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Congratulations to everyone involved in realising the first issue ofto JRNY Travelinvolved Magazine. Congratulations everyone in realising the of JRNY Travel Thefirst workissue represented in these pages Magazine. is an inspiration to readers, creatives and wanderers alike, all around the world. The work represented in these pages is an inspiration to readers, creatives andfor wanderers allyou around the world. Thank you bringing alike, us with on your journeys. Thank you for bringing us with you on your journeys.
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THE JRNY BEGINS The JRNY Team Founding Editors: Kav Dadfar & Jordan Banks Editor: Emma Gibbs Art Direction and Design: Bradley Lucas Contact Us For general enquiries, partnerships, or sales, email us at info@jrnymag.com
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Contributors If you would like to contribute to JRNY Travel Magazine, email us at submissions@jrnymag.com Follow us Website: jrnymag.com Twitter: @Jrnymag Instagram: @Jrnymag Cover Image Philip Lee Harvey Issue One First published July 2021 ISSN 2752-7077 (Online) JRNY is a new travel magazine created entirely by freelancers and crowdfunded by our readers.
ISSUE ONE
The articles published reflect the opinions of the respective authors and do not necessarily represent the views of the publisher and editorial team. All rights reserved. ©JRNY Travel Magazine. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means including photocopying, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the cases of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. JRNY Travel Magazine reserves the right to accept or reject any article or material to edit this material prior to publication.
Published in the UK by JRNY Travel Magazine. JRNY Travel Magazine is printed on FSC paper in the United Kingdom by YouLovePrint.co.uk, part of the Pureprint Group a CarbonNeutral® company and member of SEDEX, the ethical supplier register.
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IN THIS ISSUE 20 6
56 YORKSHIRE
44 34
NICARAGUA
BEYOND THE VOLCANOES
SIERRA LEONE
TREASURE ISLANDS
EASTERN CHINA
TIMELESS AND INFINITE
SOUTH GEORGIA
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AN IMPOSSIBLE LANDSCAPE
OUR STORY
THE JRNY SO FAR...
Jamie follows in Shackleton’s footsteps in the subantarctic wilds of South Georgia.
WALKING THE YORKSHIRE WOLDS WAY
Philip heads to eastern China to see if the places he’s long admired in art really exist, and if he can recreate them with his camera.
Ian spent five months living on the Banana Islands, discovering this underrated corner of West Africa.
Darlene explores the tucked-away fishing villages, lush nature reserves and rich agricultural traditions of this diverse country.
Ben discovers the whispering vales and hedge-hidden lanes of Britain’s quietest National Trail.
BY BEN LERWILL
BY DARLENE HILDEBRANDT
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BY IAN PACKHAM
GIBRALTAR
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BY PHILIP LEE HARVEY BY JAMIE LAFFERTY
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BORNEO
104 96
IN SEARCH OF THE BAJAU LAUT
CUBA
THE WILD EAST
ROMANIA
LIFE ON A SHEEPFOLD
Lottie spends an afternoon with Gibraltar’s own monkey whisperer.
PARAGUAY
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HUNTING GIANTS AND JAGUARS IN THE PANTANAL
VARANASI
LIFE ON THE GHATS
Ralph provides a rare insight into life on a traditional Transylvanian sheepfold.
Matt captures life, traditions and faith in this spiritual city on the Ganges.
BY MATT PARRY
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Claire explores eastern Cuba – from notorious Guantánamo Bay to the magical wilderness of Alexander Humboldt Park.
Jordan witnesses how these sea-faring people live, and the tussle between their traditional values and modernity.
BY JORDAN BANKS
Steph heads into the remote, inhospitable wetlands of the Pantanal in search of three giants.
BY CLAIRE BOOBBYER BY RALPH VELASCO
BY STEPH DYSON
MEETING GIBRALTAR’S MISUNDERSTOOD MACAQUES
BY LOTTIE GROSS
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NAMIBIA
AT THE CROSSROADS OF CHANGE
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MOROCCO
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AMONG THE MASTER CRAFTSMEN OF FEZ
SOUTH DAKOTA THE ALL-AMERICAN SAFARI
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BHUTAN
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INTO BHUTAN’S SPIRITUAL HEARTLAND
Malcolm introduces some of the people of remote northern Namibia
VENICE
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THE VENICE CARNIVAL
COLOMBIA
FANGS, MENACE AND MYSTERY
Off-limits to tourists for over five decades, Mark journeys into the Andes to discover fascinating ancient monuments, hidden in plain sight.
Ugo returns to Venice to admire incredible costumes against the backdrop of one of the world’s most beautiful cities.
A landscape etched with myths, legends and unshakeable faith awaits Kav.
Laura heads off-road across the plains to join the cowboys in Custer State Park’s Buffalo Roundup.
Fez’s Medina has barely altered since the ninth century; Keith plunges into the maze of alleyways and traditions in the world’s most complete medieval city.
BY KEITH DREW
BY LAURA GRIER
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BY KAV DADFAR
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BY UGO CEI
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BY MARK STRATTON
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BY MALCOLM FACKENDER
CHURCHILL
THAT TOWN THAT LIVES LIFE ON THE EDGE
UZBEKISTAN
BIOGRAPHIES
OUR CONTRIBUTORS
THANK YOU
SOME OF OUR SUPPORTERS
OU R B I G THAN K YOU TO E VE RY ONE
A CONFLUENCE OF CULTURES
SCOTLAND
LOSING TIME ON THE NORTH COAST 500
Meera experiences life on the Arctic tundra in remote Manitoba.
Helen advocates for a slow approach to the Highlands’ most famous route.
Historically a passageway for traders, Uzbekistan is now a beguiling blend of cultures, as Lola discovers.
BY MEERA DATTANI
BY LOLA AKINMADE ÅKERSTRÖM BY HELEN OCHYRA
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TWENTY YEARS FROM N OW YO U W I L L B E M O R E DISAPPOINTED BY THE T H I N G S YO U D I D N ’ T D O T H A N BY T H E O N ES YO U D I D D O. S O THROW OFF THE BOWLINES, S A I L A W AY F R O M S A F E H A R B O R . C AT C H T H E T R A D E W I N D S I N YO U R SA I L S . E X P LO R E . D R E A M . D I S COV E R . M A R K T WA I N
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THE JRNY SO FAR... As much as I wish the tale of this magazine began on the shores of a faraway island in the Pacific or perhaps as I slept under the stars in the jungles of northern Thailand, listening to the howls of baboons, the concept was really born in a pub in Basingstoke. “I want to create a travel magazine,” I blurted out, somewhere in the middle of a conversation about whether Brazilian footballer Neymar is better than French player Antoine Griezmann. At this point, I had already known Jordan for a few years – we’d met at photography events and had discussed various projects that we could collaborate on, without pursuing any of them beyond general chit chat. It wasn’t until that brisk February afternoon in 2018 that the first tentative idea of JRNY began to form. I had been wanting to create a travel magazine from the moment I picked up my first one in the early 2000s. Travelling was not a huge part of my childhood: the occasional city break or a weekend in Bournemouth was about as exciting as it got. But here I was, completely engrossed by the amazing places around the world that were brought to life by the magazine’s writers and photographers. In those pre-Instagram and YouTube days, it was much harder for a boy from Ladbroke Grove to be inspired to venture to the other side of the world. As I flicked through the magazine, my travelling touchpaper was lit. Twenty years on, and my bucket list of places to visit grows quicker than I can cross them off. In the years that followed our meeting in Basingstoke, Jordan and I revisited the idea of a travel magazine over and over again. We talked endlessly about what it could be called, what it would look like and how we could make it happen. But there was always something more important that took precedence: copy deadlines, photos to edit, workshops to run – and just everyday life. It took a worldwide pandemic and three lockdowns to finally jolt us into action. Like all freelancers in the travel industry, the effects of the last fifteen months have been tough on us. Almost overnight our assignments were cancelled, fully booked photography workshops had to be refunded and our once-busy schedules were reduced to empty spaces. So we wanted to not only create a magazine that would inspire travel but also to reward the amazing travel writers and photographers who bring these destinations and stories to life – and who had, like us, been effectively grounded since the pandemic began. This magazine is now more than just mine and Jordan’s – it belongs to all of our contributors, and each and every person who has donated, bought a copy or even just shared the project. We are so proud, honoured and grateful to have worked with so many incredibly talented people on this magazine. Their support and hard work are what has turned our dream into a reality. I hope you enjoy this issue of JRNY and are inspired to start planning your adventures when we can travel again.
Kav Dadfar Founding Editor
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AN IMPOSSIBLE LANDSCAPE J A M I E
L A F F E R T Y
S H A C K L E T O N ’ S W I T H I N
F O O T S T E P S
C O N S I D E R A B LY
T H E
F O L L O W S L E S S
S U B A N TA R C T I C S O U T H
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W I L D S
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AN IMPOSSIBLE LANDSCAPE
Lying on his deathbed aboard the Quest on 5 January 1922, Sir Ernest Shackleton was bickering with his long-time physician and friend Dr Alexander Macklin. They were anchored in Grytviken Harbour, off the subantarctic island of South Georgia, and Shackleton was suffering what was thought to be his second heart attack of the ill-fated expedition. Not knowing how close Shackleton was to the end, Macklin encouraged him to live a little more virtuously. “You are always wanting me to give up something, what do you want me to give up now?” asked the exasperated expedition leader. ”Chiefly alcohol, Boss, I don’t think it agrees with you,” answered Macklin. He never got a reply. If there’s something slightly depressing in knowing that one of the 20th century’s greatest explorers died an unrepentant alcoholic, it’s perhaps some compensation to discover that Shackleton continues to be sodden with booze in the afterlife. On two expedition cruises five years apart, I’ve stood next to his headstone, just outside the old Grytviken whaling station, and watched dozens of strangers pour whisky on his famous grave. The passengers from every visiting cruise ship do this – even if Shackleton had wanted to give up, there’d be no escaping the firewater now.
Ahead, the kings stood in such numbers as to appear shimmering in the cold morning gloom.
P R E V I O U S PAG E : King penguins waddle along a South Georgia beach.
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This toast to the man they called “the Boss” is one of mercifully few moments that feel like boilerplate tourism on South Georgia. The other – passing through the gift shop in Grytviken’s still-operating post office – includes a chance to visit a small and excellent museum at the same time. It details the island’s surprisingly dense 250 years of human history, from its early period as a bleak sealing outpost, through the bloody and profitable days of whaling, the Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration and the Falklands War, to its now comparatively settled era as an ecological and scientific hub for the few hardy British scientists who call it home during the austral summer. The museum can tell you a great many things, but it does little to convey what it feels like to be on South Georgia, a mountainous archipelago adrift in the southern seas, a place that’s by turns beautiful and barbaric, dangerous and delicate. A place that is my favourite of anywhere on earth. When I think of South Georgia, the first image my mind reaches for is of Salisbury Plain. A vast grey-sand beach that stretches over half a mile inland, it is thought to be home to as many as 300,000 king penguins. They represent just a fraction of the 30 million or more birds living on the islands, but there are none more glamourous than these yammering, waddling regents of the subantarctic. The first time I met them in 2015 was as dawn light rose groggily over the plain, the pungent air of the colossal colony drifting out across the frigid sea to meet our Zodiac dinghies. After the reek came the noise, a fuzzy chorus occasionally interrupted by the splashing of other penguins returning from feeding to join the huddled masses. As we arrived on shore, the Aurora Expeditions staff had a little difficulty holding us back while they reminded us how far to stay from the animals, when the last Zodiac would return to the ship and so on. We nodded as we removed our life jackets, but the mad magnetism of the penguins was impossible to ignore. Ahead, the kings stood in such numbers as to appear shimmering in the cold morning gloom.
SOUTH GEORGIA
They were interspersed with bellicose fur seals making deceptively cute whinnying sounds, and colossal elephant seals – some over 16ft long – which had a kind of facial flatulence, a snort so powerful I could feel the ground shaking through my wellies. Each time they did this, I watched their rancid breath rise like smoke from the chimneys of filthy factories. Even they were overwhelmed by the penguins though, who stretched up into the foothills, disappearing into the low cloud swaddling South Georgia’s interior.
L E F T: K i n g penguins mating
In the middle of this huge black, white and gold display, I spotted a single pixel of red – a lone penguin, standing stock-still, with a hideous gash across its stomach. It was unclear what had maimed it (guides later said it could only have been a predatory leopard seal or perhaps an orca) but it was obvious that particular penguin would not live to see another dawn on Salisbury Plain. It seemed incredibly profound, seeing this doomed bird surrounded by so much life, but if I had come south hoping to capture cute animal behaviour, South Georgia quickly suggested something else – a world largely devoid of affection, filled instead with maximum chaos and indifference. Indifference to each other, but towards us visitors as well. This is where a lot of the magic lies in the Antarctic realm: a feeling of almost invisibility and a chance to observe fauna in a proximity that can be too much to bear. Animals don’t scatter on approach – they don’t flee or panic, but rather they treat humans as they do each other, which is to say with little curiosity and only occasional hostility. “It’s almost like Eden, like a golden time before the Fall of Man,” said the ship’s on-board historian, Carol Knott, with some well-practised theatre during that first trip. “I think we’re all seeking that idea of perfection, before humans.” I wondered if she felt South Georgia offered that. “I think people perceive it that way,” she replied, “and certainly it’s such a special place.”
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AN IMPOSSIBLE LANDSCAPE
T H I S PAG E : T i g ht ly packed king penguins on Salisbury Plain.
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B E LOW : A d u l t k i n g penguins and chicks in Gold Harbour.
This is where a lot of the magic lies in the Antarctic realm: a feeling of almost invisibility and a chance to observe fauna in a proximity that can be too much to bear.
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ABOVE: King penguins and elephant seals at St Andrews Bay.
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L E F T: I n q u i s i t i ve f u r s e a l p u p s . B E LOW : Tw o a d o l e s c e n t e l e p h a n t seals practise fighting.
Animals don’t scatter on approach – they don’t flee or panic, but rather they treat humans as they do each other, which is to say with little curiosity and only occasional hostility.
ABOVE: A Zodiac returns to the ship from a landing. L E F T: Au ro r a E x p e d i t i o n’ s G re g Mortimer emerges from sea fog.
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AN IMPOSSIBLE LANDSCAPE
T H I S PAG E : T h e o l d No r we g i a n church, overlooking Grytviken whaling station.
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L E F T TO R I G H T: A South Georgia pipit among tussock grass; A Cape petrel takes off in Drygalski Fjord.
South Georgia and the (yet more remote) South Sandwich Islands is officially a British Overseas Territory in the south Atlantic. The government of these distant rocks is managed in the Falkland Islands, which lie 810 nautical miles to the west. From the port in Stanley, or from continental Antarctica, it takes two days to reach South Georgia on a modern ship, or three if the ocean is rough, which it often is at these latitudes. Its Himalayan topography means it’s not possible to land an aeroplane here, and it’s out of helicopter range, too. Because of these extra distances and the time it takes to sail there, South Georgia is a pretty rare prize, even by the exceptional standards of Antarctic tourism. As we approached five years later, the island’s Allardyce Range shining in the cold midday sun, I stood aboard Aurora Expeditions’ new ship, the Greg Mortimer, keenly aware of how privileged I was to return. Nearby, at eye level, black-browed albatrosses glided on freezing gales. The more furious the wind, the more perfectly they flew, and to see those huge birds performing so gracefully in the face of such violence felt like being reintroduced to the archipelago’s first miracle.
To see those huge birds performing so gracefully in the face of such violence felt like being reintroduced to the archipelago’s first miracle. Though there were no obvious indicators from the ship – nor later amid the reliable bedlam of Salisbury Plain – in the time I had been away there had been a profound change on South Georgia. Not long after Captain James Cook first landed and claimed it for Britain in 1775, rats were accidentally introduced by sailors. Their effect on the island’s birds was devastating but, for the first time in all those long years, they were eradicated in 2018. Part of the reason many of the southern bird species are so relaxed around humans comes from their lack of natural land predators. Rats changed that, and though South Georgia must have been an incredibly harsh environment for the rodents, their high adaptability combined with the abundance of eggs and vulnerable chicks allowed them to thrive. In 2015, the South Georgia Trust launched a hugely ambitious bid to rid the main island of the vermin, the largest rat eradication project in the world. Hundreds of tonnes of poison were dropped by helicopter over the 100-mile-long main island and, three years later, it was declared a success – rats have not been found since. Now, to keep things in this newly rewilded state, tourist ships undergo especially stringent biosecurity checks before going ashore.
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The demise of the rodents wasn’t noticed by hardier species like the king penguins or albatross. But the same could not be said for a tiny, unglamorous bird called the South Georgia pipit. During my first visit, a manic group of birders scurried around beaches hoping to spot them. This was not easy, partly because of the rats, but also because the world’s southernmost songbird is approximately the same size and colour as a common song thrush. Consequently, the birders didn’t see one – they didn’t even hear one. Thanks to the eradication, just five years later the pipits were present at almost every landing we made, their sweet songs sounding almost orchestral, especially compared to the tuneless babbling of the penguins. Having spent time on the island without the pipits’ mellifluous warbling, Ashley Perrin, the Greg Mortimer’s assistant expedition leader, seemed particularly attuned to it. Years earlier she’d wintered on Antarctica’s Rothera Research Station, then came to live on South Georgia while working for the British Antarctic Survey. For some people on board the ship that dropped her off, it was the end of a long period on the continent and arriving at this comparatively lush, alpine environment was overwhelming. “The first thing most of those who’d wintered in Antarctica did was roll in the grass,” she told me on the Greg Mortimer. “Some of them hadn’t seen grass in two-and-a-half years. There happened to be a yacht in at the same time and there was a family on it. It was so strange to hear children laughing.” Ashley ended up spending two years working on bases in South Georgia, then came back in 2017 to get married in the old Norwegian church in Grytviken. She continues to return each season, inexorably drawn back to the snow-capped mountains in the sea. Of course, Sir Ernest Shackleton felt this immortal pull more powerfully than most. Though he passed away here in 1922, his undying association with South Georgia was made years earlier during his most famous mission, the Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition.
