WIN ATRIP FOR 2 TO TREK THE INCA TRAIL IN SOUTH AMERICA!
ISSN 1449-3543
INS UN ID ISL FO E AN R : DS G TO IN ET P TH T EW A S OR BL IX LD E
FROM INTREPID TRAVEL
#38 get lost! ISSUE #13
get in the know! David Attenborough gave the naghol ritual widespread exposure in the 1950s after recording it with a BBC film crew.
vanuatu
d from childhood lle ca re al tu ri r la cu ta ec Grainy footage of a spVanuatu’s Pentecost Island. takes Steve Davey to
tex t: steve davey images: steve davey
get in the know! The word bungee is said to be New Zealand slang for an elastic strap.
ISSUE #13 get lost! #39
vanuatu
T
HE DOMESTIC CHECK-IN AT PORT VILA airport is in some degree of chaos. I am standing amongst chickens and outboard engines and a lot of people, all vying to get onto the next plane. Near hallucinating from lack of sleep (caused by flying here from London via Sydney with the briefest of stopovers) I stumble out to the plane that is to take me to the island of Male Kula. The plane is a small and somewhat battered looking twin prop. I try to read the warning sign next to the cockpit door: “MAN WE I SPOLEM SAM SAMTING LONG PLEN BAMBAE I PAS LONG KOT”. Written in the local pidgin language Bislama, I have no idea what it means but climb aboard. We fly through the sunrise and over islands so rugged and forested that if we were to crash we would probably have to eat each other to survive.
#40 get lost! ISSUE #13
Forty-five minutes later we bump a landing on a muddy grass strip on the island of Malakula. I trip down the stairs before the plane whirls and leaves. From Malakula I travel to Ambae, the inspiration for Bali Hai in Michener’s novel Tales of the South Pacific, and then to the island of Pentecost. I have wanted to come to Pentecost ever since I saw a grainy black and white film of the naghol, or land diving, on television as a child. The precursor of modern bungee jumping, it is a rite of passage for the local men and is supposed to guarantee a good yam harvest. It entails some poor unfortunate throwing himself from a high tower secured only by a couple of vines. The naghol can only be carried out in the rainy season when the vines are sufficiently supple. The jump was once attempted out of season in 1974, during a visit from the Queen of England
and her husband, Prince Philip. On one jump the vines snapped and the jumper was killed. History hasn’t recorded the prince’s response but it may have been the only time the old bugger smiled on the entire trip. I haggle a lift to a guesthouse. My room is made from woven bamboo matting and has no electricity and no mosquito nets. The interior walls don’t reach the roof and there is no glass in the windows. They are closed only by badly fitting shutters. I am already sporting a number of huge mosquito bites that are beginning to get infected. I walk through the village to inspect the naghol tower. It is under construction on a steep hillside, giving the impression of being even higher than it actually is. The earth of the hillside is dug up to cushion the landing. I sit for a few hours watching the preparations before walking back to the
get in the know! The opening sequence of the film GoldenEye featured James Bond bungee-jumping off the edge of a dam.
’’
The sound of the platform breaking is haunting and the boy hits the ground with a thump.
get in the know! The intoxicating drink brewed from the kava root remains popular on Pentecost Island.
’’
ISSUE #13 get lost! #41
#44 get lost! ISSUE #13
get in the know! Simon Bolivar, known as “the George Washington of South America�, liberated Venezuela from Spanish rule.
venezuela
in the HOOFPRINTSof CONQUISTADORS text: mark eveleigh images: mark eveleigh
Mark Eveleigh undertakes a breathtaking crossing of the Venezuelan Andes on horseback.
W
E SPURRED OUR HORSES ONWARDS IN AN effort to get to shelter before nightfall. Palm-fringed beaches lay only 160 kilometres to the north but the Caribbean trade winds had chilled dramatically as they reached the steep Andean slopes. It was easy to appreciate the feelings of fear and respect that this mountain landscape, with its eerie swirling mists, evoked in the first Venezuelans. The high sierras were seen as the domains of evil demons and the phrase “pasar el páramo” – to cross the highlands – is still synonymous in local slang with death. From up ahead, I could hear the shouts of the muleteers as they drove the cargo animals over the ridge. The remainder of our motley mule-train straggled down the winding trail. Far below, I could just make out the red jacket of Paul Coudenys, riding a ‘rearguard action’ against the rising afternoon mist. As the owner of the strangely, if memorably, named Hippo Trek, Paul has ridden in 50 countries. Yet this was to be his first Andean crossing. At around 4,400 metres, we were probably the highest horsemen in the world at that moment and we were almost certainly the first foreign riders to follow this route since the Spanish conquistadors blazed this trail in their quest for the mythical El Dorado. We did however have the benefit of five hundred years of hindsight, and to give ourselves get in the know! El Dorado was a mythical city presided over by a South American chief who was said to cover himself with gold dust.
