided that the religious aspects of yoga have been sufficiently diluted to make it an essentially secular practice. This instance illustrates the core of the issue. There are many people who have every right to express the culture that they identify with, and are perfectly entitled to bring aspects of that culture into the western world. Many a famous fashion designer, artist, and musician has drawn inspiration from their roots, and given the western world a wealth of cultural icons. But such expressions stem from knowing what it is to be of a particular culture, in a certain time and place. Those who genuinely experience these cultures are able to present them in a way that tells their story — that shows us where they have come from and what it means to them. If the West is lucky enough to be invited to listen, then it is a privilege to share in that experience, and should be treated as such.
However, this can easily morph into an expectation of a showcase of cultural rituals, which runs the risk of perpetuating the dominance of Western culture. All this is not to imply we should feel terrible for wanting to experience certain stereotypical cultural experiences — icons are icons for a reason, after all. When we travel to Paris there’s a fair chance we’ll all ogle the Eiffel Tower while chewing on a pain au chocolat from an adorable boulangerie — but ideally it will all be taken with a grain of salt (not literally of course — the surplus sodium would quite ruin the pastry). We must be aware that these surface characteristics are not the ‘real’, or the definitive, French experience — as if there is such a thing. In turn, when tourists attend a haka performance in Rotorua, New Zealand, hopefully they are ‘present’ enough to understand that these are not actual warriors preparing for a battle — that they are choreographed professionals who, at the close of the show, will go home and watch television in their pyjamas like the rest of us. Maybe they’ll order Chinese takeout. Despite the ongoing debate and everpresent fashion faux pas, there are signs that western society’s attitudes towards diversity are shifting. Increasingly we understand that the onus is not on the ‘Other’ to educate the West, but that cultures must build mutual relationships to bridge gaps and create understanding, before we can begin to make progress. A sincere attempt at celebrating diversity and cultural awareness has to represent a movement towards a truly integrated society that doesn’t relegate, appropriate, or assimilate indigenous or alternate cultures but meets them on their own ground. Each culture has a story to tell, whether it be for the world, or for itself. All that’s left to do is listen.
138 / Living like a Local Special Feature
D E S T I N AT I O N
DOMINO The ripple effects of mass tourism and conscious travel
WORDS BY JOE UDELL
The sun is just rising over Angkor Wat, Cambodia’s ancient temple complex. After years of reading about its beauty, I am excited to finally experience this moment for myself. As a hint of orange breaks through the clouds, I can see the reflection of the grand temple in the nearby water lily pond. It is everything I had imagined — at least until the buses arrive. Each luxury coach represents a different tour group, yet somehow they are all the same. There are guides identifying themselves with a variety of miniature flags, and expensive camera equipment everywhere, along with loud voices that bounce off the temple walls. This phenomenon is not unique to Angkor Wat. From historic castles in Europe to ports of call across the Caribbean, few destinations are left untouched by the outstretched arm of mass tourism. Unfortunately, sharing a temple with a few hundred visitors is the least of our concerns. According to the World Tourism Organisation, over 1.1 billion people travelled internationally in 2014, roughly 4.7 percent more than the previous year. Export earnings from international tourism totalled US$1.5 trillion in the same time frame. That kind of money can go a long way towards bolstering local economies, creating jobs and supporting the preservation of traditional sites and customs. However, host communities — especially in developing areas of the world — rarely benefit on such a large scale because of the way that mass tourism is structured. Popular ventures like all-inclusive resorts and cruise ships tend to be run by multinational companies. They build the rooms where visitors sleep, import the food and drink served at every meal
and populate their staff with many nonresident employees. In so doing, these companies insulate their guests in ‘enclave economies’ and redirect profits out of the host country, thereby limiting the trickledown impact of visitor spending. But that’s not the only reason why the explosion of mass tourism over the last 50 years has become unsustainable. As more and more people pour into vacation destinations, host economies become increasingly dependent on the seasonal swings of the tourism industry. The cost of living grows without a corresponding rise in local wages, while unregulated development forever transforms the physical environment and cultural identities that attracted tourists in the first place. There is no shortage of cautionary tales when it comes to mass tourism. Venice, Bali and the islands of southern Thailand are just a few examples of destinations that have seen their ecosystems and longstanding traditions altered significantly in the course of hosting millions of visitors. While there are plenty of reasons to vilify the mass tourism industry, there’s also a simple explanation for its existence. Tourists sign up for all-inclusive stays and other mass ventures because they want their limited, hard-earned vacation days to be relaxing and convenient. Many of them don’t have the time, the motivation or the know-how to address the needs of host communities. Luckily, alternative travel models have sprouted in recent years. These start-ups in subfields like ecotourism, geotourism, sustainable tourism and ethical tourism reflect a shift in consumer tastes, even if the industry juggernaut that is mass tourism still reigns supreme. Although
each initiative carries its own set of merits and nuances, they can largely be interpreted under the umbrella of ‘conscious travel’, an inclusive model based on connecting host communities with individuals interested in more sustainable, culturally sensitive practices. Anna Pollock, founder of the Conscious Travel website, has written extensively on this subject. In her 2013 discussion paper, Conscious Travel: Not More but Better, Better for More, she notes that the partnership of guest, host and destination is essential to contesting the mass tourism model, in which each party seeks “to win at the cost of the other” and at the ultimate expense of the environment. Conscious travel, therefore, represents “a fundamental shift in values and beliefs” — a shift “away from money and economic wealth to ‘wellth’ as in ‘well-being’.” This new movement manifests in numerous ways. It can involve partnerships between conscious travel companies and local organisations, projects that contribute to the preservation of the environment and cultural heritage, or educational programs that highlight relevant issues within the host community. Unlike mass tourism, which depends on large numbers of customers and a fixed itinerary, conscious travel is driven by small groups of people, flexibility and a commitment to collaboration. It doesn’t have to involve uncomfortable stays in makeshift huts and long days in the jungle, while many individuals choose to proceed incrementally before committing entire vacations to the cause. My first conscious travel encounter came during a hostel stay in the Philippines, when I was introduced to an organisation called True Manila, which aims to help visitors understand the daily struggle of
EACH LUXURY COACH REPRESENTS A DIFFERENT TOUR GROUP, YET SOMEHOW THEY ARE ALL THE SAME. THERE ARE GUIDES IDENTIFYING THEMSELVES WITH A VARIETY OF MINIATURE FLAGS, AND EXPENSIVE CAMERA EQUIPMENT EVERYWHERE, ALONG WITH LOUD VOICES THAT BOUNCE OFF THE TEMPLE WALLS.
local residents. Run by Edwin Nombre, a self-professed street kid turned community activist, my 12-person group started our afternoon by meeting families living in a cemetery and inside a narrow tunnel. We distributed homemade care packages — funded by the donations of previous tour groups — before riding in a ‘jeepney’ to Nombre’s neighbourhood, where we took part in a community basketball game and an impromptu dance contest. There was an opportunity to contribute to an ‘Education for Street Kids’ program by purchasing True Manila T-shirts, and a traditional Filipino lunch that we cooked together with items bought from local vendors. Conscious travel is not a panacea for the problems of the world: we certainly didn’t pull anyone out of poverty that afternoon. However, we gained important insight into a host community, contributed directly to people in need and created some priceless memories in the process. It’s possible that some members of my group turned into advocates for the Philippines in their hometowns, but that wasn’t the
expectation. Rather, conscious travel initiatives like True Manila revolve around interconnectedness and presenting the opportunity for change, both internal and external. The unique nature of my time with True Manila, ironically, symbolises an interesting development for conscious travel in the years ahead. While mass tourism’s formulaic makeup and preexisting demand enables all-inclusive vacations to be duplicated throughout the world, conscious travel can only offer alternatives on a destination-bydestination basis. That’s because each host community maintains a singular identity as well as a specific set of logistical obstacles. There is no universal recipe to ensure qualitative, long-term benefits for stakeholders, only relative frameworks for reference. In other words, the elements of my positive experience in Manila do not guarantee a similarly rewarding afternoon if replicated in Mumbai. Locating and partnering with agents of change, fostering symbiotic relationships,
and implementing a viable, responsible tourism program takes time, capital and participants willing to trade short-term convenience for personal fulfilment. This is no easy feat. Conscious travel also requires due diligence on the part of potential guests, as there are myriad companies that falsely claim to be environmentally friendly — a practice known as ‘greenwashing’ — and programs that prey on human kindness, such as phoney animal sanctuaries and fraudulent orphanages. Although conscious travel certainly has some challenges ahead of it, these are exciting times for the burgeoning movement. The internet has helped connect individuals interested in sustainability and cultural exchange from Australia to Zimbabwe. There are more opportunities than ever to volunteer for several weeks in a rural village or spend a morning learning about traditional weaving techniques. Busloads of tourists will still pull into Angkor Wat tomorrow, but the sun has risen and it is a new day for the tourism industry.
islands on our mind
144 / Islands on our Mind
santorini Where the gods play
WORDS BY ROWENA BAHL PHOTOGRAHY BY BRIAN FURBUSH
BELOW. Chilled champagne rests on the caldera at Iconic Santorini in Imerovigli
PREVIOUS PAGE. The caldera in all its glory
TITLE PAGE. A lantern rests above the caldera at Iconic Santorini in Imerovigli
THIS IS AN ISLAND OF CONTRADICTIONS AND MYSTERY: IT HAS BEEN, IN TURN, RICH AND POOR, BUILT AND DESTROYED, HIDDEN AND REVEALED.
Location: SANTORINI, GREECE
Taking it in, one might even conceive the gods are at play — just as they were around 1613 B.C., when they first vented their anger on the island’s Bronze Age inhabitants. … [T]here occurred violent earthquakes and floods; and in a single day and night of misfortune all your warlike men in a body sank into the earth, and the island of Atlantis in like manner disappeared in the depths of the sea. The Minoans were authoritative figures within the Mediterranean and are thought to be among the most powerful of ancient civilisations: footprints of their influence have been left all across the region’s coastlines. Indeed, Minoan arts and pottery dominated maritime trade, having been discovered as far away as Egypt. However, great power can give rise to great arrogance, and one version of the Atlantis legend has it that Zeus and the other gods felt that the Minoans were becoming a race consumed by hubris and greed, stealing the limelight — so they had to be wiped out.
There have been, and will be again, many destructions of mankind arising out of many causes; the greatest have been brought about by the agencies of fire and water – Plato What does ‘local’ mean within a destination whose entire identity revolves around attracting and serving outsiders? Santorini is an island well-known for its dependence on tourism. Life in a resort destination such as this is inextricable from the experience of overlooking a glistening blue caldera, with Hellenic hospitality the focal point for locals and visitors alike. And this is no ordinary shade of blue or average hospitality. These are experiences that could only be passed down by the gods — whom it feels still watch over one of Greece’s most picturesque islands. This is an island of contradictions and mystery: it has been, in turn, rich and poor, built and destroyed, hidden and revealed. Even whispers of links to the lost city of Atlantis surround this supernatural land; perhaps the isle, formerly known as Thira, was the stage for mankind’s biggest disappearing act. History — natural, human, and mythological — is the central motif on show in Santorini, nature’s amphitheatre. Seducing at first sight, the Aegean Sea is flanked by steeply rising slopes of volcanic tephra, a mantle of tiered pastel-hued villages its captive audience.