Of course, Sir Ernest Shackleton felt this immortal pull more powerfully than most. Loading final provisions here in 1914, he headed to Antarctica in a bid to cross the continent. Within a few weeks, he’d found only disaster. Trapped by ice in the Weddell Sea, his ship, Endurance, spent months being crushed, forcing his men to make a desperate journey north to Elephant Island. From there, Shackleton and just five others rowed for 16 hellish days to get back to South Georgia. Despite seeming like a suicide mission, he somehow made it, regrouped on shore and picked the two men least close to death – Tom Crean and Frank Worsley – for a final, gruelling 36-hour trek over the island to reach the whaling station at Stromness. The Boss wrote with typical Edwardian flintiness afterwards: “Pain and ache, boat journeys, marches, hunger and fatigue seemed to belong to the limbo of forgotten things, and there remained only the perfect contentment that comes of work accomplished.” Shackleton and the men of the Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration can be rightly compared to those who followed 50 years later in the Space Race. Men of incontestable courage if not wisdom, they were required to explore the unknown, with no support, in environments where small mistakes could lead to the death of entire crews. They hoped their names and deeds would echo through history. In Shackleton’s case, it worked, and for the majority of passengers aboard the Greg Mortimer it felt like a genuine honour to hike the final few miles of his epic march to salvation. Anchoring in Fortuna Bay, we battled through an unwelcoming committee of fur seals, through tussock grass then up to a high pass covered in shale. Giant southern petrels wheeled overhead. The sun shone – really shone with warmth – and after an hour or so of this pleasant amble, we were presented, just as Shackleton had been, with the appearance of Stromness. It meant much more to him than it did to us, of course, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t special.
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ABOVE: Fur seals playing on rocks. B E LOW : T h e a l p i n e s c e n e r y o f S o u t h G e o r g i a ’ s i n t e r i o r i n t h e s u m m e r.
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The overwhelming majority of South Georgia cruises leave from Ushuaia in the south of Argentina, a three-hour flight from Buenos Aires.
B E ST TIME TO G O South Georgia tourism happens exclusively during the austral summer, with the first cruises in late October and the last ones returning in early April.
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FO OD Revolving international buffets on board; normally one al fresco barbecue, depending on weather. Wine included with dinner.
MUST- PACK ITEM The Drake Passage is frequently described as the roughest sea in the world and sea sickness tablets are advised. Extra memory cards for cameras are also a good idea.
WHY G O There’s nowhere on earth quite like South Georgia – the blend of history, nature and impossible landscapes seems almost imagined. It’s still a hardwon prize, too, with several days at open sea and a huge price tag on most reputable cruise ships. Nonetheless, for a mix of pristine landscapes and up-close animal interactions, I can think of nowhere better. I’ve been to over 110 countries and each continent multiple times but if I could travel back to just one place, South Georgia would be it.
Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
Photo Credits: A l l i m a g e s b y J a m i e L a f f e r t y w i t h t h e e x c e p t i o n o f : P 6 - D e s i g n P i c s / P i c f a i r ; P 1 1 - R i c h a r d l ’A n s o n ; P 1 2 - J o c r e b b i n / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 1 4 Rinus Baak/Dreamstime; P15 (left) - Agami Photo Agency/Dreamstime; P17 (top) - Hel080808/Dreamstime.
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T H I S PAG E : S u n s e t c a tc h i n g s o m e of the island’s snow-capped peaks.
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TIMELESS AND INFINITE: DOCUMENTING THE LANDSCAPES O F T R A D I T I O N A L CHINESE ART As a photographer, I take inspiration from art, design and architecture, and have been especially influenced by my love and intrigue of traditional Chinese paintings. This has extended to Chinese cinema, too, where almost every frame is such a perfectly composed image that it could stand alone as a work of art. I set out to Anhui and Zhejiang provinces in eastern China to see if the places I had long admired in art and on screen really existed, and if I could recreate them – or at least, my own versions of them – with my camera.
PHOTO ESSAY BY PHILIP LEE HARVEY
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C O U L D N A T U R E R E A L LY R E P L I C AT E T H E B E AU T Y O F TRADITIONAL CHINESE ART? I NEEDED TO SEE FOR MYSELF IF IT DID, AND TO WITNESS AND DOCUMENT T H I S B E A U T Y.
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Mukeng Bamboo Forest, Anhui Province I knew of this location from the film, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. Fortunately for me, my arrival coincided with the opening of a new glass-bottomed bridge, which gave me an unexpected viewpoint over the forest. Opposite page
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West Lake, Hangzhou, Zhejiang Province The weather was dark and grey during my time at West Lake, but I found the trees made beautiful silhouettes and that, in combination with the colours provided by the weather, the scene reminded me of charcoal drawings. I experimented with taking different elements away to force the graphic qualities of the photos through. 22
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Tianhai Scenic Area, Huangshan, Anhui Province I had scouted this view earlier in the day and returned just before sunset, aware that the pine trees in the foreground would stand out against the setting sun, allowing for plenty of negative space. What you can’t see here is that my tripod had to be supported by heavy rocks as the wind was intense. 25
TIMELESS AND INFINITE
West Lake, Hangzhou, Zhejiang Province I had travelled to Zhejiang Province with the sole purpose of photographing West Lake and its famous Yudai Bridge. Clouds settled in on my arrival, just before dawn, and I quickly discovered that the scene was too flat - and too unoriginal. I experimented with more abstract ways of illustrating the view and ended up shooting through an old metal fence, which gives the image a broken porcelain feel. 26
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Huangshan, Anhui Province Arriving at Refreshing Terrace to photograph Huangshan mountain range, I was rather dismayed to find that – despite the early hour – there was a line of excited teenagers waiting to capture their next social media image. Fortunately, they left as soon as the sun rose above the mountains, and I was able to get to work. 29
TIMELESS AND INFINITE
Huangshan, Anhui Province Photographing the scene at sunrise, the sun hidden behind the clouds, I watched as the entire vista changed from pink to orange. As soon as the sun appeared, the view lost much of its magic. 30
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Huangshan, Anhui Province
I waited for several hours at this spot – appropriately and beautifully named “Cloud Dispelling Pavilion” – hoping that the clouds would disappear, and just before sunset I was finally rewarded for my patience. 31
TIMELESS AND INFINITE
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Hangzhou, the capital of Zhejiang Province, makes a convenient entry point for both Zhejiang and Anhui. From here, you can travel by train, bus or plane to Huangshan City (for Huangshan and Mukeng Bamboo Forest).
B E ST TIME TO GO Spring – March to May – is the ideal time to visit as the landscapes are at their lushest.
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The channel between Kent and the islands is millpond flat. Despite the early hour there are plenty of fishermen out in their canoes, taking advantage of the first, pinky light of dawn. Their colourfully painted hand-shaped vessels line up across the three-mile strait like the trains coming and going from the busy London station I’ve only recently left. Dublin, both the primary settlement and the name given to the largest of this chain of three small commas of land, sits at the easternmost point of Sierra Leone’s Banana Islands, facing back towards Kent. Invisible behind a curtain of dense foliage, it is one of just two villages on the islands. My view towards it echoes the nation’s flag: a lower stripe of Atlantic blue leading to one of sparkling off-white rocks and another of verdant green. Sitting beside Kent’s silent schoolhouse, I’m momentarily stumped as to how to progress, unsure where I might find transport to the islands. But I’m comforted at least by the town and village names on the Freetown Peninsula that speak of home and familiar places – not only Kent and Dublin, but also Waterloo, York and Sussex. I arrive when the Peninsula Mountains, stretching south from Freetown, are still blanketed by a chill layer of early morning mist, making a sweater almost de rigueur, the skies populated by the last bulbous clouds of the rains. I’m not intending to leave until they bubble up again from the forested slopes in another five months’ time, the opportunity to become part of a community I would normally pass through in a couple of days one that’s too big to turn down. Kent, at the southern tip of the peninsula, is two hours yet a world away from Freetown by road. There can be no greater contrast between the neat grid of streets in the capital’s centre and the loose roads at the end of the peninsula that come together to create Kent; between Freetown’s tightly packed market stalls, alive with the sounds of commerce, and the largely empty roads here, dominated by the roar of waves; or of the bulging informal settlements among Freetown’s
P R E V I O U S PAG E : Approaching the Banana Islands by boat.
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hills that serve as one of the lasting reminders of the civil war and the neat plots on which Kent’s homes are spaced. GOD’S CHOSEN The shallows of Kent’s rudimentary wharf are soon occupied by one of the local fishing boats, its bow arcing high into the air, with NA MI GOD PIK (“I am God’s chosen”) written along its maroon and whitewashed flanks. This verse from the Krio translation of the Bible is no humble brag when you live on the Banana Islands. The boat’s captains – two members of a family that has lived on the islands for generations – have the deftness of movement of those who have spent their whole lives on the water. They are able to avoid every subsurface rock and every lost net, using nothing more than the sightline of an island tree or the surface movements of this tiny arm of the Atlantic Ocean. Just as well when mobile-phone and GPS reception can be patchy, reliant on masts on top of the peninsula peaks. As they move about the 15ft craft, tending their fishing lines, small woodlicelike creatures run in the opposite direction across the boards. We are making our way towards Banjoko Beach, a short Nike-tick of bronzed sand edged by loose rocks on the northern extremity of Dublin. It’s a route that almost everything the islanders need must follow, from the fuel used to power the outboard motors to the sachets containing individual shots of gin, and the packets of biscuits that have already made a long journey on the grey market from a British Lidl, tripling the cost of a pack of custard creams. A narrow man-made break in the rocks gives us a place to land. They become somewhere I seek out pieces of the islands’ history in the coming weeks – digging out blue and white ceramics, the thick glass base of an old drinking bottle, a dolphin vertebra. One of the islands’ oldest residents, Wilfred, tells me it was on these rocks that the islands’ “monkeys” – actually baboons – once fished, using their tails as lures. “There were a lot more snakes then too,” he says, smiling.
FROM THE TOP: Kent Beach seen from the Banana Islands; The ruins of an old church in the jungle; A local fisherman poses in front of a wooden fishing boat; A tranquil beach on the Banana Islands.
BANANA ISLANDS, SIERRA LEONE
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TREASURE ISLANDS
T H E F I S H I N G I S S U C H T H AT E V E N A C I T Y- D W E L L E R L I K E ME IS ABLE TO HAUL OUT A WEIGHTY RED GROUPER O N M Y F I R S T AT T E M P T.
FISH SUPPERS Fishing has been the lifeblood of the islands for generations. Without it, they would be uninhabitable. Even so, only a handful of families are able to maintain a boat, the rest relying on goodwill and tacit, long-held agreements for any needs that take them beyond the scope of Dublin’s handful of footpaths. The only motor engines you’ll ever hear beyond Banjoko Beach, Big Wharf and King Wharf belong to the generators that provide the islands’ power; the only monitors the sixfoot monsters the islanders dismissively call iguana. It is not with vast nets that the islanders fish, nor with rod and reel, but with simple hand lines that stretch out behind their boats like the tentacles of a jellyfish, ending in a rapala, a small plastic bait fish lined with hooks that shred soft writer’s hands. The fishing is such that even a citydweller like me is able to haul out a weighty red grouper on my first attempt. My second sees me hook a slenderbodied coota (the Krio word for barracuda) which, without exaggeration, extends to half my height. These first successes give me something of a reputation among Dubliners. “Without Ian fishing, no fish today,” says Emmanuel, eager to leave the tins of imported spam on the shelf. Captain Moses slaps my palm, leaving it stinging. “I knew Mr Ian was a good fisherman – first time he catches right here,” he says.
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ISLES OF REMEMBERANCE Sierra Leone celebrates 60 years of independence from Britain in 2021. Selfgoverning in many respects, the steady flow of everyday life has changed little on the islands with the passing of six decades. A former Peace Corps volunteer I bump into says, “Freetown is bigger, but otherwise not much has changed.” Dublin’s fresh water continues to be drawn from a communal, much-protected artesian well. Hefty fines await anyone who dares to brook – or wash – their clothes within a radius of 50ft, against the wishes of the headman committee, led by a quiet woman elected by the community. The only daily authority the police-free village possesses, it’s quite a coup in a country where women are rarely able to rise to positions of high rank. Despite its small size, I regularly get disorientated by Dublin. It should be easy to find my way about: follow the dirt path – kept clear by committee clean-ups and the steady tread of slapping flip-flops – straight on from the well to Mammie Backie’s small general store, which is really nothing more than a tuck-shop window in her home where more often than not I find Uncle Jonnie awaiting customers fully prone. Then right, to Baby Lady’s chop bar, and right again to see if Captain Moses is up for more fishing (the answer is always yes). Or right from the well to the pink church, then left to the US-funded healthcare centre and across the tufted grass of the football pitch to the long barracks-like
BANANA ISLANDS, SIERRA LEONE
primary school. But somehow I always come close to accidentally entering unmarked areas of bush reserved for secret society meetings which it’s almost impossible to find out anything about. I’m soon warned off, sometimes subtly, other times more obviously, reorientating myself back towards Baby Lady’s, or the village graveyard. It’s Big Wharf that has long held the central position in village life. The wharf’s
set up by a squadron of Royal Navy vessels to deter pirates, alongside a welllike hole that was used to punish the most unruly of new slaves. King Wharf’s proximity to the peninsula made it the cruellest of prisons. But, despite expats in Freetown warning me I’ll go spare staying in Dublin for so long, I never really feel the need for anything beyond what the island can offer.
EVERY SOUND SEEMS TO WELL U P A N D R E S O N AT E AROUND ME.
main gateway is bookended by giant cotton trees – important symbols of freedom from slavery – and sheltered by grey rocks, like half-submerged elephants, draped in the white tablecloths of years of egret droppings. That said, the attention of outsiders was first focussed on King Wharf, the old slave docks. It was the transatlantic slave trade that initially brought the British to the islands, which together with Kent were used as holding centres for those unlucky enough to have been captured as living bounty. The echoes of this period, considered ancient history now – like the civil war is for the country’s young population, half of whom were only born after hostilities ended – can still be seen. The school in Kent I passed by on my arrival makes use of former slave cells for classrooms, while a trio of iron cannons lie half-forgotten at the so-called firing point at King Wharf,
ON THE BEATEN TRACK From Dublin a single path pushes west through jungle, a no man’s land between the authority of the headman committee in Dublin and that of Ricketts, the only other village on the islands. Jungle edges the steep hills at the centre of the islands, roughly following the narrow curving shapes that seem to give the chain its name. The humidity soon envelopes me. Shaded by the canopy, termite mounds stand apparently deliberately positioned on the edge of a path that’s just wide enough to accept both my feet. To either side there’s a thin mulch of leaf litter alive with scuttling millipedes. Every sound seems to well up and resonate around me: individual leaves falling to the forest floor sound like ancient trunks crashing to earth; the noise of the pale, ghost-like baboons equally alarming as they shift from tree to tree ahead of me, always just out of sight.
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As the dry season progresses, the snakes – thick-bodied pythons and thin Hallowell’s green mambas (one of the world’s most dangerous) – become easier to spot, shooting away at the sound of my footfall from rocks and patches of ground where they bask in rays of sunlight. Just as I think I’m getting used to the islands, I’m startled by a butterfly as I head towards a stone causeway.
russet-red clapboard church is one of the finest examples of traditional architecture still surviving in the region. The final island in the chain is named Mes-Meheux, after an 18th-century French merchant who took a local wife. These days, its only long-term residents are civet cats, pangolins, tarantulas and weaver birds. Pushing out into the fullest extent of the Atlantic Ocean, it’s the sort
THE ROCKS OF THE C A U S E WAY C R A C K I N T H E H E AT, L I K E P O P P I N G C A N DY ON A CHILD’S TONGUE.
Reputedly built using slave labour, the causeway ensures a link between Dublin and Ricketts even at the highest tides of the month, when the oyster-clad rocks on the beaches of Banjoko and Big Sands are entirely submerged. At the lowest tides, the rocks of the causeway crack in the heat, like popping candy on a child’s tongue, as minute catfish dart about the sunny puddles beneath the gaze of a single studious heron. The chatter of a roost of fruit bats gives me the feeling of being watched; the creatures – unwelcome residents since their role in the Ebola outbreak of 2014 came to light – crossing the sky at dusk to feast on the fruits of the Peninsula Mountains around Kent. HERE BE DRAGONS Ricketts is as far as anyone can go on these islands, the furthest permanent settlement of any on the peninsula. Like Freetown, it was founded as a settlement for freed slaves. Only a handful of visitors to Dublin ever make it to Ricketts, whose
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of place you would expect to find on an early map with the inscription Here be dragons, or a hand-drawn X declaring the promise of further treasures. If Dublin is in its teenage years as a tourist destination, and Ricketts in its childhood, privately-owned Mes-Meheux is still taking its first breaths, welcoming wannabe Robinson Crusoes who are happy – and eager – to camp out among the creepy-crawlies after preparing their own meals in the jungle half-light, left to survive until a prearranged pick-up arrives. If there is any gold or silver awaiting discovery, it’s likely still with the pair of seventeenth-century Dutch merchantmen vessels that rest on the seabed here. Though, the real prize of any visit to the Banana Islands has to be in the unchanging character of the islands themselves, where worries vanish as quickly as the early morning mists – and of their people, who seem to contradict every narrative you’ve probably ever heard about this country, one Africa’s most underrated destinations.
BANANA ISLANDS, SIERRA LEONE
C LO C K W I S E F R O M T H I S I M AG E : A n o l d colonial bell which is still used to call people to church; Pineapple plant with flower; A fisherman in Kent village.
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T H I S PAG E : A m a n p u s h e s h i s b o a t o n t h e waters around the Banana Islands.
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Freetown’s Lungi International Airport is approximately two hours from Kent on well-maintained roads. Island guest houses can organise both road and sea transport.
B E ST TIME TO GO The dry season – from November to April – provides days of hot tropical sun lessened by the coastal breeze.
CURRENCY
Leone
TIME ZONE
GMT
FO OD The islanders pride themselves on their fish, lobster and crab, which are regularly bought up by the international Freetown hotels. Pickings are as slim for meat lovers as they are for vegetarians, who should be able to get hold of some crin crin – a traditional stew of leafy greens.
MUST- PACK ITEM With night falling around 7pm and power limited to generators and some solar panels, a battery-powered head torch is a useful addition.
WHY GO As strange as it might sound, there is a homeliness to the islands: a comfort in tech-free days governed by nature rather than by artificial deadlines, in losing hours watching the bee-eaters flitter between the branches of Banjoko Beach, or waiting in hopeful expectation for the boats to slide across the shingle of Big Wharf, loaded with fish. Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
Photo Credits: P 3 5 - i m a g e B r o k e r /A l a m y ; P 3 7 - N i c k L e d g e r /A l a m y ; i m a g e B r o k e r /A l a m y ; A f r i p i c s /A l a m y ; I m a g e B r o k e r /A l a m y ; P 4 1 - i m a g e B r o k e r /A l a m y ; A f r i p i c s /A l a m y ; P 4 2 /4 3 - i m a g e B r o k e r /A l a m y .