ISSUE #13 get lost! #45
venezuela
time to acclimatise to the altitude we were making the ride in reverse, uphill direct. Where the conquistadors had the only horses on the entire continent, our ‘pioneer column’ was able to hire teams of more than twenty fresh mounts and cargo animals for every new section of the trail so that there would be no need to force lowland horses into activity at dangerously high altitudes. I quickly discovered that it felt safer on these steep mountain trails, often lined with sheer drops, to be leaning forward over the horse’s neck rather than lying back over the swaying rump. We also had the guarantee of a warm bed – or at least a sleeping bag on the verandah of a ranchito – and a nightcap (of even warmer Venezuelan rum) at the end of each day’s ride. Horseriding is a great ‘leveller’. There is much less class difference apparent between a rider #46 get lost! ISSUE #13
and an arriero (muleteer) than there is between a trekker and his porters. The isolated villages that we were passing through survive only because of the mule-trains that ferry produce and goods along the mountain trails. The animals are crucial to survival here and, despite the fact that we were ‘rich tourists,’ the mountain people were able to relate to us because of our mutual reliance on the animals. We already seemed an entire world away from the ‘Eden’ that we had ridden through earlier in the week. We had left the swampy cattle-country of Los Llanos and within three days had climbed into the virgin rainforest that shrouds the branch of the Andes known as Sierra Nevada. The Canagua River, rushing to join the mighty Orinoco, began to tumble with increasing ferocity and we often had to
dismount to lead our horses across a chain of swaying suspension bridges. I had ridden in much faster and tougher conditions in other countries but soon realised that, despite the lack of galloping space, horseback was the ideal way to experience these mountain trails. Compared with stumbling wearily over slimy trails under the weight of a loaded backpack with eyes fixed on the root-strewn track, horseback jungle trekking can seem like an almost sinful pleasure. Even along the cloud-forest trails of Venezuela, I was able to see more jungle life than I could ever remember seeing on foot. “There are no handles to a horse”, the author of an early riding handbook advised his readers, “but the 1910 model has a string to each side of its face for turning its head when there is anything you want it to see”. I let the horse take care of the walking and kept my eyes occupied with the quicksilver flight of hummingbirds and orchids that I never would have noticed on foot. As an added bonus, I had a mobile stepladder from which to pick wild guava. We spent a whole morning on a steep, slippery climb through the cloud forest but, at midafternoon on day five, rode out into a region of wide grassy meadows where the horses broke into a cheerful canter. We suddenly realised that we had left the treeline and were on the high páramo. Spiky-headed frailejón plants and lichencovered rocks replaced the dripping lianas and moss-shrouded trees of the tropical forest. We were now more likely to see a wheeling condor than a flock of bickering parrots. The countless
get in the know! Venezuela has won Miss Universe four times and has had the most semi-final entrants after the USA.
’’’’
The famous Central Asian explorer, Sven Hedin, took it almost as a matter of course that a single expedition cost nearly 300 horses.
’’
hummingbirds that had buzzed around us in the steamy valleys below were replaced by a single hardy and unique species that hibernates every night to survive the cold. After several days cocooned in the forest, the wide-open spaces of the mountains were vaguely intimidating and we initially spoke in hushed tones. The muleteers knew the narrow trail that zigzagged endlessly upwards as la carretera (the highway). Our previous steady but slow progress provided as much opportunity for
exploration as for contemplation, but we now enjoyed short, exciting canters across flat Andean meadows. During one such gallop my highland mare was accompanied by her stallion (a pack horse) and their yearling foal that dashed in front, kicking up his heels like a gangly bronco. I whooped and waved my hat as my private stampede charged across the meadow. Many historical horseback explorers looked upon their mounts as no more than expendable pieces of equipment. One nineteenth-century ‘adventurer’
get in the know! English progressive rock group Procol Harum, best known for ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’, also had a hit with a song named ‘Conquistador’.
won a $1,000 bet by riding 1,300 kilometres from New Mexico to Missouri in less than eight days. He killed three horses and two mules in the process. The famous Central Asian explorer, Sven Hedin, took it almost as a matter of course that a single expedition cost nearly 300 horses. Today’s horseback travellers and most horse-related tourism operators are doing their best to put the animals first. Even the careless outfits in the developing world are, to some extent, being forced to cater to the foibles of animal-loving tourists who complain about mistreated horses. Reputable operators like Hippo Trek are always careful to make the welfare of the animals paramount. We changed to fresh horses every day. An unexpected advantage of this equestrian ‘promiscuity’ was that we had the opportunity to meet and travel with muleteers and guides from almost every village in this part of the Sierra Nevada. Each of these little bands had an intimate knowledge of the dangers and highlights of their own section of the ancient trail. The conquistadors found nothing to keep them in this area and the local population has waned in recent years. One in three Venezuelans now live in the capital, and in every village that we rode through boarded-up houses stood testament to a growing exodus of campesinos toward the slums of Caracas. The town of El Carrizal was an extreme example of what is happening all over Venezuela, once one of South America’s richest countries. Founded 150 years ago, El Carrizal quickly grew to a successful farming village with rich harvests of bananas, ISSUE #13 get lost! #47
#56 get lost! ISSUE #13
get in the know! Great white sharks have litters of seven to nine pups.