Once a circular land mass, a massively explosive Plinian eruption blew through the island’s centre, ripping apart its left side. The centre filled with water, forming the caldera that we see today. The so-called ‘Minoan eruption’ was one of the most powerful in human history, estimated by geologists to have exerted energy equivalent to that of hundreds of atomic bombs in only a fraction of a second. However, without written records of the eruption, mystery lingers over what happened to the inhabitants of the land: no human remains dating from that time have ever been found in the area, so it is suspected — or hoped — that they may have escaped. By the 13th century, the island was inhabited once more. First the winemaking Phoenicians — who lasted 100 years before the Lacedaemonians supplanted them — then the Romans, Byzantines, and Franks. The Venetians followed, christening the island ‘Santorini’ after the chapel of Saint Irene, located in a small bay where they first moored their boat upon arrival at the island. The Turks were next in line, with this cycle of ever-changing ownership finally ending in 1912 when Santorini was annexed by Greece. The island then enjoyed a period of peace and the fruits of expansion in commercial shipping, tomato processing, wine making and textile production. The gods, however, had other plans. Having taken to the stage again with several eruptions over the centuries, they finally commanded the desired attention
with the major earthquake of 1956, which sent a 30 metre high tsunami crashing onto the southern shores of Amorgos. Santorini suffered major damage to its infrastructure and a decrease in population, with many people fleeing both the physical aftermath of the event and its economic effects. However, in the early 1970s, a solution was decided upon: Santorini would place its destiny in the hands of the tourism industry.
There is a massive range of boutique luxury resorts to choose from, boasting spectacular views of the caldera coupled with service that makes us feel like Greek gods reincarnated. Days are spent indulging the senses: lying on white-washed terraces, sitting — champagne flute in hand — by infinity pools skimming the crater rim, or being gently hypnotised by the caldera’s magical waters at sunset. There is plenty of time to reflect on the beauty and tragedy that is Santorini.
So if anyone is to declare how the all was in this way genuinely born, he must also mix in the form of the wandering cause — how it is its nature to sweep things around. In this way, then, we must retreat, and, by taking in turn another, new beginning suited to these very matters, just as in what was before us earlier, so too in what is before us now, we must begin again from the beginning.
There are also opportunities to get lost in the many village alleys, stumbling upon little restaurants, rooftop bars, and arts and crafts stores. Alternatively, one can opt to play archaeologist for the day, discovering the excavations of the lost city in Akrotiri. The island has also become a prime attraction for couples from all over the world, who want to be a part of Santorini’s romance by getting married atop a white terrace above the Aegean Sea surrounded by blue-capped buildings.
It was around this time that excavations began in Akrotiri, led by archaeologist Spyridon Marinatos. These culminated in the discovery of a remarkably well-preserved city that had been buried by the great Minoan eruption. The find revealed the civilisation of the Bronze Age Minoans, one whose technological structures were thousands of years ahead of their time: the excavations displayed an incredibly advanced comprehension of architecture, evidenced in earthquake-proof multi-storey residences complete with plumbing systems to deliver fresh water and remove waste. Contemporary Santorini reflects a process of destruction, rediscovery and rebuilding, built on a convergence of myth and legend with historical fascination and natural wonder. All of this is channelled into the tourism on which the island’s economy is reliant, with Santorini attracting over 1.9 million visitors in 2013 alone, together with a plethora of transient workers.
For the epicurean traveller, Santorini is heaven. The island belies Greece’s association with ouzo and pine-infused retsina, with the roots of indigenous white grape varieties such as Assyrtiko, Athiri and Aidani having survived over more than a century in volcanic soils that make the vines immune to phylloxera. There is unalloyed magic in every sip: if we would like to drink to history, then appropriately, in Santorini we can actually drink history itself. ‘Local’ here is a mixture of elements, with environmental destruction engendering the loss of civilisations and giving rise to new opportunities rising literally from the ashes, the island’s present-day inhabitants coming and going on cue. Finally, the gods have had their way with Santorini — their power is at play for the world to watch. Just sit back, sip slowly and enjoy the show.
BELOW. Iconic Santorini rests against the caldera at sunset
LEFT. Santorini against the majestic Santorini caldera
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154 / Islands on our Mind
majorca Experiences and memories shaped by an island's terrain
WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHY BY BRIAN FURBUSH
PREVIOUS PAGE. The majestic cliffs of Cap de Formentor, stretching off the end of Majorca into the Mediterranean Sea
TOP. The town of Deia, terraced up the hillside nestled against the Tramuntana mountains
LOWER LEFT. A typical presentation of local Spanish ham
LOWER RIGHT. A guitarist plays for guests on Hotel Belmond La Residencia’s terrace lounge
Location: MARJOCA
Belmond La Residencia. Layered carefully up the hillside, La Residencia welcomed us with an immaculately-kept cobblestone driveway. A manor conversion, La Residencia is the perfect marriage of tranquil, romantic luxury and the careful preservation of an authentic cultural setting. Though frequented by celebrities and offering the utmost in comfort and relaxation, La Residencia truly accentuates and appreciates the surrounding area and the history of Majorca, finding ways to weave these into every aspect of the hotel. The front of the property boasts a gorgeous garden bursting with flowers, interlaced with citrus trees, basil, and other local herbs that the hotel uses in their four restaurants and lounges. The spa provides a variety of services, including massages, skin treatments, and body sculpting. These services, too, integrate the true spirit of the island, using the citrus fruits from the property in their various oils, as well as local salts in the luxury treatments.
There is something about the terrain that breathes the spirit of a place. Here we were, standing on the side of a road that cuts through the Tramuntana Mountains — a drive dotted with jagged switchbacks, roadside gullies, and precipitous drops. Valldemossa, an intimate city poised on the edges of a magnificent terraced hillside, lay before us. Even in the harshest light of day, it was breathtaking. Indeed, as the week continued, it would be the terrain that dictated the lifeblood of each place we visited, shaping our experiences and memories. We rolled on toward the town of Deia, trees to our left and dry, dusty hillsides to our right. As we approached the city, the trees cleared to reveal an endless blue vista. Once again, we hastily stopped our car and scrambled to the guardrail. It seemed as if we were staring at the edge of the world. The ocean, crisp and blue, stretched out before us, flecked with white sailboats and disturbed only by the elegant, cutting wake of the motorboats that ambled by. We followed the sailboats that grew smaller and smaller until they became specks on the horizon, smearing together like paint on a canvas against the magnificent blue backdrop. Realising we were by then looking at the sky — the two blue bodies colliding seamlessly — we had to smile. Shortly we arrived in Deia: flanked by mountains and the vast Mediterranean Sea, and renowned as the chosen residence of many writers and artists. Small houses and steep narrow roads rose on one side of the valley, mirrored on the other by the Hotel
The hotel retains a resident artist and sculptor, both offering master classes to guests and visitors. A gallery bordering both studios showcases paintings from local artists, holding showings that pave the way for new talent to emerge from neighbouring towns. As of the time of our visit, a Joan Miró-inspired installation was in the works, a humorous complement to the hotel’s delicious Café Miró restaurant. The stone floors and beamed ceilings throughout the interior reflect the personality of the original Majorcan manor house. Each room, from those in the original house to the new suites built in 2007, has been carefully designed with modern conveniences while still featuring traditional Majorcan furniture and wooden ceiling rafters. We were shown to our room, a special gem of the property. Located in a protected tower of the original structure, guests enter through a small courtyard off the main house and ascend a narrow, winding spiral staircase, kept cool by its smooth white stone interior. The suite features a dual-storey layout, with a magnificent terrace allowing spectacular views of Deia, the Tramuntuna Mountains, and the sprawling property behind the villa. As day turned into night, the setting sun lit up the town in all its glory, with the buildings glowing from their terraced perches against the towering mountains. That evening, we treated ourselves to dinner at the famed El Olivo restaurant, which occupies the building that was previously the Son Moragues olive press, still preserved on the premises. The meal was perhaps the best we had in Majorca — the standout dish being the baked saddle of lamb, crusted in a local olive salt crust with a rosemary sauce. Complemented by sautéed sole
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PREVIOUS PAGE. Port de Soller, a gorgeous inlet between Deia and Cap de Formentor
LOWER RIGHT. The dramatic and changing landscape on the drive from Deia to Cap de Formentor
TOP RIGHT. A friendly mule follows us around at sunset near a church in Deia
SCAN WITH
and accompanied by a Majorcan orange sauce, together with a bottle of red wine, it was the perfect ending to a relaxing and restorative day. The following day, we set out on La Residencia’s ‘Donkey Trail’ excursion, a journey into the hotel’s olive groves. Led by Luna and Pancho, two of the property’s resident donkeys, guests are treated to a culinary journey into Majorca’s local cuisine. The hotel’s expert chefs demonstrated the typical preparation of pa amb oli, a delicious combination of rustic bread rubbed with garlic and tomato, garnished with olive oil and Majorcan salt. Combined with a spread of Spanish ham, Majorcan cheeses, and local wine, along with some of La Residencia’s own olive oil, it was a truly unique experience that should not be missed. That afternoon, we set off once again to continue our journey northeast. Within five minutes, we were edging our way downward, out of the mountains and toward the small valley town of Soller. Cut off from the western part of the island until recently, Soller is nestled among citrus groves and is a supplier of olive oil to many nearby towns. The nearby Port de Soller presents visitors with a panoramic view of the vast sea, as well as lungs full of salty, refreshing sea air. After enjoying an ice-cold glass of local white wine, we were again on the move toward the cliffs bordering the edge of the island, known as Cap de Formentor. As the narrow roads surrounded by sheer rock faces and towering trees wound back into the mountains, the landscape began to resemble a different island entirely — it was akin to the hills of Ireland
or Scotland. We passed goats and sheep around hairpin turns rife with avid (and daring) cyclists. The island is a haven for professional cycling teams training for elite races, including Britain’s Team Sky, who perennially compete in high-profile events, including the prestigious Tour de France. As we approached one of the main lookouts for Cap de Formentor, we decided to take the path less travelled, traversing a sinuous lane 2 kilometres up a winding face to the highest point above the cliffs. This time, it was not the wheels of our car but our feet which felt the terrain of the island. We ran to an abandoned lookout and threw caution to the wind, climbing up an exposed set of two rusted ladders to what ended up being one of the most extraordinary viewpoints on the island. We were greeted with a 360-degree panorama, with the bay of Alcudia to one side and towering cliffs on the other. As endless rays of sunlight stretched from beneath perfectly placed clouds, it felt truly surreal. Nearly alone on top of a stone tower, watching the light dance across a calm sea, it was hard not to laugh at our good fortune and marvel at nature’s beauty. It was one of the few times that it just felt right to set my camera down and take in the moment, as no picture could truly capture the beauty unfolding in front of us. We descended from the cliffs and set off inland for Arta, a welcome reprieve from the tourist traps that dot the island’s eastern and western coasts. Arta reflects an enchanting mix of cultures — meshing Spanish, British and German influences — and the town’s winding hills are filled
with charming galleries, cafes, restaurants, and boutiques. As we sipped orange juice at a small café while watching the world unfold in front of us, it was in many ways the perfect escape from the party crowds elsewhere — presumably oblivious to the old-world charm a short distance away. With some trepidation, we prepared to depart our enclave for the massive capital of Palma, armed with a reservation at Hotel Cort. We were handsomely rewarded for our 'bravery' when we arrived at a chic, bohemian hotel. Hotel Cort combines tremendous views onto the main square in the heart of old Palma with an edgy vibe that defies expectations. With room service menus boasting, “Whoever came up with this idea of never having to leave your hotel room was a pure genius…like IQ 240 thousand,” and bags of biscotti adorned with, “It would be perfect to have a sandwich, but this will do,” we found ourselves at home in a gorgeous yet playful environment. We had a welcome drink of cava at the hotel’s restaurant in the square’s main plaza and, after deciding we were having too much fun to leave, decided to stay for dinner. Retiring to our room, we chose from the hotel’s spirited ‘pillow menu’ — each option catering to a traveller’s particular taste in comfort — and spent the night in a blissful coma. As our plane lifted off the following morning, the view of the island in its entirety swept beneath us. Flat lands sprinkled with fincas cast against towering mountains led us to the sea, and ultimately back to reality — but the memory of the salty air pressing against our faces left the experience of Majorca (and the prospect of a return visit) fresh in our minds.