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NICARAGUA B E YO N D T H E VO LCA N O ES Nestled in the middle of Central America, Nicaragua’s diversity is plentiful. In addition to the volcanoes and lakes for which it is perhaps best known, you’ll find tucked-away fishing villages, lush nature reserves and rich agricultural traditions that encompass coffee, tobacco, sugar cane – and even cabbages. For me, though, the biggest appeal lies in its people, and it’s the relationships I’ve formed on my travels here that keep me returning again and again. PHOTO ESSAY BY DARLENE HILDEBRANDT
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BEYOND THE VOLCANOES
P R E V I O U S PAG E : T h i s fa t h e r a n d daughter (Diogenes and Rebecca) in Chinandega show the tight family bonds in Nicaragua. T H I S PAG E : A p i n e a p p l e fa r m e r n e a r Ticuantepe; the stick he is holding is used to make holes in which to plant the pineapple niños (babies).
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T H I S PAG E : C of fe e p i c ke r near Matagalpa.
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Farming remains intrinsic to life in Nicaragua, and the area around Granada is largely dedicated to agriculture. Most farm work is still done by hand, or with the use of pack animals. Somewhat surprisingly, the country’s most popular vegetable is cabbage – and they grow a lot of it here!
Nicaragua’s mountainous central region provides a wonderful respite from the heat and humidity found elsewhere in the country; unsurprisingly, it’s also the premium coffee-growing area. Most of the best coffee beans are exported to wealthy countries, including the US and Japan. Starbucks buys many of its raw beans from co-operative farms in this area.
O P P O S I T E PAG E : A m a n c a r r y i n g a b a s ke t of ripe, hand-picked coffee beans. T H I S PAG E F R O M T H E TO P : A fa r m wo r ke r collects fresh pineapples to send to market; A warehouse in Matagalpa with bags full of coffee beans, dried and ready for export.
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BEYOND THE VOLCANOES
Crafts are another major industry in this region; some of the best pottery available can be found in San Juan de Oriente, 13 miles east of Granada. Made from local mud and formed on a pottery wheel before being carefully hand carved and painted, each piece – from bowls and plates to vases – is a work of art. Weaving is another common craft in Nicaragua, which is also done by hand, using old-style looms.
FROM THE TOP: A pottery wheel in action; Each piece is hand carved and painted; Tr a d i t i o n a l l o o m s a r e u s e d to make beautiful woven items like belts, placemats, hammocks and more.
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NICARAGUA
It would be remiss not to mention Nicaragua’s beaches. The small village of Jiquilillo, 30 miles from the border with Honduras, is about as far off the tourist trail as you can get – fishing remains the primary activity here, and there are no big hotels or resorts along the black sands. Get up at sunrise to watch the fishermen bring in their catches, or head into the Reserva Natural Estero Padre Ramos to explore the mangroves, which is a protected nesting site for hawksbill sea turtles. FROM THE TOP: A fisherman in Jiquilillo stretches out his net at dawn after a night of fishing; The beach and a rustic hostel in Jiquilillo; Buying and selling fish on the beach early in the morning.
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BEYOND THE VOLCANOES
THE COUNTRY’S MOST POPULAR V E G E TA B L E I S CABBAGE – AND THEY GROW A LOT OF IT HERE!
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FROM THE TOP: Hawksbill sea turtle; Cabbage s e l l e r s i n t h e m a r k e t i n C h i n a n d e g a ; Tw o schoolgirls in Jiquilillo; A lady in Chinandega makes tortillas for her family.
By far my favourite things about Nicaragua are the people and their culture. It helps if you speak a little of the language: making the effort to communicate means that doors will open to you, whether through joining in with karaoke, volunteering with kids’ organisations, or simply making friends. I treasure the relationships that keep Nicaragua in my heart, and which keep me returning to this beautiful country.
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BEYOND THE VOLCANOES
T H I S PAG E : K i d s p o s e w i t h a l a d y selling meat at Chinandega’s market.
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NICARAGUA
NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE International flights arrive into Managua’s Augusto C. Sandino International Airport; it’s also possible to travel overland from neighbouring Costa Rica.
B E ST TIME TO GO The dry season (November to April).
CURRENCY Córdoba, though US dollars are widely accepted.
TIME ZONE
GMT-6 55
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WA L K I N G T H E YORKSHIRE WOLDS WAY
B R I TA I N ’ S T R A I L VA L E S , A N D
B I G
I S
Q U I E T E S T O N E
O F
N AT I O N A L
W H I S P E R I N G
H E D G E - H I D D E N S K I E S ,
A S
B E N
L A N E S L E R W I L L
D I S C O V E R S .
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WALKING THE YORKSHIRE WOLDS WAY
Three things mark out Wharram Percy as a special village. The first is its location, tucked among alders in a valley disturbed only by the hop of robins and the burble of a millstream, where the church steeple cuts a serene figure. The second is its name, a plump and pleasing thing that sounds like it should belong to a cricket umpire. And the third is its population, or lack of one: the village has been deserted for around 500 years. Grassy furrows still mark the plots of houses that once belonged to the hamlet’s inhabitants. Romans, Saxons, Vikings and Normans all settled here, drawn to its sheltered site and easily tilled land. Then came a double sucker punch, in the form of the Black Death and a decline in arable farming. The villagers were squeezed from the valley. But the crumbled remnants of Wharram Percy endure, complete with fish pond and a still-roofed chancel, leaving somewhere high on atmosphere but low on Instagram-friendly tearooms. The deserted village finds a fitting home along the route of the Yorkshire Wolds Way. I was taking five days to walk the 79-mile-long trail, which begins on the banks of the Humber at Hessle, worms lazily through the chalk landscapes of East Yorkshire and culminates at the North Sea at Filey. The route was opened in 1982 but still gets called the “quietest National Trail”, a description that says as much about the path that it follows – down hushed tracks and along outlying dales – as it does about the scarcity of other walkers.
By lunchtime, as the walk became one of narrow bridleways and ivyswamped beech woods, I was feeling more chipper about the miles ahead. Summer be damned. Here were gentle climbs and big skies, and wrens busying out of hawthorn thickets. “We always get a few,” said the B&B landlady at Hessle, merrily plonking down slabs of buttered toast, then mentioning pointedly – perhaps in case the fact had escaped me – that it was currently early March: “I’d say you’re brave to do it out of summer.” Thirty minutes later I was striding out, looking at a sky and estuary that shared almost precisely the same shade of battleship grey and fearing she was right. I passed under the Humber Bridge, my footfall sending a flock of dunlins twittering off in a panic. This was not, it was already clear, going to be a busy walk. The bridge itself is a colossus, and not the most soul-stirring of trailheads for a long-distance hike. In one way, however, it’s an apt one. I would be spending the week following part of another north–south span, in this case the raised band of ancient chalk downland that starts in Dorset, P R E V I O U S PAG E : A fo ot p a t h w i n d i n g t h ro u g h Ho r s e Dale, near Huggate.
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thrusts up through Wiltshire and the Chilterns in the shape of the Ridgeway, continues into Lincolnshire, disappears into the Humber and then emerges doggedly, one last time, to create the Yorkshire Wolds. By lunchtime, as the walk became one of narrow bridleways and ivy-swamped beech woods, I was feeling more chipper about the miles ahead. Summer be damned. Here were gentle climbs and big skies, and wrens busying out of hawthorn thickets. The verges were heavy with daffodils. It was possible too to see gleams of chalk in the mud underfoot, the white flecks at times so defined it was as though the path hid some gargantuan, earthed-over mosaic. Somnolent villages stud the route at irregular intervals. I took the chance to fuel up in Welton at the Green Dragon, the pub that reportedly witnessed Dick Turpin’s arrest in 1739. The story goes that the highwayman, tired of being hunted in the south, had relocated here in search of quietude under the pseudonym John Palmer. “It would have worked too,” the barman told me, “but he got drunk and shot a village rooster.” It led the local constabulary to an unexpected encounter with the country’s most wanted man, and Turpin was sent to the gallows in York. The region still has the feel of somewhere you’d choose to get away from it all. The hills of the Wolds dip and tumble along boozy contours, creating secret dales and valleys where there seems no space for them to fit. When you happen upon hares or rabbits, they startle so much at having company that they simply don’t stop running. And – a blessing – the phone reception is generally terrible. A wold, incidentally, is a dated term for an area of high-ground woodland, of which the route holds plenty. By the time I reached the village of Millington at the end of my second day I’d developed a feel for the rhythm of the trail, and the way it alternated between high-sided valleys, dewy forest and 50-mile-wide panoramas. At the compact, clamorous Gait Inn, the landlord surveyed my dog-tired frame before prescribing pints of Black Sheep bitter and a titanic portion of pie, chips and peas. The whole week was one of eating, and sleeping, well. To walk a National Trail is a joy. It lets you sew your own modest stitch across the map, to leave your mark where numberless other boots have stomped, yomped, tramped and rambled. There are sixteen of these official long-distance paths across England and Wales (Scotland has a separately managed system, known as Great Trails) and each of them leads the walker on a FROM THE TOP: Hessle Whiting Mill near the Humber Bridge; Houses under the Humber Bridge.
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T H I S PAG E : Lo o k i n g a c ro s s t h e Wo l d s f r o m T h i xe n d a l e .
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gradual, multi-day journey through landscapes that cry out to be appreciated slowly. They range from historical routes such as Offa’s Dyke Path to well-known, one-day-I’ll-do-that options like the South Downs Way. The longest is the epic England Coast Path. The shortest is the Yorkshire Wolds Way. The Wolds have drawn attention in recent times thanks to Yorkshire’s own David Hockney, whose candy-bright paintings of the landscape have helped boost its profile. Several times along the trail I found myself near, or even in, his canvases. His depictions are beautifully vivid, drawing the eye to spires, farms and copses in seas of green fields. It’s hard to imagine a richer contrast in settings between California – portrayed in many of the artist’s best-known works – and the muffled valleys hereabouts. But frankly, when you’ve the week to yourself and a cobweb-clearing westerly coming off the Howardian Hills, Santa Monica can wait. Hockney is far from the only one to find inspiration in the folds of the Wolds. Custodians of the trail have, at various places along the route (I found three), placed Tupperware boxes filled with pencils and exercise books, in which walkers are encouraged to write verse. The pages I came across were well used. One hiker had inscribed “Just sat down for a rest / Ye and me / Tired and muddy wi’ clarty boots”. Another had started, less wistfully, with “There was an old man of Millington / Who walked up a neighbouring hillington”. These poetry points are part of a wider art project along the trail, which also includes permanent conceptual sculptures. They give good reason to take a pause from walking – and in honesty I needed the breaks. I’d split the trail into shorter and longer days, with distances ranging from 12 to 21 miles, partly not to overload myself and partly to factor in convenient B&B stops. But the inclines were sapping me. On the third day I worked on a branch from a fallen sycamore bough until it fitted perfectly as a walking stick, thumb groove and all. It stayed with me to Filey. The trail can be walked in either direction, but beginning in Hessle is the logical choice, largely because the scenery continues to better itself as you head north. The porousness of the chalk landscape means that when it rains – which inevitably it did, soaking me to my socks in an hour-long downpour – the underfoot conditions don’t remain wet for long. The same factor also creates the so-called dry valleys that make up so much of the route. These quiet, green mini-canyons, pocked with molehills and populated only by herds of impassive sheep, are the defining topography of the trail. The wildlife on my walk was wide-ranging. Kites and sparrowhawks rode the high currents; nearer ground level were yellowhammers, long-tailed tits and loud, divebombing lapwings. On my approach to the aforementioned Wharram Percy, I spotted a pair of young deer in high grass. I was downwind, so was within 40 yards when they finally bolted and leapt off, white scuts flashing. The birds and animals stood in contrast to other walkers, of whom there were few. Those I met, I generally stopped to talk to – it was that kind of trail. The one time it felt busy was on a sheep walk above Huggate, when commotion on the path ahead suddenly revealed 40 members of the Goole & District Rambling Club, who passed by in a genial flurry of how-dos and bushranger hats. The Wolds have been described as a slice of south in the north, and it’s true that the roll of the land is at times reminiscent of the Sussex Downs, or even the Cotswolds. The character of the region, however, is defiantly of its place. “Logs from Yorkshire,” stated one village noticeboard. “Produced by Yorkshire people,
When you’ve the week to yourself and a cobweb-clearing westerly coming off the Howardian Hills, Santa Monica can wait.
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FROM THE TOP: An adult lapwing; A male yellowhammer; A long-tailed tit.
YORKSHIRE, UK
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The villages themselves were often storybook-pretty, with pantile roofs and tufty little greens, and the pubs had well-stoked fires and good ale. for Yorkshire people.” The villages themselves were often storybook-pretty, with pantile roofs and tufty little greens, and the pubs had well-stoked fires and good ale. The evening chatter in the Cross Keys in Thixendale was long, loud, and centred on cricket and potholes. I wound on along the trail, down whispering vales, past raucous piggeries, through high pheasant woods. There were distant gunshot thuds in birch plantations, dozens of farm dogs, scores of kissing gates. Wind turbines and power stations sometimes appeared on the horizon. Closer at hand, curls of early-morning chimney smoke rose out of silent cottages on hedgehidden lanes. In the distance, the North York Moors eventually became visible as a thin blue outline. Not long after, I caught my first glimpse of the sea. Much of the trail passes through arable land. Oilseed rape – not yet yellowed on my visit – was particularly prevalent. Outside Staxton I struck up conversation with a white-haired farmer, curious to know what he was growing. “Beans,” he said, cutting his tractor engine. “Half the crop gets used for feeding livestock, and half goes to Egypt.” Ten minutes later we were still talking, and I was getting the full family history. He pointed out a nearby farmhouse and explained that his mother had lived there as a young girl, riding a donkey two miles to school each day. “Then she took a tumble,” he stated, “and that were curtains for t’donkey.” My final day dawned cloudless and blue, which meant that Filey Bay, when it arrived, looked exquisite. Waves rolled in drowsily. I bought fish and chips and forced myself into one last climb to the clifftops, then sat, smug and exhausted at journey’s end, looking out over the beach. At the north of the bay, the tidal headland of Filey Brigg stretched out finger-like into the sea. In the ebbing swell, the headland was growing longer with every passing minute, emerging step by step from the waves, as if the land itself wanted the trail to continue. And frankly, who would blame it? 64
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F R O M T H E TO P L E F T: A fo ot p a t h s i g n p o i n t s the way; Thixendale village; A sparrowhawk; F i l e y B r i g g ; Wa l k i n g t h e Wa y a b ov e D e e p Dale, near Wharram Percy; The view up Horse Dale near Huggate.
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WALKING THE YORKSHIRE WOLDS WAY
Photo Credits: P 5 6 - D a v i d S p e i g h t /A l a m y ; P 5 9 - C h r i s t o p h e r S t u b b s / P i c f a i r ; Berndbrueggemann/Dreamstime; P60/61 - FireflyPhotos/Picfair; P63 Anne Coatesy/Dreamstime; Andrew Allport/Dreamstime; Stephen Midgley/ Dreamstime; P64 - Jezcolton/Dreamstime; FireflyPhotos/Picfair; P65 A l a n t u n n i c l i f f e / D r e a m s t i m e ; P e t e r / P i c f a i r ; J o n S p a r k s /A l a m y ; R i c h a r d B u r d o n /A l a m y ; P 6 6 / 6 7 - T i m H i l l / D r e a m s t i m e .
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YORKSHIRE, UK
NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Hull is the nearest major city to the start of the trail. Regular direct trains travel from Filey, at the end of the route, back to Hull, taking little over an hour and making it simple to return to where you began.
B E ST TIME TO GO Spring or summer.
CURRENCY
British pound
TIME ZONE
GMT/BST
FO OD Expect decent pub grub and filling breakfasts. Various towns and villages along the route have shops for packed lunches.
MUST- PACK ITEM The official Yorkshire Wolds Way National Trail guide. It’s slim and lightweight, but full of good info and uses Ordnance Survey maps.
WHY GO? This is a corner of the UK that draws little in the way of headlines, so its appeal as a walking destination is really strong. It’s a joy when a long-distance trail feels like a secret being uncovered. There’s also tons of variety along the way, both in terms of the wildlife and the scenery. Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
T H I S PAG E : Lo o k i n g towa rd s F i l ey B r i g g a t s u n r i s e .
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G H AT S PHOTO ESSAY BY MATT PARRY
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LIFE ON THE GHATS
The first light of a new day casts its rays over the empty flood plains on the eastern bank of a wide, arching stretch of the River Ganges. On the western shore are ghats, steep embankment steps that rise imperiously from the river’s edge, ostensibly merging into imposing facades concealing the city beyond. It is on these ghats, and the transient brown, murky waters that wash against them, that many idiosyncrasies of life and death can be observed.
The river that carries them is a goddess in its own right, and yet its shores are littered with detritus unbefitting such a diety.
Varanasi is at its photogenic best when illuminated by the glow of dawn. All along the river’s edge you will find people engaged in their early morning puja and ablutions rituals, the humid air carrying the sounds of their quiet prayers and an indication of the heat that is still to come. The river that carries them is a goddess in its own right, and yet its shores are littered with detritus unbefitting such a deity. The prospect of bathing or doing laundry in its waters is entirely unenticing to many foreign visitors, yet for locals and pilgrims it is a welcome and necessary opportunity to cleanse the body and soul.
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OPPOSITE: A candle-lit diya, an offering to Mother Ganga made from small clay or tin dishes and a bed of flower petals, is released onto the river.
VARANASI, INDIA
“Now, dolphins are far more evolved than we, for wherever their mate dies, that spot becomes the burial ground and the mourning dolphin remains there for the rest of its life”
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ABOVE: Sunrise prayers to the River Goddess. L E F T: D h o b i s w a s h i n g clothes near Kedar Ghat.
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LIFE ON THE GHATS
ABOVE: Bathing in the River Ganges. R I G H T: Mo r n i n g prayers at a school on the Ganges.
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ABOVE: This school teaches t h e Ve d a s , t h e earliest bodies o f Ve d i c S a n s k r i t scripture which formed the basis of Hinduism. L E F T: A b o a t m a n on the Ganges.