south africa
I
T’S COLD, REALLY COLD. THE FREEZING ATLANTIC creeps in around the neck of my wetsuit. However, that isn’t why I am struggling to breathe. I’m scared. Really, really scared. Adjusting my mask as the salt water spits off the side of the bobbing boat I ask myself whether, in the scheme off things, this is really necessary. I have lowered myself slowly into a cage that barely seems large enough to hold a seal. The bars of the cage are thinner than I think they should be, the gaps between them wide enough for my knees to slowly drift through. Beyond these bars, I am surrounded by a deep, dark green sea: home to a pure eating machine. Three days earlier in Cape Town, full of red wine bravado, I had bragged of my desire to dive
text: justin jamieson images: loukas hapsis + justin jamieson
with the great whites to any and all that would listen. I thought I sounded like the crusty old cantankerous sea dog, Quint, from the feature film Jaws. It was only later, as we drove down the coast road towards the picturesque beach town of Hermanus, that I remembered Quint’s fate: he was bitten in half by the title character of the film. This was the moment where I recognised the first sensation of fear. Hermanus is like an old film set, perched on a cliff overlooking the raging Atlantic and filled with pricey eateries, old seafood dens, rustic pubs and a mixture of luxury, retro and backpacker accommodation. A couple of hours from Cape Town, it is the beginning of the Garden Route, South Africa’s equivalent of
get in the know! The number of shark attacks in New Jersey in 1916 inspired the book and the film Jaws.
’’
Justin Jamieson braves the cold waters off the coast of Hermanus, South Africa, to come face to face with a great white.
I am surrounded by a deep, dark green sea: home to a pure eating machine.
’’
ISSUE #13 get lost! #57
south africa
Victoria’s Great Ocean Road. The number of shopfronts adorned with plastic sharks attests to the fact that diving with the great whites has become a tourist magnet. Wandering the clifftop esplanade we are drawn to a little cluttered window that promises the ultimate shark experience. The cage and the wet-suited mannequin draw us inside. It is here that we meet Kim Maclean, otherwise known as the Shark Lady.
#58 get lost! ISSUE #13
It is Kim’s passion that convinces us to join her dive. A pioneer in the business, Kim has been in the game since 1992 and is a strong advocate for eco-friendly diving. Judging by the other dive operators’ brochures this is the new marketing point of difference. In the ‘old days’, Kim tells us, dive operators would lure the great whites out of the water and punch them in the sensory organs located under their noses, sending the sharks into a frenzy. Cool, I think
to myself while acknowledging Kim’s point with a suitably disapproving eco-friendly nod. We meet with Kim the following morning to be driven to the base house at the launch harbour for a quick briefing on the day’s proceedings. This includes a run down of the ‘do’s & don’ts’. The number one ‘don’t’ is reaching through the bars to touch the sharks. No kidding Kim. It is mid-February and we are told that not only is visibility not great at this time of year (the best time to dive is May to August) but there is no guarantee that we will see a shark. However, Jacques the skipper smiles and reassures us that not sighting a shark is pretty rare. “In fact, the day before yesterday there was a frenzy of activity and a three-metre shark actually ran into the side of the cage”, he says excitedly. My bravado of the previous day ebbs further away. We board our boat. I am immediately alarmed when I see the cage that is strapped to the rear. Its bars appear very thin. They also look bent in all manner of directions. I ask Jacques what happened. With an unsettling grin he explains that sometimes the sharks think that there is more food in the cage. As sure as I am that Jacques is merely stirring me up I decide that I don’t like him.
get in the know! Dogs kill more people each year than great whites have killed in the last 100 years.
get in the know! Great white sharks have about 3,000 teeth.