162 / Islands on our Mind
aceh An altered landscape
WORDS BY DEV CAPEY PHOTOGRAPHY BY BLAKE DUNLOP
Location: ACEH
long swim. We wander around the islands considering tourism potential and finding crucial turtle nesting areas. I laugh as Luke, soaking wet in pink-and-grey striped underwear, liaises with the plantation workers about yield, docking and transport logistics. Is this what doing business is really like in the archipelago republic? I quickly learn that Mahi-Mahi, and the developing virgin coconut oil business, are just the beginnings of something much bigger. The umbrella organisation — the vision — is Ecosystem Impact. This is about moving to a new way of doing business in Indonesia: “the historical situation in Indonesia is of business being the bad guy, and so there being this massive lack of trust, and that makes it really difficult to get things off the ground. There are so many hurdles with the government and community, as well as challenges at an investor level because of perceptions of high risk,” Jane explains.
Aceh — the province that sits atop the infamous Indonesian island of Sumatra — entered the imaginations of most of the world following the 2004 Indian Ocean earthquake and tsunami. After that devastating wave of destruction, another wave soon followed: that of international aid, money, and attention. Hundreds of organisations and thousands of international staff modified Aceh’s human landscape as the massive post-disaster recovery program lurched into action. A decade later, when this human tide receded, Aceh was a different place: homes and infrastructure had been rebuilt and people resettled. Aceh’s political defiance against central government had shifted from a civil war to a tense political jostle, leaving the lines of authority blurry and the climate for business and investment a risky one. This altered landscape presented challenging new opportunities for enterprising locals and the few foreigners that stayed on after the mass-humanitarian contingent, and their money, left. I’ve come to the island of Simeulue — about 100 kilometres off mainland Aceh — to learn how expat couple Jane Dunlop and Luke Swainson have transitioned from being part of the initial humanitarian response to becoming socially- and environmentally-minded entrepreneurs. For the duration of my visit, I’m staying at their fledgling surf resort, Mahi-Mahi — a spacious and secluded retreat, which sits directly in front of the island’s most consistent surf spot, simply known as ‘the peak’. Mahi-Mahi is one of only a handful of unassuming resorts and surf camps on the island. It’s also the island’s newest and most distinctive accommodation and charter boat provider. Two hundred year old traditional buildings were flat-packed and shipped from Java, and have been given a new life at Mahi-Mahi. These beautiful buildings are cool, airy and imbued with history and character. The centre point of the site is the open-air Joglo, a communal space assembled entirely without nails. Each piece of the building cleverly locks together with the next, all deep and dark teak, intricately carved. It is immense. During my two weeks on Simeulue I get a taste of what doing business can be like in Indonesia. On excursions to scope small offshore islands for a virgin coconut oil business, we dive off thin, wooden fishing boats and swim ashore to count coconuts and check for monkey infestation. The locals working the island expertly slice open green coconuts to replenish us after our
With Ecosystem Impact, Jane and Luke are setting themselves up as important intermediaries between sources of foreign capital and the local environment they know so well. But before they can really fulfil this role, Jane and Luke realised that they needed to prove that they can do it themselves; that they can take an idea and work with investors, communities and government to create a responsible and profitable business. And that’s where their focus is at present: establishing their own socially and environmentally conscious businesses that turn a profit, contribute finance and expertise to local environmental conservation projects, and provide the funding required for Ecosystem Impact to play its paramount role: nurturing and developing sustainable Indonesian businesses. “This is where you can have a big impact because if you’re helping an emerging business to think about how it’s going to function in terms of its financial, environmental and social aspects, and you support that business to grow, it can make a substantial difference at the larger scale,” observes Luke. It’s about helping businesses find that working balance between financial pragmatism and proactive social and environmental responsibility. Simeulue is proving to be an excellent a place to put these ideas into practice — a launching pad for Jane and Luke’s ambitious goals. Jane notes that “As a small island, Simeulue is like a microcosm for Aceh. It’s a place that feels like it might have been a little bit forgotten by the mainlanders, which means it has a well-preserved natural and cultural landscape, and some great opportunities to set up some example businesses.” It doesn’t hurt that “It’s also really beautiful.” I spend most of my days here surfing and exploring the island’s empty west coast. Things are very quiet on Simeulue. We are, after all, in the doldrums: that equatorial zone where the sun arcs high and straight across the sky and stillness is the status quo. A permanent, luminous haze hangs above the horizon, and there’s this spacious, timeless feeling, like we’re in a place where the world doesn’t really turn. The local community, however, has been really receptive to change, and Jane and Luke have begun an ongoing process of community dialogue. Jane describes, “We’ve established a process for people from the community to have a chance to get together and voice their opinions, desires, and concerns through participatory mapping and planning processes, which will evolve over time.” Historically, people here have seldom had opportunities to express their own vision for the future, but “after
TITLE PAGE. Fishing prevails on Simeulue's west coast. This young man's fish are destined for the dinner table. Naibos Vilage
BELOW. Luke scoping small island coconut plantations
years of top-down government, people are beginning that process of getting together and discussing, and contributing to decision making.” Despite their near-decade of experience in Aceh, Jane and Luke often still find themselves in uncharted territory. “To try and marry local culture with a foreign investment framework just doesn’t work, so we’re operating in the middle, navigating between the two,” Jane says. Negotiating cultural difference is one of the biggest obstacles to doing business in Aceh — or in any foreign environment. Speaking the language makes a huge difference, Jane tells me, “but because you’ve got different cultures operating side-by-side, there are just these blind spots, where you don’t even realise that you’re totally misunderstanding a situation, yet you are.” For Jane, it’s a challenge, but one that brings a lot of opportunities to learn, build bridges and establish mutual understanding. Among young people around the world, there is an increasing desire to reconnect work with meaning and purpose. People want to work for employers, or
operate businesses, that have a genuine commitment to improving the state of the world. Because such opportunities are so rare in the mainstream economy, there are a growing number of people who are finding innovative ways to connect business and private capital with social and environmental goals. I begin to see how Ecosystem Impact fits into this new community of social impact investment. The sector is growing rapidly worldwide, and has the potential to bring youthful innovation to both local and global issues. “It’s really taken off in Africa and South America, but it’s in its infancy here in Indonesia. We see ourselves at that intersection between meaning and money; where you feel like business can really make a positive contribution,” Jane explains. It’s all about starting from the ground up, to engender a culture of social and environmental responsibility in small business and entrepreneurship that will generate a real change in business mentality in emerging economies, among locals and foreign investors alike. It’s also a positive new avenue for those seeking opportunities abroad, especially in emerging economies.
At the end of so many of my days on Simeulue — my arms as weak as wet noodles after surfing all day — we sit back and look west as the sun sets behind perfect, peeling waves that just endlessly persist. We gaze out over the Indian Ocean and silently contemplate all that vastness: that unbelievably huge mass of water that extends from Indonesia’s west coast all the way to East Africa, almost completely uninterrupted by land. It’s from this massive ocean that Simeulue’s wealth of waves come. They radiate out from weather systems, travelling hundreds of kilometres while merging and building, before they rise out of deep water and crash onto Simeulue’s reefs. As we lean back into our chairs and enjoy the end result of this long process, I find myself beginning to share Jane and Luke’s optimism for Indonesia. It may be small and humble beginnings, but it feels right and it feels good. I can see their wider vision starting to take shape, and in these two dedicated young people, a sense of self-belief that they’ll be playing a part in positive change for a region that’s been so deeply scarred in the recent past.
EPICUREAN T R AV E L L E R
LAND 168 / Epicurean Traveller
OF THE
LOCALS Weighing up the merits of local and imported food
WORDS BY SALLY BLYTH
PREVIOUS PAGE. Fish ready for preparation Photo by Natalia Klenova
BELOW. A basket-full of chillies collected from a farm outside Yogyakarta, near Borobudur Photo by Khemngern Tonsakulrungruang
As the world grows, at the same time it becomes smaller. We have reached a point in the developed world where everything is available almost everywhere, often at the touch of the ubiquitous button: the supermarket has long been the goto place for most of us for easy one-stop food shopping, and now we have the option of online ordering and delivery right to our doorstep. Visiting a supermarket is like taking a walk through the food stores of the world, but in a much more prescribed way. We will find loads of fresh food on the shelves, placed ‘just so’ to tempt us, but plenty of what is available will have travelled some distance. Whether it’s bananas from the Philippines, oranges from America, olives from Greece or cheese from France, we have relatively easy access to all manner of imported foodstuffs. We’ve all become quite familiar with a whole variety of products we had once never heard of and foreign food terminology is now commonplace. One doesn’t need to speak French, Japanese or Italian to know what baguette, sushi and prosciutto mean, and these items have been readily available locally for some time. Products that enable us to cook Indian, Thai, Moroccan or Mexican dishes with authentic flavours are easy to find and there are many niche food stores offering us a myriad of exotic taste treats. Mustering up the courage to try something new that we may have misgivings about is a good thing, as is learning how best to prepare, cook and savour it. It’s a great way to stretch ourselves in the kitchen and whet our appetite for more food discoveries on our travels. Having such choice at our fingertips is excellent for expanding our food horizons and encouraging creativity in the kitchen, but it can also be overwhelming and generate a wealth of questions. Aside from the immediate queries — what is this product...where does it come from...what do I do with it? — we might also consider one more: what exactly is involved in getting these foods from afar right here for us to buy and try? A major issue in relation to all this epicurean opportunity is the matter of ‘food miles’, a concept developed by UK Professor Tim Lang in the 1990s to address the increasing trend for food to travel longer distances from farm to fork, in an effort to maintain year-round availability. The term triggered widespread debate, but one thing remains clear:
there are many complex layers to the food supply chain before food finally reaches consumers via vendors. With the advent of refrigeration — commercial, domestic and in transportation — the selection, availability, storage and immediacy of access to food from all over the world has improved and increased hugely. Yet scares like Mad Cow Disease, Bird Flu, and fruit-fly infestation remain. Further, blight, natural disasters such as floods and frosts, political upheaval and import/export restrictions can change everything — in which case, generating a reliable, appropriate and abundant local food supply is paramount. The issues of climate change and environmental impact also come into the food miles equation, and various schemes track the energy used and carbon generated in getting a product from grower to consumer, from this country to that. Research has highlighted the impacts of all this food travel in the form of transport congestion and pollution, increased packaging, greater use of chemicals required for food transit, processing and storage, and loss of land and agricultural biodiversity. The inference is that the further food travels, the worse it is for the environment. But is this really the case? Despite playing a part in generating many extra food miles, large food retailers and supermarkets aim to operate sustainably as a part of their business strategy. It is in their interests to work to improve energy efficiency, develop food sourcing policies and manage food products wisely. By aiming to meet consumer demands for year-round availability of food products, they are supporting the economies of other countries by importing their products, just as exporting our food helps our own economy. In the interests of time, perishable food will usually travel by air, which means it is relatively costly for its weight as well as being a lot harsher on the environment than that which arrives by ship. It may seem hard to comprehend, but a fully laden ship can transport an item of produce across the globe for less energy than that used by a local consumer driving it home from the supermarket. Again, it’s a matter of the specific locations and means involved in food transportation. However, as more and more consumers express a
preference for ‘home grown’, there is now a big swing back to fresh local food being top of the shopping list. The increase in the availability of organic food adds another tier of choice for both growers and consumers and, in a world where people are becoming more conscious of chemicals and genetic modification, it’s an appealing, if somewhat pricey, option. Small boutique food businesses and farmers’ markets are flourishing again, redressing the imbalance seen in the closure of many small country shops and the failure of small scale farms over the years as the direct result of powerful retailers sourcing lower-priced food from overseas. Many products that previously had to be imported are now being made right here to authentic recipes by immigrant food artisans. Combining their culinary heritage and skills with fresh local ingredients, they allow us to create favourite dishes of their homelands far away, and we are all the richer for it.