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VARANASI, INDIA
For Hindus it is considered a tirtha, a crossing point between heaven and earth. In total, 88 ghats line the western shore of this sacred river, between the tributaries of the Varuna and Assi that give the city its name. This stretch of the Ganges represents a relative whistle stop on its 1,560-mile journey from the Himalayan peaks to the Bay of Bengal, yet its significance as a destination cannot be understated. For Hindus it is considered a tirtha, a crossing point between heaven and earth, and as such the city and its mighty river are an ancient pilgrimage site where the dead can achieve moksha – liberation from samsara, the cycle of death and rebirth. The steady stream of burning ash rising from the funeral pyres of Manikarnika Ghat, one of two where Hindus cremate their loved ones, is a striking manifestation of this belief. If the Ganges is the artery, then the ghats are the lifeblood of this unique and remarkable city, each with its own part in the stories that play out here on a daily basis. While some ghats remain nondescript, content in their function as bath, temple or laundrette, others rise majestically from the water to play a leading role in the preservation and prosperity of the city’s culture and religion.
L E F T: T h e f u n e r a l py re s of Manikarnika Ghat, one of two where Hindus cremate their loved ones.
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A particularly notable example is Dashashwamedh Ghat, which, every evening, plays host to a spectacular Ganga Aarti that attracts large crowds of devoted worshippers. In this traditional Hindu ceremony, young pandits (priests) clad in saffron-coloured robes carry out a series of choreographed rituals to seek purification and blessing from the river goddess. Facing the river, they wave smoking lamps, candles and incense in clockwise circles; the lamps acquire the power of the deity while the fire is offered to the gods and provides the link between this world and the next.
TOP: The early morning Ganga Aarti ceremony, Assi Ghat. L E F T: A l a r g e c row d of worshippers watches the evening Ganga Aarti ceremony at Dashashwamedh Ghat.
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VARANASI, INDIA
The ritual is accompanied by the rhythmic, trance-like sounds of bells, conch whistles and chanted mantras, while the aroma of smoke, incense and sandalwood combine in a hazy fragrance that adds to an atmosphere of devotion and reverence. If the crowds at the evening aarti prove too overwhelming, then try the sunrise ceremony at Assi Ghat, the southernmost ghat. This is a quieter, more enticing event with intimate rituals and the freedom to move around, all of which more than compensate for the early start.
R I G H T: P a n d i t s a t t h e Ganga Aarti ceremony wave lamps in circles, offering fire to the gods.
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Completely different, but still intrinsic to the city’s culture, is Kushti, or Indian mud wrestling, which dates back to the Mughal Empire. This is a sport steeped in tradition; participants, unburdened by caste, dedicate their life to a stringent regime of training and diet. Though this form of the sport is slowly being eradicated in favour of more contemporary, mat-based formats and the lure of international competition, the akhara (training gym) at Tulsi Ghat is one of a dwindling number across India helping to keep Kushti and its traditions alive. The wrestlers here train hard using an array of calisthenic exercises and rudimentary equipment. Before they move to the pit area and wrestle, the compacted clay mud – a concoction of dirt, oil, ochre and buttermilk – is turned over to soften it. Everything at the akhara is done with a ritual-like intensity that embodies the significance and spirit of what it represents – the men are not just fighting for exercise, but for a better future for themselves and the sport they love. Varanasi is one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world and while its spiritual and cultural heritage cannot be understated, nor can its power to overwhelm. It can be too much for some who visit, its sights, sounds and smells as unfamiliar as they are intriguing. But away from the chaos, touts and tourists it retains a charismatic and beguiling charm where life and death are ever present, so visible and visceral that you are forced to recondition your senses. To understand this fascinating and photogenic paradox of a city requires you to embrace life on the ghats. To accept what you see as normal, even if this city is anything but.
FROM THE TOP: The wrestlers line up to give prayer before wrestling begins; Siyaram, aged 64, does stomach crunches while hanging from a roof beam; Wrestlers grapple on the clay mud.
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VARANASI, INDIA
T H I S PAG E : T h e m e n t r a i n a t Tu l s i A k h a r a e v e r y d a y ; w r e s t l i n g t a k e s p l a c e d a i ly e xc e p t We d n e s d a y, t h e day reserved for cleaning the Akhara.
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The nearest airport is at Babatpur, 14 miles northwest of Varanasi. There are two main railway stations in the city, served by services from Delhi, Kolkata and Mumbai, among other Indian cities.
B E ST TIME TO GO During the dry season – generally November to March – when temperatures are at their most pleasant.
CURRENCY Indian rupee T H I S PAG E : A p a n d i t h o l d s u p h i s s m o k i n g lamp at the nightly Ganga Aarti ceremony.
TIME ZONE GMT+5.30 83
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HUNTING GIANTS AND JAGUARS IN T H E PA N TA N A L
S T E P H
R E M O T E W E T L A N D S P A N TA N A L G I A N T S A N D
H E A D S
D Y S O N
A N D
A N D O F I N
L E A R N S
P A R A G U AYA N
S E A R C H A
A L O N G
T H E
I N H O S P I TA B L E T H E
T H E
I N T O
O F
E L U S I V E L E S S O N T H E
T H R E E J A G U A R
I N
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WAY.
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“You could lie down and go to sleep in the middle of the path and a jaguar would walk right over you – he’d not even touch you,” Nery assures me. It is a chilling but profoundly exhilarating prospect. And it’s the exact reason I’m here, peering out of the windows of the Estación Biológica Tres Gigantes research station into the dense undergrowth of the Pantanal. Situated in a dusty clearing surrounded by scrubby hardwood trees and low bushes in the remote northeast corner of Paraguay, the research station is operated by the non-profit Guyrá Paraguay. It sits within a 21,000-hectare reserve where the country unites, via soupy channels and seemingly unendingly flat wetlands, with the borders of Bolivia and Brazil. Its name, “The Three Giants”, pays homage to the fact that – if extreme luck is on your side – you can spot the giant otter, giant armadillo and giant anteater on one trip – one of the only places in the world where it is possible to do so.
It’s the largest freshwater wetland ecosystem on the planet, measuring more or less the size of Florida.
While the Amazon rainforest may be far better known, the Pantanal has some serious ecological credentials. It’s the largest freshwater wetland ecosystem on the planet, measuring more or less the size of Florida and home to the highest concentration of wildlife in South America. This patchwork of lakes, marshes and scrubby forest plays a vital role in sequestering carbon, contributing a significant amount to the carbon stored in the world’s wetlands. While only a small proportion of the Pantanal lies in Paraguayan territory – 95% of it is next door in Brazil, with a small slice in Bolivia, too – fauna rarely follows territorial boundaries. Both sides have an abundance of beasts, including some 650 species of birds and over 100 types of mammals. The three giants might be memorialised by the name of the reserve, but they’re not the only large mammals that have drawn me here. There are an estimated 2,000 jaguars living across these wetlands, with many threatened by the devastating fires that consumed nearly a quarter of the entire Pantanal in 2020. But, with a human population density of only 0.14 per square kilometre, jaguars have plenty of space to roam and it’s considered one of the best places in the world for catching even just a fleeting a glimpse of them. To get here, the Aquidaban, a rickety cargo ferry piled with pallets of toilet paper, damp sacks of cement, dirty styrofoam containers packed with meat, and the occasional motorbike makes the four-day chug up the Río Pantanal. From sleepy, one-horse city Concepción it brings vital supplies to the remote communities en route, before landing in Bahía Negra, the frontier town lodged on the damp skirts of the Pantanal.
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P R E V I O U S PAG E : A j a g u a r resting on a tree branch. TOP: Sunset in the Pantanal. R I G H T: A n a r m a d i l l o i n the Pantanal.
PANTANAL, PARAGUAY
At the dusty rabble of squat concrete buildings that form Bahía Negra, I am picked up by station manager and constantly cheerful Nery Fiabián Chamorro and the more subdued Lourdes Matasso, both in their mid-30s and two of the rangers who manage the research station. They greet me with enthusiasm: I am their first tourist in weeks. In fact, visitors number no more than around 50 per year, I’m told, as we pack my rucksack into the speedboat and head upriver for the 25-mile journey to the station. The staff live here year-round, having moved from as far afield as capital city Asunción, 12 hours south, to become the reserve’s de facto guardians – a necessary role in an ecologically sensitive area that faces a multiplicity of threats. Traffickers hunt jaguar for their teeth and hides, while ranchers use fire to illegally clear previously virgin land for cattle farming. The boat tears effortlessly through the sediment-filled waters of the Río Paraguay and into the narrower channel of the Río Negro. A cocoi heron takes to the air as we pass, keeping pace with us briefly. Dragonflies skim the water in emerald, sapphire and azure, while the throaty roars of a yacare caiman, a member of the alligator family, anticipate the appearance of nobbled vertebrae, gliding just above the water’s surface. After 40 minutes, we finally dock at the lodge. A rustic but sturdy two-storey wooden building, it sits on a patch of baked earth; the netted windows just about keep the mosquitoes outside. A spacious living area and kitchen comprise the ground floor, while three sparse bedrooms sit above, with a wide, covered balcony spanning the length
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of the building and offering priceless views of the Río Negro. Its banks lie just a few yards away, lined by tall, waxy Copernicia alba palms, whose circular explosion of leaves look like monstrously sized dandelion blowballs and play host to flittering clusters of black-hooded parakeets. The station was built to lead conservation efforts in the Paraguayan Pantanal and to study the region’s ample bird populations. Scientists and students from across the country and beyond come to stay in their simple lodgings; tourists are a secondary concern. As a result, the Tres Gigantes rangers don’t have much time to dedicate to those like me who make it to their remote outpost. When schedules permit, however, they can take you upriver to meet the reserve’s only other permanent resident – its octogenarian caretaker Don Medina, who lives in a two-floored wooden shack on the water’s edge and keeps a watchful eye for poachers and illegal land clearance.
Rather than exploring with a guide – as is commonplace in environments where potentially dangerous animals roam – visitors can wander along these paths alone and unaccompanied. On the way back down, you can appreciate why this part of Paraguay is a twitcher’s paradise: ringed kingfishers preen and primp on branches overhanging the water, while rufescent tiger herons, their rusty necks pointed pompously up at the sky, stand sentinel in the shallows. In the murky depths of the river itself you can even catch glimpses of the 17-strong family of otters who, Nery tells me, have bred from a single pair five years ago to the multigenerational dynasty of today. A kayak is also at your disposal, and I spend a morning floating serenely downriver. Even in the dry season, it’s possible to understand why the Pantanal was once known simply as La Laguna – The Lake – by the European Jesuits, who arrived in Paraguay set on evangelising the indigenous Guaraní. As Nery explains, I’ve timed my trip well: during the rainy season, the river levels rise by over 19ft and the reserve becomes explorable only by boat. The chances of catching sight of any land mammals diminish considerably, too. Back on land, three dirt trails have been hacked into the undergrowth – which is much lower, drier and more densely packed than jungle
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C LO C K W I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: Ae r i a l v i ew of the Pantanal; A jaguar; A giant otter.
PANTANAL, PARAGUAY
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vegetation – surrounding the lodge. The chance of spotting a jaguar along these enthrals me. Each path is barely half a mile long, but what’s compelling and frightening in equal measure is that, rather than exploring with a guide – as is commonplace in environments where potentially dangerous animals roam – visitors can wander along these paths alone and unaccompanied. When I finally pluck up the courage to attempt this, Nery’s words ring in my ears; at once a tantalising possibility and a terrifying warning. What if I do come face to face with a jaguar? Nery attempts to calm me, saying how it’s the snakes I need to worry about. “We don’t recommend people go out walking at night,” he says. “They’re out and about to eat the toads.”
I am a small if out-of-place part of the natural order of things; just another link in the food chain. Predator - or maybe even prey.
L E F T: A c a i m a n eating a fish.
When I take my first tentative strides along the dirt path, every step is a test of faith and each moment a reminder of how indistinguishable I must be from jaguar bait. As a woman who often travels alone, I am constantly aware of my own vulnerability, something that has become an almost tangible belonging, carted with me aboard each bus and down every side street. But it feels different here. I am a small if out-of-place part of the natural order of things; just another link in the food chain. Predator – or maybe even prey. The trust I invest is quickly rewarded. Silence alerts me to a family of dusty titi monkeys. Golden and with large inquisitive eyes, a mother and her two babies pelt small twigs down from the canopy, some landing on my head. Curiously, they inch along the branches above, but never so far that I can’t catch up, and always close enough for us to maintain eye contact. At the end of one path, a hammock has been slung at the top of a 32ft-high observatory tower and I spend hours lazing in the cool breeze that shudders the treetops, looking out for a sudden movement in the flat wetlands beyond. At times, I spy capybara. Coarse-haired and the largest member of the rodent family, their babies are the size of guinea pigs and scuttle across the mud to take cover on the bank. At others, I close my eyes and absorb the sounds of my surroundings. Despite the seemingly constant background noise of the Pantanal, I am struck by the moments of unsettling quiet when even the irrepressible chanting of the cicadellidae and the rattling of the palm trees are hushed. Sometimes, this quietness is broken by the shambolic scuttle of an emerald green lizard through the dry leaves.
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As I wander the trails multiple times per day – banking on every step increasing my chance of catching that bewitching flicker of a tail as a jaguar disappears back into the undergrowth – I realise how profoundly liberating it is being able to explore at will. There is nothing quite as visceral as walking silently and alone in a place that triggers fear in every molecule of your body; I am constantly aware of the infinite number of things that could cause me harm. It’s also wildly addictive, making me feel small and vulnerable but powerful and courageous at the same time.
Every step is a test of faith and each moment a reminder of how indistinguishable I must be from jaguar bait.
Given we’re a long journey by speedboat from the nearest town and its basic medical facilities, it doesn’t bear thinking about what would happen if one of us got injured. But, when I ask Nery about my fears, he’s characteristically matter of fact: “Sometimes, you’ve just got to trust the world around you,” he shrugs. On my fourth and final day, I find a footprint in the mud by the riverbank. It looks big enough for a heavy, large animal. I return to the lodge excitedly. Nery deflates me quickly. “A jaguar footprint? No. If it’s got three toes, it’s a capybara. Right by the water? Yeah, definitely.” It is a blow, but later, as Nery directs the speedboat away from the shore on my route back to Bahía Negra, he stops suddenly. A giant otter appears out of the water a few metres down from us, its huge, slick head rising up for air. In the blink of an eye, it submerges again, leaving a fleeting trail of ripples in its wake. It’s no jaguar, but it’s definitely a giant.
C LO C K W I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: A t i t i m o n k e y ; A hyacinth macaw; A giant otter eating a fish; A pair of guira cuckoos; A giant anteater; A toco toucan. R I G H T: A n a r m a d i l l o .
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Photo Credits: P84 - Pedro Helder/Dreamstime; P87 - Agap13/Dreamstime; Ondřej Prosický/Dreamstime; Page 89 - Pulsar I m a g e n s /A l a m y ; H e n n e r D a m k e / D r e a m s t i m e ; D a l i a K v e d a r a i t e / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 9 0 - O n d ř e j P r o s i c k ý / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 9 2 - G e r B o s m a /A l a m y ; O n d ř e j P r o s i c k ý / D r e a m s t i m e ; C a t h e r i n e D o w n i e / D r e a m s t i m e ; J o c r e b b i n / D r e a m s t i m e ; P93 - Ondřej Prosický/Dreamstime; P98/99 - Dalia Kvedaraite/Dreamstime.
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The Aquidaban leaves every Tuesday from Concepción and arrives in Bahía Negra on Friday morning, from where the Tres Gigantes rangers can pick you up in their speedboat. To return, Bahía Negra’s strip of dirt that manifests as an airport has a handful of flights per week to capital city Asunción.
B E ST TIME TO GO The dry season (May to November) for a better chance of seeing land mammals, which cluster along water sources and become considerably easier to spot.
CURRENCY
Guaraní
TIME ZONE GMT-4 FO OD Food is basic at Tres Gigantes and includes staple Paraguayan dishes such as milanesas (escalopes) and other meats served with rice and a mixed salad. Wash it down with the nation’s addiction, tereré. This herbal drink made from yerba mate is served with iced water, making it refreshing on hot days.
MUST- PACK ITEM Binoculars for the wildlife and malaria tablets; the mosquitos are fierce.
WHY GO? With only 1.5 million tourists visiting Paraguay annually – of which the majority are from the neighbouring countries of Argentina, Brazil and Uruguay, this is a country where only the most intrepid and curious go. Visiting Tres Gigantes is both challenging and – by local standards – expensive, but affords remarkable chances of seeing a wealth of wildlife. As most tourists opt to explore the more accessible Brazilian side of the Pantanal, it’s also easy to feel like one of only a few people on the planet when you’re at the reserve. Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
T H I S PAG E : A j a g u a r o n t h e b a n k s of t h e r i ve r.
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ROMANIA L I F E
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In September, the rolling hills and lush farmland of Romania are characterised by striking, bulbous structures – haystacks. I’ve had the privilege of visiting Dinu and Ileana’s sheep farm in Jina, Transylvania, half a dozen times and always time my trip to coincide with the hay harvesting season. Their farm’s beautiful setting is contrasted against the humbleness of the family home – which has just two rooms for the four of them. As an outsider, it can feel a bit like stepping back in time, but there’s no doubt that life on a sheepfold is a very hard one. PHOTO ESSAY BY RALPH VELASCO
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ABOVE: The family have two properties (the one above and another) that they rotate between yearly. This is to allow the grass to regrow after grazing. OPPOSITE: Nicu, Ileana and Dinu filter fresh sheep’s milk through a bandana. P R E V I O U S PAG E : N i c u a n d D i n u g a t h e r a scattered flock into their pen, referred to as a sheepfold in these parts.
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LIFE ON A SHEEPFOLD
T R A N SY
ABOVE: Dinu sips a cup of tea while patiently answering my many questions. TO P P H OTO : I l e a n a s e r v e s u p f r e s h ly m a d e g o a t ’ s cheese, known locally as telemea.
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L V A N I A
ABOVE: Brothers Gabi (left) and Nicu (right) enjoy a drink at their kitchen table. TO P P H OTO : A n e i g h b o u r s t o p s b y t o s h a r e i n f o r m a t i o n a n d t o take in some ever-present homemade pálinka (a fruit brandy).
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T H I S PAG E : P i c t u re - p e r fe c t l a n d s c a p e s t h ro u g h o u t Ro m a n i a are punctuated by huge, distinctive haystacks that provide sustenance for livestock over the harsh winter.
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Jina is just under an hour’s drive from Sibiu International Airport, in central Romania.
B E ST TIME TO GO June and August to early September, to coincide with the hay harvest.