’’
With a swell rolling in placidly from the depths, our vessel lolls easily as we venture further from the shore. I wonder if the queasiness engulfing me is seasickness or the onset of a shark phobia. I suddenly recall the scene from the beginning of Jaws when the skinny-dipping girl is jerked rapidly under water by the first bite. I remember the severed leg sinking to the bottom of the ocean after another attack, but mostly I remember Richard Dreyfuss’ character, Hooper, assembling his cage and Quint asking: “What d’ya have there – a portable shower or a monkey cage?” Hooper: “Anti-shark cage.” Quint: “Anti-shark cage. You go inside the cage?” [Hooper nods] Quint: “Cage goes in the water, you go in the water. Shark’s in the water. Our shark.” Quint breaks into “Farewell to ye...” with a wryly incredulous smile on his face. We anchor and the crew mixes up some slop that is thrown over the back of the boat. A huge slab of meat is tied to a thick rope and hurled over the edge before, to my amazement, a small, child-shaped piece of wood covered in wetsuit is repeatedly thrown onto the surface of the water. “Looks like a seal”, explains Jacques. “It casts a shadow that attracts them.” Looks like a small child in a wetsuit, Jacques.
In the ‘old days’... dive operators would lure the great whites out of the water and punch them in the sensory organs located under their noses...
’’
Suddenly there is panic. One of the other tourists has spotted one of the beasts. The boat lurches as we all push to the viewing edge. My first thought is similar to that of the lead character played by Roy Schneider in Jaws: “We need a bigger boat!” Jacques yells, “Quickly, get in the cage, get in the cage”. I feel like yelling something back at him that might get me thrown off the boat. Instead, I am madly pulling on my wetsuit and bracing myself for the ice-cold water. I cry out as the water slides up to my armpits, pretending that I am reacting to the cold. I am not. Three metres away is the fin of a three-metre great white moving towards my cage, in front of which Jacques is dangling the slab of meat. I definitely hate Jacques. ISSUE #13 get lost! #59
THE P WER OF THEPRESS Any poker player worth their salt knows that it takes two things to take the pot: the balls to bluff your opponent and the cards to back it up. Having one will give you a chance and having both will get you where you want to go. This is how I played my hand... text: johannes norton images: johannes norton
of our newspaper employer. The attitude of the ticket inspector changed immediately. With something approaching an apologetic tone, he excused himself and returned about ten minutes later to inform us that he was sorry but there were no spare seats at all on this train. What he had done however was to call ahead to the railway station in Tundla, further down the line and the nearest junction between two different lines. He had also requested that a train coming from a different location but bound for Varanasi stop there and wait for our train to arrive in order to transport two foreign journalists. Upon arriving in Tundla, another
I
WAS WORKING IN THE advertising department of a major national newspaper in Mumbai. A Dutch colleague and I had arranged to spend a few weeks backpacking around the north of the country and had made it to Agra. We had tickets for the overnight train from Agra to Varanasi. As the train pulled up to the station a little before midnight, something did not seem quite right. According to the ticket, we had seats in the second-class sleeper carriage S3. Walking alongside the train we counted the carriages: S1, S2, S4, S5... no S3. Upon further investigation, we learnt that carriage S3 was faulty and would be out of commission for a month. The official line on how we were to now get to Varanasi was “not my problem, get ticket refunded”. As most of the disgruntled would-be passengers were beginning to form a lynch mob, a few of us decided to throw caution to the wind and get on the train anyway. It seemed a better option than trying to find somewhere to stay in the wee hours or sleeping in the open train station. Our band of authority-flouting travellers included a couple from Melbourne, a Swedish guy named Thomas and another Dutchman. We found some spare seats and began to make ourselves comfortable for the long trip from the Taj Mahal to the banks of the Ganges River. We had a shared sense of accomplishment at ‘sticking it to the man’ and a confidence in knowing that we could overcome any obstacle that travel in India could throw at us. The confidence lasted until the next stop. It took about half an hour for us to go from being comfortable heroes to being people sitting in the wrong seats. The train quickly went from full to overcrowded. People with tickets bearing our new seat numbers appeared and the bluffing began. Our first ruse was to play the dumb tourist, convinced that these seats were our own. We argued the case firstly with the ticket holders and then
#96 get lost! ISSUE #13
with the ticket inspectors when the ticket holders went to get them. When we still didn’t move from our seats, the ticket inspectors saw our bluff and played their trump card: armed security guards with alcohol on their breath. This prompted a reconsideration of our strategy. We went to sit on our bags along the aisle near the end of the carriage. However, my colleague was not one to admit defeat easily. He and I found the nearest ticket inspector and informed him that we were reporters in the process of researching a story about travel within India. We noted that we had a meeting to attend in Varanasi the following day. When asked for proof of our claims, we played our trump cards: entry passes for the Mumbai office
train was on the next platform waiting for us. The ticket inspector collected us and after some goodbyes to our gobsmacked comrades, we were escorted aboard the other train and shown to our new seats. We settled into our well-earned conveyance and slept for the majority of the trip to Varanasi. To top it all off, we pulled in to the station three hours before our original train was scheduled to arrive. So never mind what Kenny Rogers says about knowing when to hold ‘em and knowing when to fold ‘em. The moral of the story is simple: play your cards right and you can go anywhere.
get in the know! Varanasi is believed to be one of the oldest continually inhabited cities on the earth.