GROW, SHARE, ENJOY Nothing compares to eating a fresh home grown tomato or freshly dug potato. A strawberry picked locally and eaten immediately is a far sweeter delight than one that comes from far away, requiring storage, refrigeration or forced ripening. No one knows this better than Steve and Janet Michael, who have a 5-acre property on the Bellarine Peninsula in Victoria, Australia. They have lived with sustainability in mind and without mains power for many years, fishing, growing, hunting and living largely off the land. Steve has always worked at sea, so seafood has long been a mainstay of their diet. Janet, a former nurse, tends to fruit and vegetables rather than patients these days. At the Michael’s property, olives, apples and feijoas grow alongside Tahitian limes, chillies, cumquats and nuts. It’s all chemical-free. Kaffir lime and bay leaves are snapped up and they can’t keep up with demand for their Russian garlic. They
have chickens for eggs and bees for honey. They make their own juice and yoghurt. No food miles required. Janet receives rave reviews for the relishes and preserves she creates with flair from fresh produce she has nurtured. The local Indian community declares her lime pickle the best they have tasted and chefs clamour for it. The Michael’s passion for growing and sharing their produce led to them establishing a commercial kitchen, called Storm Haven Galley. Here they smoke fresh fish for wholesale and create a range of chutneys, sauces and condiments which they sell at the local farmers’ markets and through co-operatives in the Bellarine area. Sale of the produce supplements their regular income, paying for the running of the property and generating revenue for recreation and lifestyle. There have been many learning curves along the way whilst providing their family and community with great food. Using biodynamics and applying permaculture principles, they love the way this lifestyle opens communication with nature.
FEAST OR FAMINE As suggested by the Michael’s experience, the increased focus on fresh local food highlights that we are becoming more conscious of what we put into our bodies and more willing to put time and effort into creating good healthy meals for ourselves. In line with this, many of us have been inspired to plant vegetable gardens and fruit trees in our own backyards, and community gardens are also sprouting up, a real indication of the passion that exists for fresh local food and the mindfulness and community engagement it can engender. However, reliance on fresh local food requires adaptation and compromise and does have limitations. Successful local growing does involve know-how and effort, and is very much governed by climate. Prior to all this global
food exchange, a country’s geographic location largely determined what its residents would be eating. In the tropics, fruit and fish come from right outside one’s house, all year round. But with an unkind climate, limited planting options and difficult terrain to contend with, local seasonal eating in some parts of the world can mean erratic or marginal supply and may not always be highly appetising or sustaining. In either case, food can become more a matter of sustenance than gastronomy. Whether at home or in a commercial market garden, production fluctuates with the seasons and relies on stable weather patterns and green fingers. Further, as we know, there are no guarantees that seasons will behave as they should, and droughts or floods can arise at any time. If a harvest fails, famine and starvation can result when dependence on local supply is the only option. This is generally confined to developing countries, but it does demonstrate that relying purely on fresh local food can be potentially risky and requires the development of strategies for when harvest fails. On the other hand, sometimes an overabundance of food generates a glut that needs to be dealt with. In times gone by, food was pickled and preserved so that it would keep for longer and this would take care of excess perishable food without waste. Today, preserves and pickles are somewhat of a delicacy, the original need for their existence largely forgotten. However, having a few jars of pickles and relishes made with love and pride in the old fashioned way means we always have a flavour burst in our pantry. Thank goodness for people like Janet and Steve who help to remind us of that.
CELEBRATING SEASONAL CUISINE With an ever-present pressure these days for consumers to have access to fresh local food even when the trees, soil and temperatures wouldn’t normally enable
BELOW. Fresh produce Photo by Aleksandra Winters
it, out-of-season local production is an alternative to importing. However, in an interesting anomaly, sometimes the energy that goes into this can be more than what is expended through importation. Glasshouses are a great mechanism for growing crops in colder climates, but this can be an energyhungry system and therefore not hugely environmentally or economically efficient. Add to this the fact that not every type of foodstuff can be produced locally, even with today’s technologies, and we are back to square one: importing food, particularly out-of-season items. There is certainly something to be said, then, for a diet that changes with the seasons, especially in a land of bounty. If we could devour cherries all year
long, would they seem so decadent and delicious when summer arrives? The anticipation of knowing a favourite fruit is about to ripen or a great crop of winter vegetables is to be harvested is like hanging out for a long-awaited film sequel. There is great joy in taking a bite into the first tangy plum or juicy peach of the summer fruit season, and who doesn’t love a winter roast with freshly dug carrots and parsnips piled high? Farmers’ markets are burgeoning everywhere, which gives local growers an opportunity to share their seasonal edible wares and consumers to get tiptop freshness in an authentic environment, picking out the very best of the bunch and supporting the local community. Restaurants around the
world are also increasingly bringing in this farm-to-table philosophy, with strict emphasis on, and pride in, using fresh, seasonal local food. Getting the balance of imported versus local just right is a matter of understanding the big picture and being innovative and adaptable. However, at the end of the day there is an undeniable appeal to eating as locally and seasonally as possible. If we can purchase fresh coriander and home-cured meats from the local farmers’ market, dine out on freshly-caught fish accompanied by a world-class local sauvignon blanc, make a salad with veges picked from our own garden, pull a tasty home-made chutney from our pantry, buy a beautiful cheese from the neighbourhood foodstore and squeeze fresh local lime juice into our G&T, life is bountiful indeed.
A CHAT WITH THE FATHER OF FOOD MILES
but it’s just nicer and gives a human and civic scale to life. This is possible in towns and cities as there is an infrastructure of public transport and… scale is tighter, but the big thing about not owning a car is that it builds exercise into daily life. It steps away from the fixation that gyms or sport are good for you. The 21st century challenge is to factor that in everywhere. It’s low carbon and healthy. Car culture is the opposite. Can you tell us a bit about your experience as a hill farmer, and how this relates to your interest in food policy? I got interested in UK agriculture when doing a PhD, watching the struggles of entry to the EU and living in a semi-derelict farmhouse in the Yorkshire dales. I was influenced by the radical science movement asking questions about what science and technology are for. And I had a girlfriend whose family bought a derelict farm for us, which we patiently started to build up. I learned the importance of decades of infrastructure. That’s civilisation, actually: the legacy of others creating the conditions for good food. What do you have growing in your garden at the moment?
TIM LANG, PROFESSOR OF FOOD EXPERIMENTS IN SUSTAINABLE
We have a small garden (quite big for London, though) with a four course rotation: (a) early spuds (b) beans (c) brassicas (red kale this year) (d) greens (spinach, beets, etc.) plus a tiny conical — [and] and ‘comical’ — pyramidal greenhouse where we grow salads and start off seeds.
LIVING AND GIVES US HIS TAKE
Can you describe one of your favourite meals?
POLICY SHARES HIS OWN
ON WHAT'S NEXT FOR THE GLOBAL FOOD SYSTEM.
You are known for your sustainable lifestyle. Did you always live this way, or what spurred you to a change in lifestyle? I’d never say I have a sustainable lifestyle. Almost no-one in the West does. We over-consume, waste and are pretty parasitic actually — especially the richer you are. My own interest in lowering impacts began in the 1970s — [with] the hippy and antihippy debate I suppose — but as interpreted by the big debates about what is meant by ‘progress’. Is it eating ever more? No. Less but better. But what’s that? … Much depends on what is meant by ‘sustainable’. Let’s say low carbon, low impact, pro-biodiversity, health-enhancing.
New first early potatoes and salads from the garden are pretty good, but when I had cancer operations over a decade ago, I found I really wanted rice and dhal; that’s my basic comfort food. Long distance and not localist, but I was a child in India [so] it’s still my favourite food. Please tell us a little about the concept of ‘food miles’. Firstly, where did the idea come from? With colleagues, I spent a lot of time just observing the enormity of the changes in the Western food system since the mid20th century. I became aware of how… [corporate] investment was taking food distribution to a new scale — food flying, trucking, shipping vast distances. That's not new [in itself]: the Venetians did it. But the scale is new. I was asked to do a 10 minute TV programme on any subject of my choice, and we coined the term food miles for that. I just wanted to hold up a mirror and ask my fellow citizens: are you aware of this hidden process? What are the important factors in calculating food miles?
What are the pros and cons you’ve noticed with not owning a car? I can honestly say that when we gave away our car, we began to feel fitter and happier. We walk more. It’s less polluting, of course,
It’s a cultural concept really. There’s been a big debate about whether food miles matter at all. A short-distance food might be high in carbon (grown under glass, heated by coal) and when there’s a choice… local is not always the best for water or
biodiversity or energy/carbon. It’s complicated. Nevertheless, the food miles indicator is still a measure people find useful. If trucks belt up and down motorways to bring you food, which could be grown perfectly well nearerby, what’s the impact? Energy, obviously. But also job loss[es], diversity of economy, identity with the product, and knowledge.
environment, quality, socio-cultural, economic and governance. Any minister of food needs to ask, “What am I doing to improve food systems on all those fronts?”
Why do you think there has been so much debate around the concept, and what are some of the problems people have in fully understanding it?
Some good: [the] spread of tastes, plants and choices; the triumph of food supplies over seasonality. Some bad: the domination of unhealthy brands, distortion of good attributes in local food economies, and the growth of unaccountable [and] ruthless giant companies (who are now getting pretty worried about the future, you’ll be glad to know, and rightly so).
For the reasons just cited. It’s complex. I defend food miles because it casts a new light on the changes being rushed in with almost no public discussion. ‘Supermarketisation’ needs motorways… oil… [and] mass scale production. and [It] means intensification… [and] with the lengthening of power and control across supply chains. I think that’s important for food politics. You will no doubt be aware of some of the arguments against the trends toward localised food production (as advocated in The Locavore’s Dilemma, for example): what are your opinions on these views? As a great — and sadly dead — Welsh academic once said to me, “Tim, if you want a low carbon all-year-round lamb on your plate, buy New Zealand; but if you want something that nurtures your landscape, buy local.” (While checking that it’s not belted up and down a motorway, I added) Can you explain the significance of food miles in a broader sense — in relation to sustainability in general? It’s part of the debate about redefining progress. The 20th century sold us consumerism as the driver of capitalism… I think people are now seeing the limits of that vision. How much stuff is enough? Can we really continue to worsen the means of existence? Or the eco-systems on which humans depend? Well, we can actually… Lots of talk and studies show us to stop, yet the system grinds on. Look what happened after the banking crisis of 2007-08 and the Great Recession that followed: semi-hysterical pleas to get out and consume. What we should be doing is reorienting our economies to be low carbon [and] low impact. In food, that means eating better, but differently — more plants; less meat and dairy. How do carbon emissions from local production, as compared to those from transporting food, fit into the decisions we need to make around which approach is more sustainable? They vary. Local can be high carbon, high energy. A country or region as varied as the UK or Europe has fabulous diversity of soils, weather, infrastructure, water. I am someone who retains the notion of sustainability to include not just the environment, but social and economic and quality issues. My last report as a Government Commissioner on Sustainable Development spelled out the six headings I think we need to see as ‘sustainable’: health,
Aside from increased import and export, what other impacts do you think globalisation has had on the food industry?