CURRENCY Leu TIME ZONE GMT+2 103
THE WILD EAST
C L A I R E F R O M E A S T E R N
H AVA N A C U B A
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A L E X A N D E R P A R K .
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The stretched head of the crocodile with “eyes of stone and water” basks in the blue-black Caribbean, 900 miles from its resting tail. In this realm of fantasy, the island of Cuba is imagined as a long green reptile by a cherished national poet. Arranged about the croc’s snout is Cuba’s far-flung eastern edge and a pooling of her oddities – quirks of land and weather, rare places, and creatures great and small. “Every nature lover in Cuba dreams of hiking along the magical trails here, hoping to get a glimpse of its famous tiny creatures, especially the zunzuncito, the world’s smallest bird,” I’m told by my guide, Carlos. Those eastern wilds of Cuba are a foreign country and my journey to reach them is itself loaded with intrigue and surprise. I leave the familiar salty streets and ramshackle villas of Havana, with her museums to communist heroics and her raspberry red vintage rides, and catch a bus to Cuba’s second city, Santiago, at the other end of the island, in search of these unusual finds. The entrance to these remote lands in fact begins in the centre, when the sole highway on the island abruptly runs out of tarmac at Jatibonico, under billowing sky. From here, slower routes through sugar cane and dozy countryside, waymarked more by billboards of Revolution slogans than by road signs, shuffle me east.
Every nature lover in Cuba dreams of hiking along the magical trails here. Santiago de Cuba, punched into the gut of a huge harbour on the southern coast, is circled by the Sweet Potato and Daiquirí mountains. They trap heat like a pressure cooker. During summer, motor skills slow and senses muddle. I break my journey here and dance madly through the salsa bars, all soul-stirring African melody and Spanish song, arms slick with sweat, cheap mojitos and even cheaper tobacco. When my head clears it’s time to get a shifty on, to bus further east.
P R E V I O U S PAG E : A m a n f i s h i n g i n t h e R i ve r M i e l i n B a ra c o a . T H I S PAG E : V i nt a g e c a r parked on a street in Santiago de Cuba.
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I’d not been looking to holiday at Guantánamo Bay but the 17-mile barbed-wire perimeter and “Cactus Curtain” partly trails the road to Baracoa, my final destination, five hours further east. The US Naval Base straddling this deeply drawn bay on Cuba’s Caribbean coast has narked the Revolution’s leaders for decades. After the US occupied the island during the 1898 Spanish-American War, one of its conditions for Cuba’s independence in 1902 was the lease of Guantánamo for a US naval station. Fidel Castro, Cuba’s late president, cashed the annual US$4,085 rent cheque only once – by mistake – in 1959. US troops laid the second largest minefield in the world in the seven-mile wide “curtain” in 1961. The Cubans planted their stretch of the no man’s land with spiky cacti; then, in 1983, with mines after the US invaded Grenada. When the War-onTerror military prison opened at the base after the September 11 attacks in 2001, Cuba’s rulers were incensed. The occupation of the bay – about half the size of Manhattan – will prevail until the US up sticks. The Navy Gateway Inns & Suites at the naval base, with harbour views, isn’t open to regular bookings. But the two-star Hotel Caimanera, run by Cuba, is. Rooms with a “priceless war border zone view”, less than a mile from the “Cactus Curtain” are sold by a travel agency in London. Online booking? Not a chance. I need to swing by a hotel tourism desk in Guantánamo City for a permit inked by the Ministry of the Interior. The city itself, a provincial capital, merits only a paragraph or so in guidebooks; most travellers skip it en route from Santiago to Baracoa. My strongest memory of the place is the stench – four decades in the brewing – when I stuck my head inside the Soyuz 38 spacecraft that catapulted the first Cuban into the ether.
T H I S PAG E : T h e Ig l e s i a P a r ro q u i a l d e Santa Catalina, situated in the heart of Guantánamo City. O P P O S I T E , C LO C K W I S E F R O M T H E TO P : Looking out over the Caribbean Sea from Cable Beach in Guantánamo Bay; Mural of Che Guevara; The road t o G u a n t á n a m o p r o v i n c e ; Yo u n g m e n playing basketball in the street in Santiago de Cuba.
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Officials stop me four times at control points to check my papers. At the last halt, Cuban security dig into my photo reel. What was I taking photos of? they ask.
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I pick up a modern motor for Cuba’s scrappy roads and tune in to Rrrrrrradio Reloj. Radio Clock has marked time in Cuba since 1947: a metronome ticks through every second of every day. At the top of the minute, Morse code taps RR, and headlines on potato harvests and politics are delivered in breathless staccato. Fortunately, communist state news crackles, giving way to a radio signal from Jamaica, and the joyous reggae makes me smile. In other vacation spots around the world, sunshine billboards announce, “Welcome to Holiday Island”. Along my approach to Caimanera, however, a board daubed in blood red blared “High Sensitivity Defence Zone”. My car window glinted not with glossy reflections of wind-ruffled palms but with unmoving menace – watchtowers. Officials stop me four times at control points to check my papers. At the last halt, Cuban security dig into my photo reel. What was I taking photos of? they ask. How do they know I was taking photos? I feel like I’ve driven into a Cold War film. I pull into Caimanera town through treacly air. Revolutionary icon Che Guevara’s painted face gazes into the distance on the railway terminal, epiphytes
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droop from electricity wires, and wonky Christian crosses have given up their fight at the cemetery, sinking at unholy angles into the surrounding salt flats. I’m the only guest at the under $30-a-night hotel, which sits on a hillock north of the bayside town. Celia, the receptionist, is thrilled to see me. She hopes I don’t mind but the hotel can’t afford to turn on the hot or the cold water. I don’t mind, I say, but, as the mercury bubbles, does she mind if I plunge into the pool first to cool off before taking her tour of the hotel’s museum about Guantánamo Bay? After a refreshing dip, Celia opens the door to an unsigned room. A scale model, all dirty sand, fence wire and miniature watchtowers, plotted around the raggedy contours of the bay, hogs a terrazzo floor. Forlorn, it seems to say that it’s only here, in the shadow of the foreign base, that Cuba claims the entire body of water as its own. Much diminished as it is. “The bay is an affront, and El Comandante [as Cubans call Fidel Castro] cut off the supply of water to the Americans in ’64,” Celia says. She seems to relish in telling me the punishment Cuba doled out: “Now they have to get their fresh water from a Jamaican ship that waits offshore.”
CUBA
T H I S PAG E : B a ra c o a a t n i g ht .
I ask about the landmines captured in black and white in the pictures hung on the wall. They are gone now, Celia says, referring to the 50,000 devices only fully cleared in 1999 by Gitmo, as the Americans call the naval base. And the pretty clapboard houses immortalised in pencil drawings here are gone too. The room is a memorial to lost lives and land. Like losing a limb but still feeling its presence. Beyond the sun-dappled pool, we climb the hotel’s lookout. It mirrors the watchtowers I see as I scan the hazy horizon through a telescope. Are those binoculars looking at me looking at them? Sweat prickles around my neck. I ask Celia about the view and the American occupation. She’s hesitant now and lobs back statements of fact, a common Cuban technique to evade sensitive probing. “Those are the Cuban, and those are the American watchtowers. That’s a metal barrier across the entrance to the bay … It’s so deep nothing can get through underwater.” From my room, after dark, I watch the Americans’ searchlights sweep the sea gate. I don’t remember signing up for a blinding light performance from dusk
’til dawn. My bay-facing room flashes with amped-up wattage all night. With no need for a bedside lamp, I pick up the hotel brochure for a 3am read. Nope, there’s definitely nothing in the fine print about that. Celia had told me that Guantánamo means “fertile area surrounded by water”. Funny that, as beyond the infamous bay, hillocks of parched land, knobbled by stone and peppered with phallic cacti, sprout across the driest region on the island. It’s so dry, the local River Dry refuses to go by any other name. My route east is cinematic: clumps of spiny green cacti tower against a backdrop of indigo-coloured sea. At the foot of the Nipe-Sagua-Baracoa massif the view changes when the road, straitjacketed in barriers of white cement, coils through rumpled velvety mountains to isolated Baracoa, a small city of antique streets and the centre of a region regularly doused in the island’s largest deluges of rain. Sometimes there’s an overdose when hurricanes barrel in. Baracoa is the most isolated place of size in Cuba, and the most beautiful. Cut off from the rest of the island until La Farola highway pushed through in 1965, it shimmers with folk tales, fabulous music and salsa. The air is perfumed with coconut, cocoa
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and coffee – and on weekend nights, pongy wreaths of spilt beer. Cupped within two bays – Baracoa and Honey – it basks under the protective profile of an anvilshaped mountain. Deep from within the ravines of the massif surrounding the tiny city gush the waters of nearly 30 rivers. Local fishermen still net fish by the waning moon, selling the silvery halfbeak in the shade of columned homes with a sing-song cry – “teti, teti” – to shoppers. The road south leads to beaches, wild with palms, warm seas and secret coves, and pop-up places grilling shellfish on the sand. North, up the coast from Baracoa, reached by a road rutted with the country’s most evil potholes, is Alexander Humboldt Park, a tad smaller than Singapore in size. UNESCO has taken it under its wing as its wilderness shelters some of the world’s smallest creatures, plus (possibly) a rare bird the US’s National Audubon Society can’t give up on finding: the legendary half-metretall Cuban ivory-billed woodpecker, all black and white with a fiery orange crest. “It might still be living somewhere in the deepest corners of the woods,” Carlos, our park guide, says. A shack at the side of the road serves as the park headquarters. It’s here I pick up three trail companions and Carlos. In the sharp light of the early morning we walk down to the discshaped Taco Bay, stuffed with coconut palms sparkling in the sun. Here, we get in a boat and nuzzle up to the tangled roots of mangrove in search of the slow-moving sea cow, the West Indian manatee. Like “hammock”, “hurricane” and “tobacco”, “manatee”, is a Taíno word. Pre-Columbian Taíno lords around here inhaled “cohoba” – powdered seed snuff (whence Cohiba cigars get their name) – and then vomited using spatulas made from manatee bone in ceremonies where hallucinogenic highs enabled communion with their spiritual realm. Out in the quiet of the bay, with just the slap of cool water on the hull, and the chatter of birds, the seagrassmunching manatee seem too shy to surface, and my mind wanders to the spirits of the Taíno and their ties with the natural world. 112
T H I S PAG E : A Mo u nt I b e r i a f ro g . O P P O S I T E PAG E F R O M T H E TO P : A Cuban tree frog; Red Cuban Military Area sign; A male bee hummingbird; Bust of Alexander von Humboldt next to the park headquarters.
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Back on land, we hike through furrowed oxblood earth, rich in iron and nickel. The rain-grooved soil is thronged with ferns and pine trees, needles and cones shed all around. The rising forest smells like Christmas in the sun. Hefty pineapples, slumping banana plants, and then tiny slips of orchid emerge, so delicate, so unclassified, Carlos says. We move from a winter scene haloed in humid air to tropical fruit basket in seconds. Native coccothrinax alexandri offers passing shade with its bicycle-spoke leaves. The fan palm is named after German naturalist Alexander von Humboldt whose boat blew off course sailing to Venezuela in 1801, Carlos says. Humboldt spent time in Cuba with his nose in the island’s botanicals and its Jurassic earth. He boated through the ravishing beauty of the still-isolated southern coral isles, bathed in ultramarine sea. His studies on Cuba earned him the title of second discoverer of the country. Christopher Columbus was the first, but the men of Columbus’s 1492 expedition came in search of new lands and gold, not plants, and fired up a holy war with the Taíno people living in this eastern region.
The road south leads to beaches, wild with palms, warm seas and secret coves. We’ll have to slow down if we want to catch sight of the park’s smalls: the tiny zunzuncito; the poisonous Mount Iberia frog, the size of a fingernail; the blue scorpion tapped for its venom for cancer treatments; the light-as-a-butterfly Gervais’s funnel-eared bat, the world’s second smallest flying mammal; and the painted poser, the polymita picta snail which garlands trees like festive baubles. We need patience, too. Carlos once staked out a white petalled carnivorous butterwort for four days. He watched as a fly landed on its fine-hair covered leaf; touchdown triggered a glue that enveloped the insect, dissolving it for the leaf to absorb its mulch. I think of The Day of the Triffids and suddenly this forest of steep heat doesn’t seem so kind. But the Cuban Ray Mears chides us for not seeing the promise of good: “You’ll never go thirsty as these bromeliads here on the branches trap water; the sage here is for a sore throat; that long leaf you can use for toilet paper; and the sharp spines of this palm,” he says, carefully plucking a finger-length spine off the trunk of the endemic pajua palm, “you can use to sew clothes … you know … just in case.” The melodious song of the Cuban solitaire brings us to a halt. And it’s then, while motionless, a creature buzzes by in a blur. Carlos spins. I see something. Briefly. The zunzuncito, the world’s smallest feathered flight. With a hot-pink crown and emerald green livery, the bee hummingbird is as light as a paperclip and, with 80 wing beats a second and the know-how to fly backwards, forwards, whichaway, it’s no wonder I can’t keep track. It was a dream just to get close, echoed in the hopes of millions of Cubans. Just as with this dazzling avian star, there are still ‘lost’ creatures, dinosaur-era animals and Taíno relics in these coastal coves, caves and wilds to be found. I’ll have to come back to find them… 113
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Fly into Havana’s José Martí International Airport; from Havana, Víazul coaches run to Santiago de Cuba, Guantánamo and Baracoa.
B E ST TIME TO GO November to April.
CURRENCY Cuban peso TIME ZONE GMT-4 FO OD In the east, search out the best-in-class sweet bizcochuelo mango; drink Pru, a potent botanical brew; buy the palm leaf-bound cucurucho, stuffed with grated coconut, chopped almonds and honey; and snap open a bar of Baracoa chocolate, made at the town’s Che Guevara Chocolate Factory.
MUST- PACK ITEM Swarovski Optik NL Pure 8x32 binoculars: they’re lightweight; the 8x magnification will be perfect for the zunzuncito; and the 150m field of view will mean no bird escapes attention.
WHY G O For the spirited Cubans, rousing music, lush nature, warm seas and the chance to travel through the last bastion of communism in the western hemisphere. Everything is a little wilder in the east – the history, weather and the adventure.
Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
T H I S PAG E : F i s h i n g b o a t s a n c h o re d a t Rio Miel river mouth near Baracoa.
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Photo Credits: P105 - Karol Kozlowski/Picfair; P106 - Anna Artamonova/Dreamstime; P108 - Roberto Lusso/Dreamstime; P109 - Hertzluke/Dreamstime; K a r o l K o z l o w s k i / P i c f a i r ; S i e g f r i e d We r g i n z / D r e a m s t i m e ; P e t e r M . W i l s o n /A l a m y ; P 1 1 0 / 1 1 1 - J o h n Wa r d / D r e a m s t i m e ; P a g e 1 1 2 - X i n h u a / Alamy; P113 - Sergey Uryadnikov/Dreamstime; Claire Boobbyer; Melinda Fawver/Dreamstime; P114/115 - Matyas Rehak/Dreamstime
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I N SEAR C H O F THE BA JAU LAU T
The Bajau Laut – sometimes known as “sea gypsies” – are a semi-nomadic people that live in the waters surrounding the southern Philippines, Indonesia and Borneo. Shrugging off tales of pirates and kidnapping, I headed out into the Celebes Sea, off the east coast of Malaysian Borneo. My days on the water were characterised by an intoxicating hospitality, which enabled me to witness firsthand how these sea-faring people live, and the tussle they now feel between their traditional values and the modernity many of their youth seek. PHOTO ESSAY BY JORDAN BANKS
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P R E V I O U S PAG E : St i l t h o u s e s of t h e B a j a u La u t in the waters surrounding Bodgaya Island.
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ABOVE: Men weaving through the stilt houses around Omadal Island as they head out fishing.
MALAYSIAN BORNEO
ABOVE: Visiting family Bajau style.
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IN SEARCH OF THE BAJAU LAUT
ABOVE: Bajau woman navigating the channels around Omadal Island.
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ABOVE: Happy to see us, a young girl offers an infectious smile.
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IN SEARCH OF THE BAJAU LAUT
A B O V E : Yo u n g B a j a u b o y f i s h i n g i n the shallows around Bodgaya Island.
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A B O V E : Yo u n g B a j a u b o y , c u r i o u s to see what’s going on.
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OPPOSITE: Boys playing in the waters around Bodgaya Island.
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Boat trips into the Celebes Sea depart from Semporna, 51 miles from Tawau Airport, which has connections to Kota Kinabalu, Kuala Lumpur and Johor Bahru.
B E ST TIME TO GO There’s no “bad” time to visit Borneo, but the months between March and October tend to be the driest.
CURRENCY Ringgit T H I S PAG E : He a d i n g h o m e before a storm arrives.
TIME ZONE
GMT+8 127
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L O T T I E
A F T E R N O O N
W I T H
O W N
M O N K E Y
M A N
W H O ’ S
W H I S P E R E R O F
T O U R
T O
T H E AT
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G I B R A LTA R ’ S
T R Y I N G
P E R C E P T I O N S O N E
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P R I M AT E S , T I M E .
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MEETING GIBRALTAR’S MISUNDERSTOOD MACAQUES
Standing on the top of that iconic rock in Gibraltar, on a clear day you can see out as far as the coast of North Africa – a dark slither of land on the horizon beyond the behemoth container ships and cruise liners passing the peninsula. At dusk, the Strait of Gibraltar glows like frosted glass does when the sun shines through it, still as a lake but busy with maritime activity. This little stretch of water that links the Atlantic and Mediterranean, sitting between the European and African continents, is one of the busiest in the world. Over 120,000 ships pass through each year – that’s more than the Suez and Panama canals combined – and in prepandemic times over 400,000 cruise passengers would climb ashore here. On an average day, hundreds of those passengers would wend their way up to the top of the 1398ft rock to visit the caves and military tunnels within its natural limestone walls – and to meet the infamous Barbary macaques. Infamous because they’re not exactly known for being polite. Search “Gibraltar monkeys” on YouTube and you could spend hours watching ridiculous videos of the regular fracases that occur up there. Macaques climbing on people’s backs, opening their rucksacks, snatching food and sunglasses from their hands, or even showing their teeth in a sign of aggression. It’s disturbing, and not without serious consequences. In 2014, a British tourist had to have 40 stitches after being bitten by a macaque, and back in 2009 an entire family ended up in hospital following an attack. It’s not just tourists, either. Occasionally, particularly bolshy troops of the primates have been known to descend the rock and head into town in search of food. They’ve raided residents’ bins and set up camp on rooftops. For many, visitors and locals alike, the macaques are no longer a novelty, they’re just a nuisance. For Brian Gomila, though, they are none of those things. For him, they are an obsession. We met late on a November afternoon as the sun was setting and the entire rock was bathed in a slightly sickly golden light. “Leave everything in the car,” he warned me. “You don’t need your bag. You don’t need your sunglasses. Leave it all behind.” I clutched my phone in my hand so I could take notes and pictures, and we strolled down a gentle hill towards a troop of monkeys sitting on the wall. Gomila halted ahead of me, turned around and began his opening speech. “Don’t touch them, definitely don’t feed them and remember, they’re not tame,” was the gist. I’d seen enough YouTube videos to know bringing snacks was a faux pas around here. He’s given this introductory lecture hundreds of times in the years he’s been bringing visitors up to see the monkeys, but he has spent far more evenings in the company of the macaques without a group of tourists in tow. Gomila comes almost every day, straight from his office
FROM THE TOP: Europa Point Lighthouse; Brian Gomila (left) and visitors watch a macaque; A sign warning against feeding the monkeys; Looking out over the Rock of Gibraltar and the Iberian Peninsula.