It is generally assumed that we are a lot more aware now of the sustainability issues than ever before. What do you think it takes to move from ‘awareness’ to action and real change, on an individual or collective level? Awareness is not as important as behaviour change. Currently the drivers of behaviour are mostly in the unsustainable direction. There’s some interesting choice-editing by companies (doing things without the consumer knowing) such as thinner plastic cans, lower water input, [and] carbon reduction, but the big food change still requires culture change. We all need to aspire to eat differently. Less eating all day, all the time; more meal times. What challenges do you anticipate will come to the forefront in the near future when it comes to food policy, and how are these informing your current work? The Climate Change talks in Paris and the UN Sustainable Development Goals are both being decided in 2015. I never hold my breath, but these are pretty important keys to whether we humans want to get a grip and stopping damaging our nest. In rich and middle-income countries, the normalisation of obesityinducing, high carbon, biodiversity-destroying, eating patterns is tragic. Will we please wake up? I try to do my little bit. My colleagues and I run a unique Masters and PhD programme on all this. We run around doing public as well as academic talks. We lob thoughts at decision-makers. But I know that this is having little effect so far. Events will shape the changes in the food system. This might be climate [or] water, or it might be threats to the food economy from geo-political destabilisation, or another bank bubble bursting. A more sustainable food system is inevitable. The questions are: When? Brought on how? And who wins; who loses? Meanwhile, I am trying to contribute to better thinking about sustainable diets. A book is out next year. That’s what boring academics like me do: write books, think, look at the data, pronounce, send messages, raise questions. It’s a societal problem, this — not one individual can resolve on our tiny own. It’s society, stupid.
BACK
176 / Epicurean Traveller
TO THE FUTURE The modern hunter-gatherers of Peru
WORDS BY ROWENA BAHL
TOP LEFT. Virgilio Martinez foraging for ingredients
TOP RIGHT. Dry Andes - Chaco clay, ocas
BOTTOM. Extreme Stems - Ocas, ollucos, mashwas, sauco
Photo by Brick Delgado
Photo by Brick Delgado
Photo by Brick Delgado
PREVIOUS PAGE. Cusco. A city in the Peruvian Andes that was once capital of the Inca empire Photo by Jonathan Cyr
“MATER SEES A TEAM OF SPECIALISTS HEAD OUT ON FIELD EXPEDITIONS TO COLLECT NEW INGREDIENTS TO EXPERIMENT WITH IN THEIR TESTING KITCHEN, IN THE QUEST TO BRING NEW DISCOVERIES TO THE PLATES OF CENTRAL’S GUESTS.”
What happens when scientists, anthropologists, geographers, chefs, artists, photographers and videographers are thrown into the Amazon jungle to fend for themselves? It’s a question that Virgilio Martinez, head chef of Central — a leading Peruvian restaurant that has catapulted the country onto the world cuisine map — can certainly answer. Rowena Bahl talks to Martinez about a project that quite literally takes diners through the centre of the earth. A love for travel ignited the fire within Virgilio Martinez, a Peruvian chef dubbed “the new star of the Lima gastro sky” by Marie Claire magazine. A star indeed, fused in the pressure of the dangerous Lima of a decade ago; its raw terrorism and crime. An escapist, Martinez found his haven skateboarding and spending time at the beach, before deciding he had to see the world. He soon discovered that cooking was an easy way to travel — finding a job was almost guaranteed. Thus, at the age of 18, Martinez began his orbit through the culinary skies of Canada, Singapore, New York, Colombia, Spain and Germany, eventually finding his way back to Peru to shine brightly at home in Lima. Virgilio recalls how his inspiration erupted nine years ago when he returned from his travels, passionate about his country once more: “I came back to Lima and spent one year travelling everywhere in Peru: the Andes, the jungle. So I came up with the idea with my team — how can we bring all these amazing landscapes to our restaurant experience?” The result: ingredients for Central’s cuisine are
sourced from the diverse Peruvian ecosystem. The highs and lows of the landscape — from up in the Andes to deep within the Amazon jungle, and dipping below sea level — are brought to the plate, the earth’s vertical climactic zones foraged and made ready for consumption. All this is achieved through the Mater Initiative, a research organisation that is an extension of Central and the driving force behind its menu. Mater sees a team of specialists head out on field expeditions to collect new ingredients to experiment with in their testing kitchen, in the quest to bring new discoveries to the plates of Central’s guests. The group of modern-day hunter-gatherers comprises scientists, geographers, anthropologists, artists, photographers and videographers, all of whom are inspired by nature but bring a diverse range of perspectives to each project. For Martinez, foraging is not just another trend devoid of soul, lost to the fashion lingo of the food industry. It is a lot more than that: “The thing is, you know, nowadays everybody talks about ‘back to the roots’ and cooking with nature... but the best way to connect with nature…is with knowledge. And you know, we need this knowledge through people who really have… the sensitivity to understand our backgrounds.” In a world of excessive food packaging and isolation from nature, half of us do not even know where our food is coming from. We simply trudge off to the supermarket and stare at all the options in front of us, slaves to industrial agriculture. Slaves with no
escape of course — because although most of us could grow herbs and tend a vegetable garden, it would become a little crowded with millions of people foraging in the local park. Martinez is very conscious of the direction in which society has been moving, and touches on the way in which power in the food industry is still held by a few leaders with less than ideal ethics. He is quick to admit that on balance, the industry is currently beating those of us who wish for an alternative — but perhaps not 100 percent. For example, heated debate over genetically modified organisms (GMOs) has been rife since the late 1990s. When protest marches have unfolded across the globe against massive chemical corporates like Monsanto — who in response have rebranded as a ‘sustainable agriculture company’, no less — then it seems this debate has at least generated some questions with regard to the leadership and direction of the global-capitalist food industry. A poll completed by The New York Times in July 2013 discovered that three-quarters of the respondents felt GM foods were harmful and 93 percent agreed that all GM products should be labelled, clearly reinforcing the community’s desire for accountability. Ignorance is no longer bliss. In addition to concerns over GMOs, a common issue in non-Western countries is the heavy industrial agriculture operated by multinational corporations, which use up fertile soils and move on. However, despite disturbing changes to the food industry, Martinez is adamant that not all is doom: “It is sad to see [these
LOWER LEFT. Plato Degus Expedicion Paita - Frogfish, deepwater algae
LOWER RIGHT. Rock Spiders Sargassum, limpet, crab, sea snail Photo by Brick Delgado
Photo by Brick Delgado
changes] happening in Lima… in all the capitals of the world. But there are still amazing places in Peru and America that will eventually beat them. Not with negativity or violence, but with ideas, working together and sharing knowledge.” Martinez also points out the food industry’s questionable ethics are not making their way into the highlands of the Andes: “We still have healthy land and soil that has not been affected; we are still growing things without any influences. The soil is being maintained — it is fertile, it is good.” Fertility and diversity are certainly proving their presence in Peru. To date, the Mater Initiative has identified over 200 new food ingredients. These finds tend to overlap,
with discoveries of a species in one locale often being followed by that of a similar species at a completely different altitude or within a different ecosystem, with adaptations specific to that environment. This results in interesting variations in taste and therefore potential use, and makes the categorisation and cataloguing of each species a complicated task — one that is always a work in progress. Central’s current menu, Mater Elevations, is an 18-course tasting extravaganza. The journey begins at 25 metres below sea level in Paita, north-western Peru, with a serving of frogfish and deep water algae. At 290 metres above sea level, from the Mala district in Lima comes chilled cactus milk,
served in a shot glass on a bed of ice and topped with retama petals. Retama flowers are a recurring feature of the Andes: the colourful beauties decorate the landscape throughout the high altitude climes around Machu Picchu and Cusco. From there, the menu soars to 3900 metres above sea level, with a creation that looks like it has been transplanted from the high Atacama desert. Served in an earthenware dish is a base mixture of raw potatoes and pebbles (only for viewing pleasure, to educate guests about the topography of the desert region). The centre of the dish reveals a flat stone with what looks like smaller skipping stones on top. In fact, these are what Central’s guests actually
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FOLLOWING PAGE. Harvest and Collection Lettuce, scallops, granadilla Photo by Brick Delgad
ABOVE. The ruins of Moray - an Incan archaeological site approximately 50 kilometres northwest of Cuzco Photo by Jonathon Cyr
eat: the outer shell of the ‘stones’ is made up of chaco clay, an edible variety from Acora in the Puno province, while inside is encountered a soft puree of potatoes from the same region. Clay-eating has a history as rich as the minerals found in it, with pre-Incan natives using it to ameliorate the bitterness found in wild potatoes. It is these little details that make the menu rather special, translating the Andean landscape into food arrangements and as such bridging the gap between nature and people. The menu continuously ‘dips’ and ‘rises’, an exploration of life in the jungle, high up in the mountains, and everywhere in between. If trekking thousands of kilometres across the Andes on foot does not appeal, then Mater Elevations allows guests to make the journey with their taste buds. Martinez does mention, however, that it is best to come to the restaurant after exploring the region, to truly understand what is being served: “Whenever we have a menu with 18 courses, you see so much produce and it is difficult for us when people have no idea where it is coming from. It is great because you are tasting something you have not tried before and it may be exciting — but we also need to translate this very well. It is not just about something that is unknown… it has to be understandable.”
Martinez also has two restaurants in London, Lima Fritzrovia and Lima Floral — with Peruvian preoccupation and approach the main ‘ingredients’ on both menus. Yet he is clear that cuisine cannot be simply uprooted and transplanted to another part of the world. “It is about the way we think and what we do with local produce,” Martinez says. “Of course you can have ceviche and other traditional dishes, but we have to do it with a Peruvian twist.” This means that “We do it with Peruvian taste, with Peruvian feeling, with Peruvian emotions. [Creating nontraditional dishes] does not mean we are not doing traditional Peruvian cuisine,” he laughs. When asked about the concept of food miles, Martinez explains that only 5 percent of the products used at his London restaurants come from Peru — everything else is sourced locally. “It would be a contradiction if we made all our produce travel to London, so we are using ingredients from there. But of course we have to get some products from Peru, so we get things like quinoa, dried chillies, beautiful Peruvian potatoes and specific vegetables.” Locality is obviously important to Martinez: when he turns his gaze to the
future, he sees his feet firmly planted on Peruvian ground. He wants to keep exploring his country, rediscovering his backyard. However, he notes that the idea of the ‘local’ “is funny because our local view is very diverse. You know we have all the diversity of potatoes, we have 3000 varieties of potatoes in different parts of Peru.” In this way, he emphasises the impossibility of ever fully pinning down the essential nature of a local culture or environment. In the next three years, Martinez sees the Mater Initiative moving to Moray in the Sacred Valley near Machu Picchu. It’s an inspiring idea, following in the food-gathering footsteps of the Incas. In fact, the laboratory location they are now considering was used by communities that predate the Incas — effectively a very early ‘research centre’ that studied how to grow key ingredients at different altitudes. “It will be a great move,” says Martinez, “because we will somehow be defending the soil.” Indeed they will: the efforts of Virgilio Martinez and his team of modernday hunter-gatherers could provide a new foundation for Peruvian cuisine, watching over and protecting the sacred food sources of our planet.
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MIDNIGHT SUN WORDS BY NICK WALTON
The ship’s horn roars and bellows, the sound booming and dancing its way down the narrow valley, echoing off ancient stone walls and filling every weather-worn crag and cranny. It lingers in the ear, reluctant to succumb to the absolute silence that permeates the fjord we’re sailing through. We’re winning in a friendly ship-on-ship tooting rivalry as another ferry passes on our port side, but I can imagine that from the peaks above, we’re nothing more than noisy specks of white on a winding ribbon of Arctic blue. If one ever needs a reminder of how insignificant we are in the face of Mother Nature, a cruise through the Geiranger Fjord in Norway should do it. This mesmerising landscape is a significant drawcard for tourists to the country’s island-strewn west coast, and many cruise lines ply the narrow channels of the Storfjord, the intricate Great Fjord of which Geiranger is a tributary. Here on the aft deck of Hurtingruten’s MS Nordlys, passengers scramble for a better view as yachts and other ships glide past, if only to give their photographs scale against the sheer, mile- high cliffs and plummeting waterfalls on each side of the fjord. While many cruise lines include Norway in their itineraries, none offer the connection with the west’s isolated communities and the sense of place that comes with Hurtigruten’s ships. A Norwegian icon, the line’s ferries offer a very different experience from the holiday liners: they’re working ships, essential lifelines for the fishing villages that have called this rugged coastline home since the time of the Vikings, and as such they offer travellers a
unique perspective in one of the world’s most beautiful corners. Hurtigruten actually means the ‘express route’, and refers to a journey first forged in 1893 by government mandate to connect the isolated communities of the west coast. The route first ran between the former royal capital of Trondheim and Hammerfest; today, the Norwegian Coastal Express — often referred to as the world’s most beautiful sea voyage — links the fishing town of Bergen with the Arctic city of Kirkenes, connecting 34 ports on the 6 day journey. A few years back, Hurtingruten diversified into tourism, and now hauls as many saucer-eyed tourists as it does bags of post or pallets of frozen fish. This humble little cruise line, with its 11 ships (meaning every port is visited by two vessels per day) now boasts a whopping 2 percent of the global cruise market — not bad for a fleet of postal ships plying the world’s extremes. For many of those tourists, the journey up the ruggedly beautiful west coast starts in the horseshoe-shaped harbour of Bergen. The gateway to the fjords of Norway, Bergen is an ancient city that has been defined by two things: fire and fish. Once one of Scandinavia’s largest cities, Bergen is a brilliant place from which to set off on a maritime journey. The heritage and influence of passing trading cultures is infused into every building, every street name, every seagull-sentinelled statue. Thought to have been a trading post since 1020, the former royal capital flourished as it traded cod liver oil — used at the time as a heating fuel — between northern Norway and the rest of Europe. The merchants of the Germanic Hanseatic
League once owned Bryggen, a quarter of the town on the edge of the harbour, prospering on this trade. The re-creations of their colourful row houses are now world heritage-listed. The original narrow timber-clad neighbourhoods repeatedly went up in flames as the city’s second most abundant resource (after fish) turned from building material to bone dry kindling. Fires were caused by dry summers and poor living conditions, but we've also set during attacks, and as protests; the city was completely or partially destroyed in 1198, 1248 and 1413. In 1476, Bryggen was burned down by a fire started by a drunken trader, while in 1686 a great fire claimed 231 city blocks. In 1702, almost 90 percent of the city turned to ashes, and many other infernos followed. On April 20, 1944, the cargo ship Voorbode — packed to the gunwales with explosives — ignited, destroying much of Strandsiden, the merchant quarter across from Bryggen. Anything left standing was flattened during Allied bombing raids. But the city has always been able to dust itself off (or perhaps douse itself off) thanks to the fish trade, and there is no better place to experience Bergen’s fishy fascination than at the city’s bustling fish markets. Although somewhat touristy, the traditional market, with its sizzling grills and touts yelling daily specials, is a must-visit. Customers can nibble away at everything from grilled lobster, heaped spoons of caviar and clam chowder, to thick tuna and cod steaks cooked to perfection. There are also a few unusual bites, including reindeer sausages and minke whale meat, caught as part of Norway’s controversial annual harvest.
BELOW. Ålesund is considered to be the most beautiful town in Norway. That does not come as a surprise when you see the sun setting behind the marvelous Art Nouveau buildings Photo by Chiranjib Ghorai
PREVIOUS PAGE. The exceptionally beautiful Geiranger fjord, which has earned a spot on UNESCO’s World Heritage List Photo by Dmitry Abramov
Across the way a new indoor fish market has also opened in a chic, design-savvy building, but it lacks the draw of the traditional fish mongers. Evidence of Norway’s other economic windfall can be seen from the summit of Fløyen Mountain, reached by a popular funicular which climbs the steep gradient with ease. Far below, imposing, bluntnosed anchor handling tugs jostle for position in the harbour, evidence of Norway’s extensive off-shore oil industry as the world’s third largest exporter. We pass more of the oil rig ships as the MS
Nordlys departs Bergen bound for Kirkenes. Families wave goodbye to loved ones travelling home to the north, and tourists lean on the rail watching our departure. The Nordlys was commissioned in 1994 and caters to 622 passengers, with 462 bunks and plenty of cruise shiplike lounges in which day passengers while away their passage. Much of the outdoor activity takes place on the spacious aft deck, but like a handful of others, I’m drawn to the smaller bow observation deck. Here, I watch the dying
rays of a reluctant midnight sun basking across mirror-like seas. Formations of water birds race like jet fighters above the water and the orange plume of the sun sets the landscape ablaze. It’s a staggering way to finish a day at sea. Day break of the next day — also encountered from the wind-whipped bow — is equally dramatic as the ship ploughs its way through a brief patch of rough sea towards a sunrise that cascades across the distant peaks like golden rain. To one side is the grey nothingness of the ocean, and on the other, waves smash
BELOW. The MS Nordlys Photo by Nick Walton
themselves against ancient cliffs. The sun quickly climbs into the sky as we pull in for a quick stop at Ålesund, a tiny town wreathed by deep blue water and snowtipped mountains that’s famous for its abundance of art nouveau architecture. Cargo is loaded and families embrace on the pier, but in typical Hurtingruten fashion, the stop is short and the ship’s horn soon announces our departure, into the fjords. We couldn’t have asked for a better day to explore these deep valleys: the waters of the 15 kilometre-long Geiranger fjord and the cloudless sky above compete with deep, velvety blues, and the numerous waterfalls tumbling down the sheer cliff faces kick up misty clouds filled with shimmering rainbows. One of Norway’s most visited sites, the Geiranger fjord is UNESCO-listed and a marvel to behold from the deck of our ship, which has suddenly because toy-like in comparison to the precipices on each side. Geiranger is the first of several fjords we encounter during the day as we leave with many other guests and set out on the Geiranger Panorama, a bus excursion that navigates the peaks surrounding the fjord before winding its way across a landscape punctuated by lakes, valleys, waterfalls and colourful fishing hamlets. From the top of the Eagle Road, a steeply winding route that climbs straight up from the town of Geiranger at the fjord’s end, we’re rewarded with a staggering vista down the
waterway and across the mountain tops. A ferry takes guests across beautiful Lake Eikesdalsvatnet before the climb to the Gudbrands Gorge and the crown of the Trollstigen Pass, where little pyramids of rocks mark the paths of travellers before us. Snow-capped peaks ring the highway, named for the mystical creatures that are said to inhabit the high mountain passes. The 11 hairpin turns of the Troll Road, a narrow path which clings to the mountain side and ducks beneath staggeringly-tall waterfalls, is a highlight for everyone. We rejoin the ship at Molde, having had a brilliant slice of Norway’s fjordland. It’s the excursions along the way that enhance the Hurtingruten experience. Experiencing the working ship as it plies the waterways north is fascinating — meeting holidaying couples, backpackers and locals retuning home is brilliant — but excursions to Europe’s largest salt water aquarium at Atlanterhavsparken, walking tours of Trondheim, visits to the Arctic Cathedral and the Svartisen Glacier, and journeys to North Cape (the northernmost point in Europe) make the journey truly unique. At Bodø, I wrap up tight in bright yellow survival gear complete with plastic goggles as we brave the waters of the Saltstraumen strait by high-speed RIB boat. The strait is home to the world’s most powerful tidal current, as 13 billion cubic feet of water race from the fjord and then return with
eddies and swirling maelstroms. In the Lofoten Islands, I watch re-enactments of a Viking feast, with honey-laced mead and traditional songs that are thousands of years old. In Kjøllefjord, we learn how the indigenous Sámi live in the far north and dine on reindeer soup in a traditional lavvo tent, and hear stories of the summer’s midnight sun and the winter’s long night. The excursions bring context and depth to the inspiring landscape that surrounds us along the way. As a dog lover, in the Tromsø Wilderness Centre on Kvaløya Island I have my favourite encounter as I play with teams of huskies, including excitable five month old dogs and a handful of newborn puppies. These beautiful animals are part of teams which compete in Alaska’s annual Iditarod sledding race, and guests can learn how the pack runs and dish out the doggie love to more than 100 strangerfriendly icy-blue-eyed huskies. For many guests, arriving at North Cape signals the end of the journey. We take turns to pose for pictures beside the massive metal globe that represents the milestone, while far below, at the base of terrifically high cliffs, waves crash from a sea chilled by the ice of the Arctic, only a thousand kilometres away. While some guests will leave the ship the next day in Kirkenes, others will head south again, following the express route as the ships of Hurtingruten link the communities which call this epic landscape home.