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job as property surveyor, to observe them, communicate with them and, ultimately, establish a healthy relationship with this particular troop of 40-or-so monkeys. As a born-and-raised Gibraltarian, they have long been a part of his life. When Gomila was a young boy and teenager, he dismissed them as a tourist attraction and had little interest in their lives atop the towering rock. But when he studied animal behaviour during his Marine Biology degree, he realised they could be an interesting feature of his homeland – far more than just a burden on the people and a naff tourist attraction. At 26 years old he took a master’s in Primatology at the University of Roehampton, and then returned to Gibraltar to follow his new-found passion. This is how, today, at the age of 42, he can sit on a rocky outcrop directly opposite a young male macaque and boldly eat a banana like he’s not seen a single one of those attack videos. Of course, he’s not stupid. He knows exactly what’ll happen if he peels away that thick yellow skin and tucks into the fruit. As expected, the young macaque lunges forward to grab his food. Gomila lunges forward too, making an O shape with his mouth. “This basically translates to ‘stop, or else!’ so I use it to assert my dominance over him,” he explains as I watch on anxiously, wondering when the monkey might decide I could be his best source of sweet treats. The macaque sits back on his haunches and watches Gomila chew away. The animal looks around, all sheepish and panicked, then yawns. He’s visibly nervous. So am I. Gomila tries to do this every time he visits the Royal Anglian Way troop, so named for their territorial area on the rock. He’s trying, he says, to re-establish the equilibrium and remind the monkeys that not all humans can be taken advantage of like the tourists are. “When you bring them snacks, good intentioned as that may be, the macaques view your handouts not as an offering, but more like a form of surrender to their advances. Studies seem to suggest that this makes the macaques increase in their boldness.” He has established himself as a dominant being among this troop, and his regular visits serve as a reminder of his status. “They have behaviours very similar to humans. They have complex relationships just like we do,” Gomila says, his passion and wonder for their behaviour seeping through every word. “I want to help people identify with the monkeys. We are both primates, so we share physical features, but most importantly, we have behaviours in common.” He’s right. I know that nervous yawn well – I do it on planes, before job interviews and on dates. We bite our nails, they groom their fur; we buy fidget spinners, they play with sticks or grass between their dexterous fingers. As Gomila eats his evening snack, there’s drama going on along the footpath beyond. A young male has tried to
FROM THE TOP: Barbary macaque; Gibraltar’s coat of arms; The Ibrahim-al-Ibrahim Mosque at Europa Point; Grand Casemates Square.
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T H I S PAG E : T h e Ro c k of G i b ra l t a r rises above the fog.
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mate with a female and all manner of screeching can be heard. It’s like the high-pitched groan of fingernails on a chalkboard, so unpleasant it makes your teeth vibrate. As we wander over, a male macaque perching in a tree that overhangs the cliff has an outburst of energy. He screams and jumps up and down on a branch so violently I think he might break it and tumble to his demise. “He’s letting out his anger,” explains Gomila. It’s the monkey version of punching a wall. It’s captivating, watching these creatures that share so much of our DNA display so many human traits. Gomila notices the slightest thing – a glance, a twitch, a brief interaction – and he demystifies it all with delight in his voice. What’s most fascinating, though, is their relationships. “I usually say what determines a good relationship is not necessarily how many times we argue, but how many of those arguments are reconciled.
Because we value a relationship, we will try to reconcile any disagreement. It’s the same with the macaques.” We see it first-hand when a young macaque steps out of line with an older female. He chatters his teeth – a primate apology – and proceeds to groom her to make up for his mistake. It’s an endearing interaction. Having seen all those videos of tourists being terrorised by these monkeys, endearing and captivating are not words I ever expected to use to describe spending time with them. I arrived ready for battle, but was disarmed by their apparent humanity. This, Gomila tells me, is exactly why he does this. He wants to show people – locals in particular – that the monkeys are more than just a tourist fad; they are an interesting asset and worth protecting. Scientists believe the creatures were imported from North Africa by the Moors sometime between the eighth
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and 15th centuries and since then superstition has crept in: legend has it that for as long as there are macaques in Gibraltar, the nation will remain under British control. This was of so much concern to Winston Churchill during World War II that he imported a whole new troop of macaques to the peninsula in secret after finding out the population was dwindling. Today, there are over 250 of the animals roaming the rock. But a little bit of folklore can’t protect these creatures. There have indeed been culls – most recently in 2011 – to keep the population at a more manageable level. But while safety for both humans and monkeys is paramount, a cull is rarely an ideal or popular solution. The country was subject to boycotts by tourists after the last one, so better methods must be found to keep everyone happy. That’s part of Gomila’s mission. He’s so passionate about it, in fact, he offers free tours to the drivers who bring tourists up here to see the animals. The monkeys
T H I S PAG E A N D O P P O S I T E : Barbary macaques.
are a highlight on any itinerary, but the majority of guides that facilitate visits know little about their natural behaviours and hierarchies. Education is key, he says, to ensuring the macaque population’s future, and he’d like to see some sort of training made mandatory for anyone bringing visitors up so attacks and other incidents become less frequent. “The sign on arrival says ‘Welcome to the Upper Rock Nature Reserve’, not circus.” With the sun low in the sky, hovering only just above the Spanish coastline in the distance, I watch as the macaques slowly make their way down the rock and onto the cliff where they’ll sleep for the night. One hangs back, sitting on a fence overlooking the harbour below, as if admiring the view, contemplating his life and their place on this peak, just as I do later on with a beer in my hand.
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T H I S PAG E : A B a r b a r y m a c a q u e h ow l i n g .
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Gibraltar International Airport is just 15-minutes’ drive from the main city. Alternatively, fly into Málaga and drive over the border (approximately two hours, though be prepared for traffic jams as the highway crosses the airport runway in Gibraltar).
B E ST TIME TO GO Autumn or spring for the best weather and manageable crowds.
CURRENCY British pound TIME ZONE GMT+2 FO OD Despite its proximity to Morocco, it’s Spanish and English food that dominates on menus here. Seafood is king, with lots of fresh fish and prawns. Sunday roasts with a pint of London Pride enjoyed al fresco on the waterfront are a surreal but pleasing experience.
MUST- PACK ITEM A jacket or trousers with zip-up or inside pockets – you can’t be too careful around those pseudo-wild monkeys.
WHY GO For me, travel is all about challenging preconceptions, and an afternoon with these macaques does exactly that. Come to be surprised and learn something new, then stay for the balmy weather and water sports on the coast of Gibraltar – a destination that’s not always had the best reputation, but has plenty to entertain and engage a curious traveller. Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
Photo Credits: P128 - Andreas Steidlinger/Dreamstime; P130 - Oleksandr Kalinichenko/Dreamstime; Brian Gomila; Ben Gingell/Dreamstime; Serban Enache/Dreamstime; P131 - Byvalet/Dreamstime; Christina Hemsley/Dreamstime; Bennymarty/Dreamstime; Anilah/Dreamstime; P132/133 Jan Mika/Dreamstime; P134 - Fgrus6/Dreamstime; P135 - Andreas Steidlinger/Dreamstime; P136/137 - Okoneshnikov/Dreamstime.
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O F F - L I M I T S F I V E
T O
D E C A D E S ,
P R O V I N C E S A R E
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L I T T L E - K N O W N S I T E S .
T O U R I S T S
J O U R N E Y S
D I S C O V E R
M O N U M E N T S ,
P L A I N
S I G H T.
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AN IMPOSSIBLE LANDSCAPE
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Practising human sacrifice, transformed zoomorphically to bear fangs and claws, and pop-eyed through coca addiction – these could be the neighbours from hell. Dwelling in a cloud forest where the chachalaca birds croak like soprano turkeys are the marvellous and menacing statues of San Agustín. Human-sized and rotund – resembling the plump figures of artist Fernando Botero – they diligently guard thousand-year-old tombs in southwest Colombia and are one of South America’s most mercurial archaeological treasures. Yet few have ever heard of them. “They date from the first to the ninth centuries AD, but we don’t know where this civilisation came from or where it went,” says Oscar Gomez, a local guide at San Agustín Archaeology Park. “They are Colombia’s biggest mystery.” The statues have actually been hiding in plain sight. Prior to the August 2016 peace accord between the national government and the leftish paramilitaries, few travellers in their right minds ventured down to Colombia’s southwest Andean provinces of
With the zeal of a Latino Howard Carter, I embark on a four-day archaeological quest by road to explore this little heralded Andean region.
P R E V I O U S PAG E : A s t a t u e among the rainforest at San Agustín. O P P O S I T E PAG E : V i ew ove r the town of Popayán.
Huila and Cauca. During their 52-year-long violent revolution, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia (FARC) held sway over these regions and weren’t averse to a spot of kidnapping and narco-trafficking. Yet now, with Huila and Cauca finally at peace, travellers are beginning to discover archaeological and cultural sites every bit as impressive as the world-class Inca and Mayan monuments across South America. With the zeal of a Latino Howard Carter, I embark on a four-day archaeological quest by road to explore this little heralded Andean region. Flying in from Bogotá to Cauca’s state capital, Popayán, I experience a condor’s eye view, looking down upon the coalescence of the east, west and central cordilleras, their slopes fecund with coffee and sugarcane thriving on rich mocha soils. The civilisation of San Agustín had long disappeared by the time the Spanish conquistadors constructed Popayán in the late 16th century. Its classical facades are straight from the textbooks of Spanish baroque design – whitewashed townhouses with iron window grilles, Andalucíanstyle patios and plazas, and churches with gilded interiors. “Popayán was built on slaves, gold mines and trade,” declares my guide for the following few days, Franko Lutz, who meets me in town. With his leather jacket and long ponytail, there’s a rock-star air to this Frenchman who fell in love with a local girl back in 2010 and never left. “You’d never guess the city’s architecture had been rebuilt after an earthquake destroyed it in 1983,” he says. This reconstruction includes the cavernous Hotel Dann Monasterio, a 17th-century ex-Franciscan monastery with huge rooms and an obligatory ghost – a disgruntled monk who got his cassock in a twist, yet never did materialise during my night there.
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The next morning, we’re up with the squabbling parrots and heading towards San Agustín on a hairpin road that swerves higher into the Andes, like a drunken alpaca. “In 2016, FARC had checkpoints along this road extorting money from truck drivers but now they’ve all gone,” says Franko. Weren’t you ever worried by them, being a foreigner? “A little. I did say a few Hail Marys on occasions.” He adds that FARC generally coexisted with the indigenous peoples – which comprise just over three percent of the population and are made up of some 87 different ethnic groups. This includes the Misak people, within whose territory we enter that morning. Franko is familiar with a Misak family, so we pause for several hours in a spreadeagled mountainside settlement called Silvia at around 8,200ft, embedded within the folds of pine-forested ridges and flower-filled meadows. My guidebook, rehashing a familiar old cliché, claims the landscape resembles Switzerland – and with the pristine snowy peaks and green mountain pastures it’s easy to see the association, although instead of cuckoo clocks the Misak homesteads are patterned with cosmic spirals. As agriculturalists, the Misak inhabit dimly lit stone farmhouses surrounded by fields of chillies and maize. In one, Maria introduces me to her mother and a grandmother whose creviced face bears its own landscape of time. Supporting the dress code of most Misak women, the three generations of this household don royal-blue woollen capes to counter the Andean cold and wear what I can only describe as flattened straw boaters. The hats are grooved with spirals, like those in their homesteads, which represent their animistic belief in a circular journey from birth to maturity that is followed by a Shakespearian decline, like King Lear’s retrogression to a “second childishness”. Maria says the Misak came into contact with Europeans in the 1500s and have lost much of their land since then. I ask if her culture overlapped with the San Agustín people, though she’s never heard of them. “But we have kept many customs, unlike anything else in Colombia. Our brides wear fourteen skirts at our weddings, and if we can dance all night we will have a successful marriage,” she says – if not a rather clumsy conjugal experience on their first night of wedlock. 142
C LO C K W I S E F R O M T H E TOP: Misak women, dressed in their royal-blue woollen capes, at the market; A set of statues in San Agustín Archaeological Park; The archaeological park in San Agustín; The grand entrance of Hotel Dann Monasterio in Popayán.
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Some possessing ferocious jaguar fangs, others with bones protruding through their noses or eagle talons grasping writhing snakes.
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The Misak believe their spirits – when they eventually depart their bodies – will one day dwell for eternity high on the páramo. This moorland upland ecosystem lies a few hours’ drive beyond Silvia, where the air thins to an oxygen-sucking chill as we reach 9,842ft in altitude and head into the mist-cloaked Puracé National Park. The 83,000-hectare park is home to condors, which elude me, and an assemblage of moisture-loving succulent vegetation including treesized lobelia with downy leaves. The spongy soils spawn several of Colombia’s largest rivers, one of which, the Rio Magdalena, we follow into Huila Province. “FARC used to hide out here on the páramo, living in great hardship. It was a dangerous environment for the army to follow them in,” says Franko. Beyond this damp watershed we descend towards San Agustín, stopping at sodas (little restaurants) for default roadside dishes like steak with rice and patacones (salty fried slices of plantain) and sticky tamales parcelled up in banana leaves. More sophisticated food awaits that evening at Hotel Monasterio, on the outskirts of San Agustín. The hotel owns a surrounding coffee plantation – the beans of which find their way onto an innovative menu that features the likes of beef tenderloin in coffee sauce. It’s a 17-room Andalucían-themed hacienda, with tinkling fountains and rooms connected by a wooden boardwalk with distant views across cattle pasture and farmland. It looks deceptively archaic yet was conceived from scratch and opened months after the peace deal with FARC in December 2016. “It was a risk planning the hotel before signing the peace deal with FARC,” concedes German-born architect Bernd Kroening, who part-owns the property and is around while I overnight. “But we felt Colombia’s security was improving rapidly and San Agustín’s archaeology would become huge once the world knows about it”. He may be right. After breakfast the next day, Franko and I enter San Agustín Archaeological Park under steady drizzle, wandering into cloud-forest clearings to come face-toface with some 200 in-situ stone statutes guarding burial tumuli and the secrets of a lost civilisation. UNESCO declared them World Heritage in 1995, recognising them as the largest group of religious monuments and megalithic sculptures in South America. With the site virtually to myself I witness a preColombian jamboree bordering on the implausible: human-sized, phallic-shaped stone guardians, macabre and charged with sexual potency. Some possessing ferocious jaguar fangs, others with bones protruding through their noses or eagle talons grasping writhing snakes and babies with deformed heads, while monkeys clamber upon the backs of what are thought to be courtesans flanking the high-ranking dead. The tallest statue measures almost 13ft and features a midwife, wide-eyed on coca, pulling a baby from the womb of a mother whose own eyes are wide from the pain of childbirth. The statues are so outlandish it’s easy to imagine their sculptors were high on something a lot stronger than coca. 144
To p t o b o t t o m : Re acimilla nonsecturiae S APGAEG: EA: sAt a g ti a n t osf t a t bu ier do-fl iak eb i r d l i k e f i g u r e T HTI H S IP ue magnihillest officitat platios i na tSuar ne A l ohgaiecoallo pg ai cr a k l. P a r k . cre i nu gS uasnt iAng au rsct h í na eAor c et porem la demquatur alis
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“Archaeologists think the statues represented people of great knowledge, like shamans and midwives,” explains Oscar. They were long gone before the first conquistadors arrived in Colombia in 1499. “They just completely disappeared between AD700 and 900,” he adds. “The experts say years of bad weather made it impossible for them to maintain their crops.” The thought that they may have simply disappeared because their maize withered on the stem rather than, say, imploding in an orgy of grotesque sacrifice and black magic feels like an almost too prosaic end for a civilisation now characterised by these outlandish figures.
I experience a similar sense of awe I recall from first entering Luxor’s pharaonic tombs.
FROM THE TOP: A valley in southwestern Colombia, near Popayán; An ancient tomb in Tierradentro Archaeological Park; Statue inside a tomb in San Agustín.
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The archaeological glories of this region, however, do not end with the mercurial San Agustín culture. A further day’s drive away lies another captivating collision with pre-Colombian largesse. Tierradentro (translating to “inside earth”) hosts an outstanding assemblage of UNESCO-listed hypogea (shaft tombs) – the largest collection of such in the continent. To reach them we push on further north into another spur of mountainous peaks where, on a broken road, we scarcely garner enough speed to overtake ponytrotting cowboys, with lassos and all. It’s dark when we arrive at a homely posada in San Andrés village. Costing just £5 per night, it’s worth ten times that for the grandmotherly charm of the owner, Madam Eva, who cooks a creamy arroz con leche pudding, which, alongside several shots of local aguardiente, keeps the bristling cold at bay. At sunrise, in still-lingering coldness, we hike into the grassy foothills to Alto de Aguacate, following knife-edged ridges and looking down upon dewy cobwebs of cloud suspended in the coffee plantations of the deep valleys below. Franko’s theory is that Tierradentro’s finest hypogea are located on these exposed ridges in order to be closer to a sun god. It’s unsurprising that little is known about their society or what they worshipped, given the oldest hypogea at 3,000 years old pre-dates the San Agustín society by a millennium.
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Some of the tombs are open and accessible by rockhewn staircases leading several yards underground. Despite an absence of any kind of sarcophagi or hieroglyphic explanation of this nameless culture, I experience a similar sense of awe I recall from first entering Luxor’s pharaonic tombs – transfixed by the overlay of both exquisite funerary decoration and the mystery of a civilisation implied by the rituals towards its dead. Franko says these tombs were built to resemble the houses of the deceased. Most likely wealthy and influential citizens, they were buried in earthenware jars among richly decorated interiors adorned by rock-hewn niches and columns, decorated head-to-toe with painted red-and-white geomorphic patterns or incised with abstract carvings depicting triangular human faces. I find the afterlife they purvey creates a powerful, unsettling energy. Franko agrees. “I heard it said that a local shaman refused to perform a ceremony here a while back because the ancient chi was too strong,” he says. We leave the Andes later in the day, descending quickly towards Neiva City for my flight back to Bogotá. The landscape is ever more arid here: prickly pear and cacti savor the throat-rattling thirst of this fiery basin that an early Spanish conquistador, Gonzalo Jiménez de Quesada, declared to be the “Valley of Sorrows”. The 300,000-hectare Tatacoa Desert is the smaller of Colombia’s two true deserts, a stark windburnished calamine-hued plain incised by wadis and excavated by flash floods that has left teetering sandstone towers. Local tourists flock here to an observatory offering Colombia’s best stargazing, although all I see on my final, cold desert night is blanket grey cloud. “Can you believe in the 16th-century the Spanish grazed cattle here?” says Franko. “The climate has changed a lot since then.” Not as quickly though as Cauca and Huila’s new climate of peace, which in time may enable this once troubled region’s enigmatic pre-Colombian past to be celebrated alongside Latin America’s greatest cultural treasures: fangs, menace and mystery, alike. 147
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T H I S PAG E : T h e re d ro c k fo r m a t i o n s of t h e Ta t a c o a D e s e r t .
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Popayán can be reached by plane or bus from Bogotá. There’s limited transport within the Andes, but local operator Amakuna offers options.
B E ST TIME TO GO Given it’s often wet and cold or snowy in the higher Andes and hotter on the plains and desert, as long as you are prepared for all weathers, the sites can be enjoyed any time of year.
CURRENCY
Colombian peso
TIME ZONE GMT-5 FO OD La comida tipica of this region is hearty (one-plate feasts or bandeja paisa), meaty (beef, chicken, lamb) and starchy (lots of beans, rice and corn-based dishes, not least fried arepas). There’s also great coffee and tons of tropical fruit.
MUST- PACK ITEMS A head torch for Tierradentro’s tombs, good hiking boots and high-factor SPF.
WHY GO This region offers the chance to leave behind the crowds at the likes of lovely Cartagena, and jump off the tourist trail to be immersed in a more authentic cultural experience with world-class archaeology and imperious Andean scenery. In my opinion, it’s high time the pre-Colombians had their day alongside the Incas and Mayans.
Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
Photo Credits: P 1 3 9 - J u l i a n P e t e r s / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 1 4 0 - N i c o l a s D e C o r t e / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 1 4 2 - X i n g Wa n g / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 1 4 3 - R o u s s i e n / D r e a m s t i m e ; M a t y a s R e h a k / D r e a m s t i m e ; P a b l o H i d a l g o / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 1 4 5 - J a n e S w e e n e y /A l a m y ; P 1 4 6 - M a t y a s R e h a k / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 1 4 7 - M a r t i n S c h n e i t e r / D r e a m s t i m e ; B a r n a Ta n k o / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 1 4 8 / 1 4 9 - J e s s e K r a f t / D r e a m s t i m e .
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VENICE C A R N I VA L For visitors, and especially for photographers, the Venice Carnival is a fabulous opportunity to admire some incredible costumes against the backdrop of one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Some people come to the carnival just once, in order to see the costumes and to take some pictures – and inevitably end up hiring a costume and wearing a mask to join the festivities. Others are so enthralled by the event that they return every year, wearing costumes that they have designed and made themselves. The most dedicated participants start thinking about next year’s costume immediately after that year’s carnival ends, and then spend months finding the materials and putting their outfit together. After all, there’s no other place in the world where you can spend so long pretending to be somebody else. PHOTO ESSAY BY UGO CEI
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The people who wear costumes do it only to party, have fun, see and be seen, and be photographed.
Venetians have been dressing up and wearing masks during the days that precede Ash Wednesday and Lent – which is a time of mortification and repentance – since the Middle Ages; Mardi Gras (or Fat Tuesday) has always marked the last day for this outlandish behaviour. The splendour of the carnival was at its greatest during the 18th century, but – unfortunately for Venice and the Venetians – it came to an end in 1797 when the 1100-year-old Venetian Republic became part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire. Not exactly known for being liberal, the ruling Habsburgs didn’t like their subjects to have too much fun and so they cancelled the carnival and prohibited the wearing of masks. The carnival returned when Venice became a part of Italy in 1866, but only inside at private parties. It wasn’t until 1979 that it became a public affair again, when the Italian government, in order to promote the city’s image, made it an official event. Since then, attendance of the carnival has grown year by year and it is now estimated that more than three million visitors take part every year.
P R E V I O U S PAG E : One of the many participants a t t h e Ve n i c e C a r n i v a l .
C LO C K W I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: A traditional-looking mask; Costumes can include accessories like umbrellas; A couple whose costumes were inspired by the book Around the Wo r l d i n 8 0 D a y s ; N o t e v e r y o n e wears masks – others, like this man dressed as Casanova the Joker, paint their faces.
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VENICE, ITALY L E F T: T h e Ve n i c e C a r n i v a l i s n ’ t j u s t a b o u t wearing masks – this couple were dressed as painters. T H I S PAG E : A c o s t u m e i n s p i re d by b i rd s ; notice the birdcage on her hat.
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During the carnival, specific places are designated for mask gatherings and you can be sure to always find a lot of costumes there. One such place is the riva (bank) of the Canal Grande near St Mark’s Square at sunrise. Indeed, it’s such a well-known and scenic location that you’re likely to find more shooters than subjects there. One of the benefits of sending photos to your subjects is that you get to know the people behind the costumes – and they’ll remember you next time and may grant you a private session, where you can photograph them away from the crowds. There is no money involved: it’s just their time in exchange for beautiful pictures.
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R I G H T: S o m e c o s t u m e s c a n be extravagant and highly detailed, such as this lady with three masks.
I have been going to the Venice Carnival every year since 2013 and I look forward to being there again. Besides meeting old friends and making new ones, having fun and taking thousands of photos, the main draw for me is the opportunity to discover new and more outlandish outfits and to experiment with new techniques to make sure that each carnival’s photos are better and more innovative than the last.
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TING THERE
Venice Marco Polo Airport is about seven miles from the city by road, closer by water taxi. Venice Santa Lucia train station is conveniently located in central Venice, on the Grand Canal.
B E ST TIME TO GO
The carnival dates change each year depending on when Easter (and Lent) falls, but it’s usually held for around two weeks in February, and always ends on Shrove Tuesday.
T H I S PAG E : Ve n i c e ’ s a r c h i t e c t u r e i s a s m u c h a p a r t o f the carnival as the masks; photographing revellers peeking around the city’s columns and archways is a great way to capture wonderfully intimate photos.
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A
L A N D S C A P E
W I T H
M Y T H S ,
U N S H A K E A B L E K AV
D A D FA R
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L E G E N D S FA I T H
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V E R T I G O - I N D U C I N G F R A Z Z L E D
E T C H E D A N D
AWA I T S
H E ’ S
B R AV E D
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A N D
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The tarmac had long been washed away by the mudslides and rockfalls that heavy rains had brought months before. All that remained was the vertigo-inducing gravel track meandering around the mountains which seemed to get narrower with each mile. My nerves were already jangling as we edged past another trucksized boulder that had nestled itself on the road. A slight toot of the horn was the only salvation from oncoming traffic on another one of the endless, blind hairpin bends. “The only straight road here is the runway you landed on,” said my guide, Ugyen, from the front seat of the car. His dry sense of humour was lost on me on this nerve-wrecking road trip. But, at the end of this ten-hour journey was Bumthang – the birthplace of Buddhism in Bhutan.
army of roadworkers for us to continue our 168-mile drive towards Bumthang. The long drive from Thimphu also meant eventually crossing the Mangde Chhu River, where my guide had to complete formalities at the second and final checkpoint on this route – the first being as we departed Thimphu. But instead of the menacing-looking patrols armed with Kalashnikovs that normally police checkpoints around the world, this was a small, unassuming building resembling a toll booth. The smiling guard who sat inside was more concerned with exchanging pleasantries than stamping documents. I had barely stepped out of the car to shake off the vibrations that were still coursing through my bones from our drive when Ugyen came striding back
Trongsa Dzong appeared in the distance, like a shimmering beacon among the deep-green blanket of forest that covered the mountains.
P R E V I O U S PAG E : Kurjey Lhakhang in Bumthang Va l l e y. T H I S PAG E : Locals admiring the view of the capital city of Thimphu.
Like most who fly into this Himalayan nation, my journey began a few days earlier at Paro airport, on the “only straight road” in Bhutan. It was February and the cold snap of the mountain air filled my lungs the moment I stepped off the plane. The specks of snow hovering like feathers in the wind became considerably heavier in the subsequent hours. That night, cooped up in my plush hotel room in Thimphu (Bhutan’s capital), which resembled a 1960s Soviet-style boardroom, I feared I might be there for an extended stay. My goal was to reach the region of Bumthang to experience and document the place where Buddhism is believed to have started in this mysterious country. A country that for so long remained closed to visitors and that values gross national happiness above GDP. Thankfully, by mid-morning the following day the snow and ice at Dochula Pass – which stands at an impressive 10,171ft – had been cleared enough by the
nonchalantly to inform me that we were clear to begin our ascent up the winding mountain road. The climb up was arduous and slow on the gravel track, which occasionally teased us with a bit of tarmac that mother nature had decided to leave alone. As the car slowly made its ascent, Trongsa Dzong appeared in the distance, like a shimmering beacon among the deep-green blanket of forest that covered the mountains. It was hard to resist a brief stop at this mighty stronghold. By this point my fingers had already lost feeling from holding on to the seat. So it was a welcome relief to make a quick detour to wander around the maze-like courtyards of Bhutan’s largest dzong. These fortified monasteries now serve as religious, military or administrative centres of their district and are a reminder of the daring and incredibly beautiful architectural designs of the Bhutanese in the past centuries.
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Built perilously on the edge of a gorge high above the Mangde Chhu River, Trongsa Dzong’s strategic location resulted in great wealth and power for the governor (penlop) of Trongsa. The penlop presided over the trading route of east and west Bhutan as the only road connecting the country used to run directly through the dzong; the gates could be shut at any time, thus splitting the country in half. On our approach to the dzong, a faint hint of music had begun to echo around the car. The fortified monastery’s position means that anytime there is music playing there the sound carries across the gorge, like a pied piper tempting anyone approaching to visit.
the sun were peering over the mountains. Bumthang encompasses four main valleys – Ura, Tang, Chumey and the largest, Choekhor (which is often referred to as Bumthang Valley) – which are all historic and sacred. Carved by ancient glaciers, the lush forest-covered slopes sweep down gently to effortlessly blend into the valley floor where the traditional whitewashed houses punctuate the landscape like a miniature model village. This region is home to some of the oldest and most revered temples in the country, like the small Jambay Lhakhang, built in AD659 by Tibetan king Sogtsen Gambo. Legend has it that the temple was one of 108 that were built in one day
To genuinely appreciate the country, you need to suspend your own beliefs and embrace these legends and stories of magic and miracles. By Bhutanese standards, this festival was a small affair: the local town indulging in a feast in one of the many courtyards, along with the dzong’s 200 monks. Mingling with the locals, who were dressed in their smartest and most colourful ghos (robes for men) and kiras (clothes for women), were the extravagant, customary masked entertainers. Ugyen explained, “Dzongs are also a place for people to get together and socialise so these local festivals are often just an excuse for a party”. Although the warmth of the afternoon had begun to diminish and the sun was taking refuge behind the mountains, it seemed as though the party was far from being over. But I was in no mood to join in, thinking of the precarious final stretch of our drive to Bumthang. As we gradually left Trongsa behind, the sheer drops and dramatic views from the road were replaced with gentle rolling valleys and alpine forests. It also meant a return to tarmac, which Ugyen explained was because of the protection that the forested area gives against potential mudslides and rockfalls. We finally reached our destination as the last rays of 164
in order to pin down an evil demoness who lay across the Himalayan region. Each of the temples was strategically built to pin down one part of the demoness, with Jambay Lhakhang – the oldest of Bhutan’s lhakhangs (temples) – holding down her left knee for eternity. Folklore and myths of demonesses and evil spirits dominate Bhutan’s history. To genuinely appreciate the country, you need to suspend your own beliefs and embrace these legends and stories of magic and miracles. It is through one such myth that the origins of Buddhism in this country began to take shape. In AD746, the king of Bumthang, Sendharkha, was feuding with his southern rival, King Nahuche. When Sendharkha’s son was killed in battle, the king, filled with sorrow and anger, blamed the god who was supposed to be protecting his lineage – Shelging Karpo. He decided to withhold any offerings from his protector and ordered that the sacred places of the god be desecrated with excrement. In his revenge, Shelging Karpo punished the king by turning the sky black and slowly stealing the king’s life force.
C LO C K W I S E FROM THE TOP: A masked dancer i n Tr o n g s a D z o n g ; Snow at Dochula Pass; My guide lighting candles at a shrine in Jambey Lhakhang; A man spins prayer wheels in Jambey Lhakhang.
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T H I S PAG E : J a k a r D z o n g i n B u m t h a n g Va l l e y
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This is where one name that visitors hear repeatedly in Bhutan – Guru Padmasambhava, otherwise known as Guru Rinpoche – comes to the fore. Believed to have been a native of the Swat region in Pakistan, he is regarded as the Second Buddha and credited for introducing Buddhism to Tibet and establishing the first monastery there. As the king lay dying, word was sent to Guru Rinpoche to visit Bumthang in order to use his supernatural powers to cure the king and defeat Shelging Karpo, who had retreated to his cave. Upon arrival, Guru Rinpoche began to meditate in a rocky cave and produced so much energy that he left an imprint of his body on the rock. (In 1652 this became the site of Kurjey Lhakhang – one of the holiest and most important monasteries in Bhutan.) To tempt Shelging Karpo out, Guru Rinpoche began to dance in the field next to a temple. Although this spectacle attracted all the local gods, Shelging Carpo remained hidden away. Guru Rinpoche eventually lured the mischievous deity out from hiding by sending the king’s daughter, Tashi Khuedon, to fetch water in a golden vase. Intrigued by the flashing sunlight reflecting off the vase, Shelging Karpo ventured out – at which point Guru Rinpoche transformed into a mythical bird called Garuda. His fearsome talons grabbed Shelging Karpo and forced him to not only restore the king’s health but to also become a protector of Buddhist teachings and followers. In return for restoring the king’s health, Guru Rinpoche demanded that the king make amends with his enemies, and thus peace was restored. It was from this visit and from this region that Buddhism is believed to have spread across the country. Myths and legends like this can be found all around in these parts – like whispers as you journey through this region. Every holy site has a story that combines fact and fiction, which is ingrained into each and every child and adult alike. As I wondered around the temples, streets and villages, speaking to locals who welcomed me as if I were an explorer of yesteryear, one thing became abundantly clear. The complete devotion of the Bhutanese people to their spiritual beliefs is not something that is in danger of wavering. I didn’t witness any occasions on which someone would pass a prayer wheel without spinning it. Or a relic or shrine devoid of money and prayers. The more time I spent in Bumthang, the more I found myself embracing these tales and yearning to get a better understanding of the deep-rooted traditions of the region and its people. This culminated in an invitation to observe evening prayer in one of the monasteries in Choekhor on my final night. As the lights went out and candles were lit, the hypnotic and rhythmic chanting of monks filled the ornate red interior of the room with the gusto of a full orchestra. As strange it may sound, even with sound echoing around the temple, I felt a complete sense of calmness and silence descend over me and began to deeply appreciate how special this region was. It is impossible to fully understand and appreciate Bumthang in a fleeting visit. But I will never forget the magnificent four days that transported my imagination and beliefs in this spiritual heartland of the “Land of the Thunder Dragon”. Suddenly the ten-hour journey back on a spine-shaking gravel road didn’t seem as daunting.
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As the lights went out and candles were lit, the hypnotic and rhythmic chanting of monks filled the ornate red interior of the room with the gusto of a full orchestra.
BHUTAN
T H I S PAG E : Mo n k s p ra y i n g by c a n d l e l i g ht d u r i n g eve n i n g prayer in Lhodrak Kharchu Goemba. O P P O S I T E PAG E F R O M T H E TO P : M y g u i d e a n d d r i ve r e n j oy i n g a beer in a local bar; A priest in Ura Lhakhang; A novice m o n k c a r r y i n g w a t e r i n t o Ta m s h i n g L h a k h a n g .
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INTO BHUTAN’S SPIRITUAL HEARTLAND
T H I S PAG E : Ku r j e y L h a k h a n g i n B u m t h a n g Va l l e y
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The most convenient way to reach Bhutan is a direct flight from Delhi or Bangkok. However, be aware that flights are limited, and weather conditions can sometimes mean delays.
B E ST TIME TO GO It’s best to avoid the winter months (December to late February) when many of the mountain roads can become inaccessible due to snow and ice. With major festivals throughout the rest of the year, a visit between March and November provides a good chance of coinciding with one of these events.
CURRENCY Ngultrum TIME ZONE GMT+5 FO OD Bhutanese food includes curries, barbecued meats and fried vegetables. Traditionally, dishes are spicy and cooked with lots of chillies, but they are made milder for tourists.
MUST- PACK ITEM Motion sickness medication for long car journeys. Altitude sickness medication is also advisable (speak to your doctor in advance).
WHY GO An example to the world of living in harmony with nature, Bhutan has resisted much of the over-development that has happened elsewhere in this part of Asia. Its constitution ensures that at least 60% of the country is covered by forest and as such provides ample walking, hiking and wildlifespotting opportunities, together with a rich cultural experience. Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
Photo Credits: All photos by Kav Dadfar.