L I V I NG
AFLOAT
I N
SAUSALITO WORDS BY CHRISTINA HUNTINGTON
I have been repeatedly warned that as soon as I cross the bridge, it will be 20 degrees warmer. The incredibly helpful staff at the Four Seasons, while assisting me in planning my day trip, informed me that a key to life in San Francisco is to “always dress in layers.” So, taking my cue from the bridge, I begin to shed my own jacket and sweater as I whirl past the enveloping clouds into the shining rays waiting just ahead at first landfall. As I pull off the first exit at Vista Point, it feels like I have entered not just another climate, but another country. Leaving the damp, cold cosmopolitan city behind, I am transported to what could be the French Riviera — all huge open skies, still blue waters, and sailboats rocking lazily in the sun. Vista Point offers the best view of the Golden Gate Bridge and the sweeping cityscape behind it. Even locals riding their bikes across the bridge stop here to appreciate the majestic beauty of the city they live in. But this is a temporary stop. My destination is further north still, just a short drive down the gently winding cliffside. Known as a sleepy seaside community, Sausalito has become a go-to attraction for tourists, who teem from the sidewalks of the main street, milling in and out of the many souvenir shops, cafés, and small storefronts that abound. But I forge ahead, past all the trinket shops, out to the far end of town in search of the ‘old-timers’. This is the term lovingly used for the locals who call Sausalito home, many of whom built and continue to maintain the thriving houseboat community that first originated here in the 1960s. During the Second World War, war ships were built in the surrounding factories. When the war ended, residents started buying the excess ships. By the 1960s, a small community
of free-floating boats began to take shape. With time, the harbour passed rules for the floating homes to be docked and the resulting houseboat community was formed. Now, all houseboats are permanently built within slips along shared common docks that act as walkways between the homes. The houseboat styles run the gamut from old wooden gypsy boats to manicured homes one might expect to see on a suburban street. The beauty of this community is that each ‘boat’ and each owner is allowed full freedom of expression. There are no aesthetic rules to follow beyond the common city ordinances, so the personalities of the owners shine vibrantly with each new step down the dock. Many homes are coloured in beautiful pastels with bright plants lining the gangplanks, lending the floating community a vivid Crayola quality. Realtor Michele Affronte, a self-admitted old-timer who has lived here for 22 years, has agreed to give me a tour of the floating home community, which is a surprisingly rare opportunity. Aside from occasional speciality tours organised by Michele and the annual Sausalito Floating Homes Tour that takes place each September, the community remains closed to the public throughout the year. Michele also handles the majority of the houseboat sales and rentals in the area through Bradley Real Estate. However, visitors looking to experience a quick weekend vacation will be sorely disappointed. Harbour rules stipulate that all rentals require a minimum 30-day stay, a measure instated to preserve the tranquillity of the community. But for those wanting to experience an extended stay and a true taste of Sausalito living, a houseboat rental is the perfect option. The city is just a short bus or ferry ride
TOP. The floating homes of Sausalito
BOTTOM. Sailing under San Francisco's Golden Gate bridge
Photo Š Lola L. Falantes Photo by Sarah Prikryl
PREVIOUS PAGE. The Freda B. Photo by SF Bay Adventures
away and everything else one needs is within direct walking distance. I discover that many of the Sausalito community members are retired or work from home, which provides an opportunity to bond closely with their neighbours. The residents enjoy active social lives, gathering at their local haunts to mix, mingle, and be merry. On weekends, the 50s-plus crowd gathers for happy hour at Saylor’s Restaurant & Bar before heading to the Seahorse Ristorante Supper Club to dance the night away to live swing and salsa music. Another favourite hotspot for residents is Bar Bocce, an Italian restaurant where friends gather for cocktails around a large open outdoor firepit and play bocce on the private stretch of beach just beyond the patio, all while enjoying what is rumoured to be the best pizza in Marin County. I quickly learn that food is serious business in Northern California, the home of the original farm-to-table movement and the current artisanal cooking trend. The residents here seem to have an innate reverence for fine food. This is apparent in Sausalito, which prides itself on hosting restaurants that serve the tastiest fresh seafood in the Bay Area. Many city dwellers take pilgrimages out to Sausalito on the weekends, riding their bikes across the Golden Gate Bridge, taking a kayak out for the day, eating lunch at one of the many delicious waterfront restaurants, then biking or ferrying back home. Fish is a charmingly casual order-at-thecounter restaurant that serves the catch of the day and focuses on sustainable fishing practices. Locals stop here after a
day of kayaking to enjoy the freshest fish available, along with a cold handcrafted beer. Le Garage is another well-revered favourite, a seaside French bistro offering exquisitely-executed steak frites, niçoise salad, and steamed mussels. Sipping a chilled glass of rosé and watching the lines of yachts and sailboats bobbing gently in the sparkling blue waters, I cannot help but imagine myself suddenly dining in Cannes. I finish my immersion into Sausalito culture with a San Francisco Giants sail and bay tour offered by SF Bay Adventures, which departs from Sausalito at sunset. Unsure of what is in store, I am pleasantly surprised to find a sweet old-fashioned sailboat — the Freda B. — docked in the slip upon my arrival. Jazz music plays softly as we board the deck. The wonderfully charming staff welcomes me, offering blankets, beverages, and anything else to make my trip as comfortable as possible. A Pinterest-worthy set-up of wine, beer, bottled sodas, tea, and hot chocolate further puts my mind at ease — this is a strictly classy affair. I am also surprised to find that the dozen other guests are all Bay Area residents treating themselves to a special night out, several of whom are die-hard Giants fans seeking a new way to experience their beloved baseball team. After a brief safety talk, we set sail into the bay and beyond the Golden Gate Bridge as the sun begins to set and the sky shifts into a soft pastel pink. We glide through the water behind Alcatraz — a view not normally available from the city — travel under the Bay Bridge, and pull into McCovey Cove outside of AT&T Park. We anchor in the water here to enjoy the
second and third innings of the game, which can be viewed on the Jumbotrons inside the open stadium or on the large flat screen TV on our deck. The boat staff serves hot clam chowder from The Seafood Peddler, a Sausalito institution, to keep us warm as we take in the game. I smile to discover several kayakers floating around us in the cove, in hopes of capturing a home run ball — a tradition that started many years ago and continues to grow. No balls sail our way tonight, though our crowd cheers to see our boat featured on the Jumbotron between innings. The 4th inning signals the start of our return home. As we pull back under the Bay Bridge, the starry night sky appears above our heads and the city lights twinkle off the distant waters dreamily, creating a hauntingly beautiful image that lingers in my head long after I have departed. Heading back into San Francisco, the peaceful, slowed-down pace of Sausalito stays with me. As I am warmly welcomed back by the staff at the Four Seasons, I feel as if I am still floating on air from my beautiful day spent at sea. I am reminded how experiencing the world through the eyes of others widens one’s own scope. The Sausalito floating home community serves as incredible inspiration — rebels whose unique form of resistance was creating quiet, gentle lives connected to nature, great food, and each other. It reminds me that truly anything is possible: whatever life one wants to live, there are others who share the same vision and are willing to make it a reality.
C RUI SE
FAMI LY
ROBINSON WORDS BY MICHAEL HOOPER PHOTOGRAHY BY JENNIFER & RICHARD ROBINSON
Bodies glistening with motor oil, dark skin setting off huge, dazzling white grins in a joyous festival of whining and grinding, as the locals call the sexually charged rhythmic dancing: for three nights the nonstop sensual rollercoaster of Carnival carries along everyone who happens to be in Grenada. Three years ago, the Robinsons were on the verge of signing off plans to begin building their dream home. “I can’t do this!” declared Richard, at the last moment. “I’m too young to retire” That bombshell delivered, the next day Jen agreed. If just one of them had doubts about settling down, then they wouldn’t. They had always dreamed of sailing the world — one day. That day had arrived. In short order, their house was sold, the dream home replaced with a new plan. “The leap from the dream to the doing is massive,” says Jennifer. “It’s hard to let go. People spend their whole lives gathering everything around them, not just material things, and we moved away from that.” The Robinsons researched the market and decided to have a 44 foot cruising catamaran built in South Africa. It would have the highest technology and design features in order to become their comfortable, safe home on the world’s oceans. Then they started a process of preparing themselves to take on new skins. That included rescue and emergency skills, and a formal skipper qualification that would take them 2500 nautical miles around Asia on a training boat. A keen diver, Richard began a series of challenging study and courses, with 80 dives over 10 weeks, rising to the highest PADI level where he would be able to train instructors in deep sea diving. Jen went off the deep end in her own way, following an advanced first aid course
by immediately spending a Friday night helping in the accident and emergency room of a public hospital in Cape Town. She estimates that at least one-third of the never-ending stream of mostly male patients were victims of violence caused by alcohol or drugs. Between dealing with broken beer bottle and knife wounds, burns, bashings, and multiple diseases from HIV to tuberculosis, Jen was injecting local anaesthetics, giving tetanus shots and dressing wounds. Cape Town introduced the pair to poverty on a level they had not seen before: an unemployment rate over 50 percent, and tin shacks cluttered across kilometres “as far as the eye could see,” recalls Jen. CLEARING OUT Launching into the unknown is something many of us do in our lives, but rarely on this scale. On Tuesday, February 5, 2013, Our Rose was lifted and lowered into the Cape Town water. On March 28, the southerly breeze bore her out into the Atlantic “like a little cork bobbing on the ocean.” Richard fondly recollects stopping “in the middle of the Atlantic” and having a swim — perhaps a baptism of sorts. Eleven days on, Our Rose arrived in Saint Helena, and almost immediately the couple set a pattern that was to recur. They befriended an 82-year-old, offering her a hand up the hill with her groceries, and she invited them to a meal. Mildred was to be the first of many in the most diverse of communities who would provide hospitality as a result of Jen and Richard’s engaging and outgoing attitude. Arrival in Tobago marked the end of the ocean crossing. There had been some alarming teething issues with their new boat, but the beauty of shooting stars
and treats of ultimately fresh sashimi and homemade ice cream all helped wring a change of mindset, with “the realisation that any pre-passage fear had gone, and been replaced with enjoyment of each day’s activities; living in each moment,” concludes Jen. Another pattern that was to repeat was regular reunions with boat owners encountered in ports. The cruising community is one in which membership occurs by osmosis — sometimes by helping others through problems, and often by recommending places to seek or avoid. The NET radio system provides a social channel, and it was through this that, in Grenada, Richard and Jen responded to a radio plea to help with a children’s reading programme that took them to the heart of the community. Run from a garage set up like a classroom, the programme relies upon volunteers to teach reading, writing and mathematics. One of Jen’s three youngsters, who were aged just four or five, had recently lost his mother to cancer. Jen showed him how to hold a pencil and write his name, and he ended up lying with his head in her lap. The couple were also moved by the sibling support and love they witnessed as they taught. In Trinidad they had been introduced to the national pastime of liming, ‘the art of doing nothing’ which involves the sharing of food and drink (especially rum). Activity while liming is considered cheating. Hence a cooking class was accompanied by rum punch, a tour of the island involved the three legal rum distilleries, and the various beach celebrations they encountered were well-‘spiced’. This was all good training for one of the world’s best-known parties — Carnival.
ABOVE LEFT. Our Rose under sail
ABOVE RIGHT. Open-ocean supermarket: groceries below, plants above.
This celebration of dancing to calypso music, fantastic masquerade and much rum mixed with a dash of religion or superstition reaches its crescendo in Trinidad and Tobago, but Grenada is also something special. Ignoring its history as a Lenten prelude, the three-day party thrown by this island is in the rather hot month of August. Huge speaker trucks keep the calypso visceral and “the music vibrates right into the core of your body,” says Jen. “The dancing is like pornography with your clothes on.” This was mixing with the locals on an entirely other level.
the couple was approached by a Boston Whaler with a black dog on the prow and skipper Sandy Stoddard welcoming them with a glass of wine in hand. He insisted they jump aboard for a tour of his family home of over 100 years. Soon after, the anchor was dropped just off downtown Boston, with a free shuttle into the wharf and $1000-a-night hotels just metres away. More friends were met and made. This was followed by a voyage to Maine to encounter generous fisher folk and enjoy festivals and crustacean gifts, then on to Nova Scotia, reuniting with more recentlymade cruiser friends.
WHAT COMES AROUND On the first day of December came the official (insurance company-specified) end to the hurricane season, punctuating the open sea with vessels re-positioning. The Robinsons’ next ports of call would be up the east coast of the USA. After the isolated beauty of the Bahamas, the sight of Florida from the sea must have been nothing short of weird. Heading towards the port entrance, approach lanes were shown on the charts like a highway. Extravagant homes with their boats of people partying lined the shores, and for the first time on their trip halfway across the world, the couple were met by belligerent immigration and customs officials. Several days sailing up the coast took Our Rose beneath the gaze of Liberty and into Lincoln Harbour Marina, a 10-minute free bus ride from Central New York City and its Broadway shows, Empire State Building, restaurants, a farmers’ market and, of course, catching up with a rapidly increasing network of friends. This was all achieved from the comfort of the Robinson’s own floating New York apartment. Leaving Long Island Sound, on passing the tiny granite islands called The Thimbles,
Being able to drop anchor in a leafy bay in Irvington allowed a nearby vineyard visit, and the hospitality of Americans from Miami to Maine who would meet the couple, offer them help and friendship, and even lend complete strangers the family car, created quite an impression. “America exceeded our expectations,” says Jen. Weather windows were playing a significant part in their daily planning. “Weather rules our life; before our journey, it just made you think what to wear,” she observes. When sub-zero temperatures and clear days dictated the path south, a dockside slip sent Jen into a spin, and into a surgery. Again, a willing local appeared magically, in the form of Susan and her dog, Kiwi. Seeing the flag on Our Rose, she had paddled out from the town of Beaufort, and helped with medical transfers over the next few days before all was well for the voyage to Cuba. That was an eye-opener, says Jen: a country where life is simple, where there is 100 percent literacy, and yet paltry wages (US$20 - US$50 a month). “The people have so little, but they will give you everything — then there’s music, music and more music.” Landing at Santiago de Cuba, they ended up being invited to dinner as a result of talking with
their first taxi driver. This couple has an extraordinary gift for linking into the circle of other people’s lives. In their three years at sea, the Robinson’s lives have been overlaid with those of so many others. It might be crossing the road in a Dominican Republic village to share a cold beer with a local who looks hot, accepting a seaside villager’s invitation to a freshly caught meal, or baking a cake for a just-discovered cruising neighbour’s birthday. It often seems to start with a default response of “Yes” when a stranger says, “You must come and visit”, and on it goes from there. Implicit is mutual faith in the goodness of people, “although you do sometimes have suspicions,” admits Richard. The lifestyle of cruising in the fresh air is a healthy one that has blown out the cobwebs. Ever practical, Richard explains their change of perspective: “We couldn’t imagine what the lifestyle was before we were doing it. You move away dramatically from the external factors the world shoves at you. It’s an extremely positive lifestyle, and you become more patient, living in a small space. You learn to make decisions differently. If you have doubt or fear, you have to put it behind you, make positive decisions and just get on with it.” Back when the time came to realise that dream of building a boat to cruise the world, it seemed to mean selling or giving away all they owned, and leaving loved places and faces of friends and family. But the gaps have been filled as the Robinsons melt into the worlds of all they meet. Their log is filled with phrases like “met their lovely friends who invited us over for dinner” and “we went to see if we could help”. As Jen points out, “Many of the people we’ve met don’t have the opportunity to leave where they are, so this is the only way we could meet them.” The dream of sailing the world has turned into the reality of befriending its people.
TOP. Locals living it up quayside, Ft. Lauderdale
BOTTOM. Santiago from a rooftop restaurant
JULY-SEPT 2015
BAZAAR
THE RITZ-CARLTON
FOUR SEASONS, S.F.
To experience a potentate’s palace, there’s no need to go past the Ritz-Carlton at Dubai Marina. Spaces are vast yet comfortable, with Istana-style carved wood ceilings and Arabian fretwork over onion-shaped windows. A safari down chandeliered passageways leads to a marble maze where the spa and fitness centre stretches through an extraordinary labyrinth of heated mosaic beds, saunas and steam rooms, relaxing rooms with minted water, hot and cold plunge tubs, and even a large lap pool. Among the gardens leading to the hotel’s private beach and draped private pavilions, one of four large pools even has a six-metre waterfall.
After a long drive up the California coast, my tired body only has two things on its mind: a hot bath and a soft bed. As I pull up to the entrance of the Four Seasons in San Francisco, I already feel a wave of calm descend upon me. Friendly faces instantly materialize: smiling and greeting me, opening doors and making my luggage weightlessly disappear. Before I know it, I am gliding upstairs to check-in feeling like Belle from Beauty & the Beast. I swear I hear the echoes of “Be Our Guest” ringing out from the halls.
Food at the Ritz-Carlton’s Blue Jade restaurant has earned it the title of top Asian restaurant in Dubai. I can only imagine the competition in this land of excess. We tried a dish handed down from the chef’s 90-year-old Vietnamese grandmother: lemon and ginger-marinated sea bass wrapped in lotus leaf and baked soft and moist. A recommended ginger-infused sake was the perfect partner to fresh sashimi. Even breakfast in the Caravan restaurant was a culinary journey, following the spice route from the Mediterranean, through North Africa, the Middle East, and down to India. Our brief stop in Dubai was to end in a caravanserai, without stepping outside the hotel gardens. Amaseena is collection of open Bedouin pavilions, lit by flares and draped in orange and red, with low seating and access to a delectable trail of Arabian food. From the grains and spices, to barbecues with New Zealand lamb, kebabs and whole fish, it was a sensual assault, made Aladdin-like by men reclining with polished hookahs, serviced by a black-clad keeper of coals, whirling his thurible to deliver red-hot charges to the smoke-shrouded pipes. The Ritz-Carlton delivers an authentic taste of the Middle East, in true Dubai style. Visit ritzcarlton.com/dubai
The bathroom, my key destination this evening, is large and luxurious with double mirrored doors that make me feel as if I have entered into Marie Antoinette’s private quarters. I take advantage of the huge bathtub, laughing with glee when I discover that I can stretch my whole very tall person out in the bath with ease. I lay back and let the suds take me away. Padding out into the room and slipping into the bed for the first time, I am overcome with joy at the softness of the mattress and the big fluffy pillows. I drift off into one of the deepest sleeps of my life with a huge grin on my face. Bath and bed mission beautifully accomplished. The next morning, I wake up feeling fresh as a daisy and ready to explore the city. The concierge staff are helpful and attentive, offering me maps and circling restaurant suggestions and driving routes with the best possible views. Completely prepared to take on the town now, I smile as I look in the rear-view mirror at the staff and hotel that already feels like a home away from home. Visit fourseasons.com/sanfrancisco
Enjoy the journey as much as the destination Cruising is now more popular than ever, especially with Kiwis who are enjoying the benefits of a cruise holiday far & wide. With so many options available to suit any travel style or budget our cruising specialists can help find the perfect cruise just for you. Whether you’re looking for a fun-filled family getaway, a bit of adventure or just want to sit back and watch the world go by from your balcony, we’re sure you’ll love cruising just as much as we do! To help you discover what type of cruise would suit you, see our top picks below or call one of our Cruise Specialists today. OCEAN
FAMILY
Ocean cruising offers an experience of a floating resort with a journey full of many experiences. From entertainment and fun to pampering and a wide range of dining options, there’s options to suit every traveller!
From water parks to kids clubs, parades to on board cinemas, a cruise holiday is a playground for the whole family! Or while the kids enjoy the many amenities on board, adults have a chance to relax and unwind.
Our Pick: Princess Cruises.
Our Pick: Royal Caribbean.
RIVER
LUXURY
Intimate, exciting, beautiful… River cruising offers the opportunity to explore the world’s greatest waterways up close. Unpack once and relax while you discover cities and towns from your balcony.
Looking to treat yourself with a holiday that includes sophistication, elegance and exemplary service? Luxury cruises offer everything from contemporary cuisine to exceptional shore excursions like no other.
Our Pick: APT River Cruises.
Our Pick: Azamara Club Cruises.
SMALL SHIP
ADVENTURE
Enjoy the experience of small group excursions and leave the crowds behind. Small Ship cruises offer a relaxing environment as well as the opportunity to explore amazing places that larger ships can’t!
Get a taste of adventure, exploring destinations off-the-beaten-track, and then enjoy comfort and style on board your ship. See the world’s most remote destinations with an Adventure cruise.
Our Pick: Seabourn.
Our Pick: Silversea.
0800 22 11 09 cruiseabout.co.nz
JULY-SEPT 2015
BAZAAR
LANGHAM HOTELS
HOTEL EIGER SELFNESS
The Langham exudes a timeless elegance that celebrates the past, yet offers every modern convenience. The hotel’s signature ‘Blissful Beds’, classic décor and marble bathrooms create a relaxing and luxurious retreat with every modern amenity catered for. With a warm pastel colour palette, hardwood furniture mixed with rich textiles, and the hotel’s signature amenities, each room is a private sanctuary in Auckland.
The Hotel Eiger Selfness provides a refreshing and rejuvenating sojourn in the Swiss Alps.Adjoining apartments in the guesthouse chalet above the hotel provided us with ideal family accommodation — three spacious bedrooms, two bathrooms, full kitchen and laundry facilities, and a large dining and living area not to mention fabulous views of the Bernese Alps, including the Jungfrau, Eiger and Mönch from our windows and balconies.
Guests can sample eight delicious cuisines from the interactive kitchens at Eight restaurant: select a cut of the finest meat available and have it cooked to their taste, enjoy fresh sushi and sashimi made-to-order or indulge in an exquisite array of sweets, desserts and pastries as many times as they like.
The Hotel Eiger Selfness is well-known for its cuisine: it has excellent restaurants and bars — though we were too exhausted by our daytime high-altitude exertions to indulge in much nightlife. Breakfast was the major gastronomic event of the day for us, as we were treated each morning to a different health drink (pear, cucumber and avocado being a memorable combination) before we launched into a veritable feast of every breakfast offering imaginable — the selection was mind-boggling. This set us up for the whole day, providing energy for the myriad strenuous winter activities on the agenda.
Batteries are recharged at Chuan Spa, where one can unwind with a relaxing massage or spa treatment. The fitness centre is available 24 hours a day with the latest Vario X-trainers, three Kinesis stations, and two exercise bikes. Each piece of cardio equipment has a built-in 15-17 inch LCD TV screen with iPod docking stations, games and access to the internet. The stunning 12.36 metre outdoor saltwater pool is heated year round to a warm 38 degrees Celsius. It is the perfect place to work up an appetite with an early morning lap or two, or unwind with an evening swim under the stars. This elegant hotel is just a stroll from Ponsonby’s restaurants and bars, Auckland Museum and the beautiful Domain. The hotel’s complimentary shuttle service offers guests the opportunity to visit downtown Auckland and its spectacular waterfront and airport transfers are super convenient. Ideal for a special occasion, the Five-Star Eight Escape getaway package for two is the perfect winter escape. Visit langhamhotels.com/auckland
Owner Gisela Heller explains that the hotel’s ‘selfness’ philosophy is all about pampering oneself. The other fitness-obsessed members of my family took advantage of the fully-equipped supervised health centre, plunge pool, jacuzzi, and sauna, along with yoga, pilates, aerobics, zumba and jazzercise classes led by experts in their field. However, at the end of a strenuous day’s skiing, the luxury of prizing my feet out of the vice grip of my ski boots, peeling off layers of wool and slipping into the soothing warm oasis of the Hotel Eiger Selfness spa was divine. I relinquished my aching body to the tender care of Nami, a Japanese masseuse who administered a relaxing massage using bioactive alpine arnica lotion to improve circulation, tissue elasticity and ease the muscles. I floated into a dreamlike state as Nami’s expert hands worked on tight spots, relieved tension and relaxed muscles that had worked hard that day on the slopes. Consider me sold on the ‘selfness’ philosophy. Visit eiger-grindelwald.ch/en
THERE ARE NOW TWO WAYS YOU CAN SKI4FREE!
VICTORIA
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GET UP TO SIX CONSECUTIVE DAYS FREE SKIING* WHEN YOU BOOK YOUR WHEELS WITH JUCY SKI UNTIL THE 27TH OF SEPTEMBER AT TREBLE CONE AND HOTHAM *Terms and conditions apply, see Ski4Free websites for details.
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