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THE A L L- A M E R I C A N S A F A R I: C U S T E R S TAT E PA R K ’ S B U F FA LO R O U N D U P
Every September, out on the prairie of Custer State Park in South Dakota, approximately 60 horseback riders help push herds of 1,300 to 1,500 buffalo across 29,000 hectares to their corrals. The Buffalo Roundup is the largest event hosted by the park but it’s more than just a spectacle – it serves as Custer’s yearly buffalo health check, helping to keep the population in balance with the available land and resources. Visiting as a photojournalist, I got to stand in the back of a pick-up truck, holding on for dear life as it off-roaded across the plains behind the cowboys – an exhilarating, magical experience that felt like an all-American safari. PHOTO ESSAY BY LAURA GRIER
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THE ALL-AMERICAN SAFARI
P R E V I O U S PAG E : T h e c h o s e n c ow b oy s ro u n d u p t h o u s a n d s of American buffalo, starting just after sunrise.
THESE GIANT ANIMALS ARE FA S T E R , M O R E P O W E R F U L AND MORE GRACEFUL THAN YOU WOULD EXPECT
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A N D C A N J U M P N E A R LY S I X F E E T V E R T I C A L LY , OUTRUN A HORSE, AND TURN ON A DIME.
ABOVE: Cowboys and cowgirls ride out across the open plains, with the American and South Dakota flags flying high. L E F T: T h e A m e r i c a n b i s o n l o o k s s l ow a n d u n a s s u m i n g , b u t w h e n thousands of these animals start stampeding across the plains it sounds like rolling thunder and shakes the ground.
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THE ALL-AMERICAN SAFARI
ABOVE: Thousands of spectators line up to watch the cowboys and cowgirls drive the large herd into a final corral, after hours of herding buffalo across the park.
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THE ALL-AMERICAN SAFARI
YOU DON’T NEED TO KNOW HOW TO RIDE A HORSE TO BE RIGHT IN THE ACTION:
ABOVE: Over 25,000 spectators come for the Roundup – not just for the main event but also for the three-day arts festival, which features local artisans and a famous buffalo barbecue.
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JUST BRING A COWBOY H AT, S O M E B O OT S A N D A WILLINGNESS FOR ADVENTURE 179
THE ALL-AMERICAN SAFARI
ABOVE: Approximately 60 horseback riders help push herds of 1,300 to 1,500 buffalo across 72,000 acres to their corrals.
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THE ALL-AMERICAN SAFARI
& COW
GIRLS
ABOVE: The herds can suddenly stop and change direction, so it can take a whole village of people, working as a group, to bring the herd together. R I G H T: T h e Ro u n d u p i s C u s t e r S t a t e P a r k’ s y e a r ly h e a l t h c h e c k of t h e buffalo herd and keeps the population in balance with the available land and resources. If this wasn’t done, the buffalo would overgraze their grasslands, which would be unable to sustain the other animals that live here, such as elk, deer and pronghorn.
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COW BOYS
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T H I S PAG E : I n t h e e a r ly m o r n i n g , solo riders go out to locate the herds in order to help the cowboys plan out their strategy for rounding up the buffalo.
NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Custer State Park is in the southwest of South Dakota, off U.S. Route 16A. The nearest airport is in Rapid City, 36 miles away.
B E ST TIME TO GO The Roundup is held annually over three days towards the end of September.
CURRENCY US dollar TIME ZONE GMT-7 185
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T H E
W O R L D ’ S
M E D I E VA L H A S
B E E N
T H E
N I N T H
C I T Y,
C E N T U R Y.
P A S T
I N T O
M U C H
I S
M E D I N A
A LT E R E D
A L L E Y WAY S
T H E
C O M P L E T E
F E Z ’ S
B A R E LY
P L U N G E S O F
M O S T
K E I T H
I T S A N D
S T I L L
S I N C E D R E W
M A Z E F I N D S V E R Y
P R E S E N T .
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There are 10,000 alleyways in the Medina, if you can ever count that kind of thing in a place like Fez. And in this maze of rabbit holes and dead ends, each one feels like a gamble. Landmarks are sparse among the mud-brick walls, so smells guide you instead: freshly carved cedar from the woodworkers’ district; saffron and cinnamon in Souk el Attarine; the stench of the tanneries. Sounds, too. Which is how you can always tell when you’re approaching Place Seffarine – the hammering of brass and copper rasps around the corner, ricocheting off the walls like firecrackers. The square is framed by the Kairaouine Mosque on one side and the Medersa Seffarine on the other. It is open and bright, a shock after the knitted backstreets that funnel you here, and it thrums with the rhythm of industry. From the fringes comes the chaotic Morse code of metal on metal and, in the shade of a single gnarled plane tree in its centre, two men on upturned plastic crates are taking it in turns to chase little dents across the base of a large cauldron with thin hammers. On the steps behind them sits Hamid Filali, dressed in a weathered smock, his skullcap pushed high up on his forehead. He alternates between working the copper ring in his hands and working the crowd of onlookers that have started to gather round him. Part artisan, part entertainer – exactly how I remember him. I have been visiting Fez for nearly a decade, using the recurring cycle of a guidebook update to dive a little bit deeper each time. He doesn’t know it, but Hamid has been a constant companion. Every time I’ve crossed Place Seffarine – on my way to see a new riad in the El Andalous quarter, perhaps, or to pick up another pair of slippers from the rainbow of stalls lining Derb Chouwara – Hamid has been there, copper in hand. Sometimes, he’ll root around inside his workshop for a copy of a black-and-white photograph of himself as a younger man, sat on the same steps and surrounded by a similar set of enormous copper rings; he wields it as provenance almost, as if the way he deftly works the metal hasn’t been learned over a lifetime. Or 41 years, to be precise, my guide Mustapha informed me during a break for mint tea after my first visit to the square. Hamid had started working on Place Seffarine when he was eight years old – Mustapha called him “a child of the Medina” –
P R E V I O U S PAG E : Ha m i d F i l a l i wo r k i n g . T H I S PAG E : V i ew of t h e Ka i ra o u i n e Mo s q u e .
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patiently studying under the same maalem (master craftsman) for four decades until he could be considered a maalem himself. It is the same story, the master and his apprentice, that has been repeated across the Medina, by woodcarvers, knife makers, leather workers and weavers, since the founding of Fez over 1,200 years ago.
Its houses are a jumble of creams and browns, a pattern only broken by the rooftops of mosques.
is an exhibition of the skills they handed down, none more so than the Medersa Bou Inania, the minaret of which you can see through the horseshoe arches of Bab Boujeloud. A theological school built in 1350 by the Merenid Sultan Abou Inan, the Bou Inania was where Mustapha first brought me on my very first trip to Fez. “We are starting with perfection,” he had said definitively, sweeping his hand around the courtyard as we had both just stood and stared at the layer cake of tiled mosaics, stucco and carved cedar.
When people talk about Fez, what they are usually talking about is Fez el Bali, or Old Fez, the city built by Moulay Idriss II at the beginning of the ninth century but scarcely altered since. It is draped across the bowl of a valley and creased with the shadows of buried alleyways. From the hill that rises behind the Medina’s northern ramparts, its houses are a jumble of creams and browns, a pattern only broken by the rooftops of mosques, tiled in green – the colour of Islam. From up high, you’re in a kind of between-worlds, near enough to hear the life that is playing out below but too far away to see it, at once removed from the city yet somehow still intrinsically attached. Whenever I’m in Fez, I come up here in the evenings, to sit and watch the wood after spending all day among the trees. Swifts chase each other round the ruined tombs that stand at one end of the hilltop, black scimitars soaring against the haze of distant mountains before swooping down to roost. I locate Hamid and the metalworkers by the domed white minaret of the Kairaouine Mosque and then follow the sound of the muezzin as it swells across the Medina, from one minaret to the next. There are seven gateways into Fez el Bali. The most beautiful of these is Bab Boujeloud, stout and strong, with a crenelated top and an exterior that is inlaid with swirling blue tiles – the colour of Fez. The gate is a surprisingly recent addition, built in 1913 during the early years of the French Protectorate, but it continues a flair for artistry that began when Idriss II opened up his young city to refugees from Andalucían Cordoba and from Kairaoun in Tunisia. Every religious building in Fez
FROM THE TOP: Decorations on the wall of the Medersa Bou Inania; A street vendor in the Medina.
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Paul Bowles, whose political novel The Spider’s House was set in 1950s Fez on the eve of independence, wrote that the city’s “interest lies not so much in relics of the past as in the life of the people there; that life is the past, still alive and functioning.” It remains seemingly unchanged all along Talaa Kebira, the main central street of Fez el Bali, which begins just inside Bab Boujeloud and runs down past the Bou Inania and down, down, down into the bowels of the Medina. It is cobbled throughout, with grooves and ramps worked into the steps so that donkeys – dragging carts loaded with sacks of couscous or bundles of goatskins soaked the colour of claret – find the climb back out only marginally less difficult. Sometimes, where the street narrows, it is covered by a latticework roof, all but blocking out the sun; dust fizzes like bubbles in the tubes of light that puncture the gloom. Talaa Kebira starts mundanely enough, with fruit and vegetable stalls side by side, but you’re quickly onto live chickens, trussed up by their feet in wire cages, and a very dead camel – or at least its head, acting as a shop sign for the neighbourhood butchers. As you move through the Medina, one trade replaces another, just as it has done for centuries. Describing Fez in A Geographical History of Africa, Leo Africanus observed that “each occupation hath a peculiar place allotted thereto”, listing the composition of the 16th-century Medina as wax merchants then milk sellers then girdlers, then “those that sell hempe, ropes, halters” and “those that sell salt and lime.” The souks, still bearing the names of their original trades – Rue Cherabliyine, the Road of the Slipper Makers; Place en Nejjarine, the Square of the Carpenters – maintain a pattern that often follows the production process in reverse. Hooded robes, fanned out like snow angels and pinned to the Medina walls, give way to shops selling reams of the wool and silk that is used to make them. Stalls specialising in metal clasps become the workshops of ironmongers, which, in turn, become shops full of goatskin bags. The oaky perfume of new leather dissolves into the reek of the tanneries, where workers still rinse hides in vats stained yellow, blue and red with turmeric, indigo and crushed poppies, trampling them soft like grape-pickers at the end of harvest. There is a local saying that all roads in Fez lead to the Kairaouine, and this is where Talaa Kebira winds up, dropping you off outside the mosque’s doorways. It was founded by Tunisian refugees in 895, the catalyst for Fez becoming the spiritual centre of Morocco and a seat of learning unmatched by any city west of Cairo. Scholars came from across Africa and Europe to study at the Kairaouine university, now the oldest in the world, and the mosque still governs the timing of all Islamic festivals in Morocco. There is room for 20,000 worshippers here, but the Medina has consumed it to such an extent that it is only when the doorways are open, and you can see children washing themselves in the courtyard fountain before heading inside to pray, that you would ever really know it was there.
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The oaky perfume of new leather dissolves into the reek of the tanneries.
FEZ, MOROCCO
T H I S PAG E : R i n s i n g hides in the tanneries.
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When UNESCO added the Fez Medina to its list of World Heritage sites in 1981, it did so partly because the Medina “transmits a lifestyle, skills and a culture that persist and are renewed despite the diverse effects of ... evolving modern societies.” But it feels like time is finally catching up. About halfway along Rue Mechatine, which curves off Place Seffarine away from the Kairaouine, you will find the hole-in-the-wall workshop of Mohammed Saili, the last of the comb-makers that give the lane its name. He has been fashioning animal-shaped combs out of cow horn since 1965, grasping a wooden vice between his feet to steady the combs while he chisels out their teeth; but he is nearly 90 years old now and his children are employed in other lines of work.
I have peered through the workshop doorway of the last man in Fez to make wooden buckets for the hammam.
C LO C K W I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: A souk in the Medina; Moroccan slippers; A carpet shop with colourful rugs and Berber carpets on display; S p i c e s f o r s a l e ; Tr a n s p o r t i n g goods by donkey in the Medina; Handmade leather cushions; A brass worker in the Medina; Said Akessbi working in his shop.
In recent years, I have met Said Akessbi, the last man in Fez to work in damascene, the technique of inlaying threads of gossamer-thin silver into metal plates, vases and bracelets, which are then blackened in the kiln. I have peered through the workshop doorway of the last man in Fez to make wooden buckets for the hammam. And I have watched Abdelkader Ouazzani, the last of Morocco’s brocade weavers, hunched over his wooden loom, hands and feet working in unison as he creates another few centimetres of finely patterned fabric. Brocade weaving found its way to Fez from Andalucía 1200 years ago but is in the last throes of succumbing to low-cost, machine-made cloth from China; and there are no apprentices to take over Abdelkader’s workshop. There is a glimmer, though, in an acronym: the CFQMA, a vocational training centre on the road that runs from Fez el Bali to Fez el Jedid, or New Fez (although “new” in Fez is relative; the district is still over 700 years old). As a shopping experience, it lacks the drama of the souks, but the students here are learning the trades that will be necessary to maintain them. Apprenticeships last up to three years and cover ceramics, wood, leather, metal, weaving and basketwork; along with the more contemporary requirements of marketing and business know-how. It might not be the decades of tutoring that Hamid had, but it could just keep the sounds of Place Seffarine from fading.
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AMONG THE MASTER CRAFTSMEN OF FEZ
T H I S PAG E : V i ew d ow n a n a r row Me d i n a s t re e t .
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FEZ, MOROCCO
NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE Fes-Saïss Airport is nine miles south of the city; taxis from the airport will drop you off at one of the gateways or squares on the edge of the Medina.
B E ST TIME TO GO Spring or autumn.
CURRENCY
Moroccan dirham
TIME ZONE GMT -1 FO OD Couscous and tagines dominate the menus at most restaurants, but Fez is also known for its more refined cuisine, such as pastilla, a sweet and savoury pigeon pie.
MUST- PACK ITEM Another suitcase – you’re going to need something to put all those slippers, spices, lanterns, teapots and woodcarvings in.
WHY GO Fez is a city for exploring on foot: cars are not permitted beyond Bab Boujeloud, which makes the Medina the largest pedestrianised area in the world. The volume of people going about their daily business in this spider’s web of streets forces you to slow down; you’re not rushing to see the next big sight and you start noticing the little details that normally remain elusive, start piecing together the nuances of a way of life that’s long been left behind elsewhere. Spending time here feels like a privilege.
Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
Photo Credits: P 1 8 6 - Fr a n c o i s A n t o i n e / P i c f a i r ; P 1 8 8 - D e v y/ D r e a m s t i m e ; P 1 8 9 - S u l o z o n e / D r e a m s t i m e ; C a l i n S t a n / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 1 9 1 - Tr a v e l b o o k / D r e a m s t i m e ; P 1 9 2 - G e o r g i o s Ts i c h l i s /A l a m y ; B e t t y L e u n g / D r e a m s t i m e ; M i c h a l B a l a d a / D r e a m s t i m e ; D i n o z z a v e r / D r e a m s t i m e ; S v e t l a I l i e v a / D r e a m s t i m e ; J a n W l o d a r c z y k /A l a m y ; a g e f o t o s t o c k /A l a m y ; P 1 9 4 / 1 9 5 - C h e s t e r Vo y a g e /A l a m y .
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AT T H E CROSSROADS OF CHANGE PHOTO ESSAY BY MALCOLM FACKENDER
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NAMIBIA
P R E V I O U S PAG E : Himba women perform the otjiunda dance.
As our car slows to a walking pace, it feels as though we have reached the end of the world – or, at least, the end of Namibia. We arrive in the dusty, crowded town of Opuwo after driving for eight hours and 455 miles from the capital, Windhoek. It certainly seems to be the end of the line, with the thriving town signalling the end of sealed roads and the beginning of graded gravel tracks that radiate out to numerous remote villages. In fact, Opuwo means “The End” in the language of the local Herero people. Our eyes, tired from the long journey, are now wide open again, taking everything in as we drive slowly down the main street. The town is a hive of activity; businesses are open and the locals are going about their daily lives, dressed either in their traditional attire or more modern western clothes.
On the opposite side of the road stands a Zemba woman with her shopping, flagging down a car for the journey back to her village. Like the Himba woman, she is bare chested, but here the traditional animal-hide skirt has been replaced by a colourful fabric, complemented by a colourful plastic-bead headdress, necklaces and bracelets. Opuwo itself is unlikely to be much of an attraction, but venturing out from here offers the unique opportunity to meet and gain an understanding of some of Namibia’s ethnic groups, and the challenges that face them in retaining their traditional way of life, especially with the allure for young people of moving to town, in search of what is assumed to be a better life. It’s bitterly cold when we arrive at a Himba village, an hour’s drive out of town.
Goats can be heard bleating nearby; among them is a young woman, wrapped in a blanket, collecting milk for a porridge breakfast.
We spot a Herero woman walking proudly down the road, wearing a long, brightly coloured Victorian-style dress with a matching cow-horn-shaped headdress; alongside her is a Himba woman who couldn’t look any more different, bare chested and wearing a simple animal-hide skirt and elaborate traditional handmade jewellery. While both women have a very distinctive look, the Himba are the most recognisable in Namibia with their unique tradition of covering their skin and braided hair with red otjize paste, a mixture of butterfat and ochre pigment.
The sun is yet to rise and the village is still. Goats can be heard bleating nearby; among them is a young woman, wrapped in a blanket, collecting milk for a porridge breakfast. It is not long before the village starts stirring, and children huddle around a small fire to keep warm while waiting for their food. The village is surrounded by a large circular stockade made of logs and dry thorn-bush branches; a dozen windowless cone-shaped mud huts sit within these walls, and in the centre is a sacred ancestral fire, known as an okuruwo, and a corral for their sacred livestock.
C LO C K W I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: Himba woman wearing traditional handmade jewellery; Himba family waiting for porridge to cook; Himba girl collecting goat’s milk; Himba women touching up their hair with otjze paste; Himba women gathering water; Himba woman milking the village’s sacred cow; Inquisitive Himba children; Himba children keeping the baby goats away during milking.
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Their colourful dresses, complete with several petticoats, are a reminder of their troubled past with German colonists.
As the women and children set about their morning routine, we realise that the village is somewhat devoid of men. This is, we find out, because the women and girls are responsible for the majority of the tasks within the village, while the men herd the livestock and are often away for extended periods of time. Historically, the Himba were semi-nomadic but they now tend to stay in a permanent village, requiring the men to graze their animals further away. Another thing we notice is how little modern influence (by our western standards, at least) there is in the village. While there is access to electricity, it’s only used in one hut in order to charge mobile phones. Most phones belong to people visiting from Opuwo – who are typically original members of the village – however some elders also have mobiles, providing a means of better communication, particularly when it comes to transport and getting supplies from the town. Young children have access to education nearby, but the elders have somewhat mixed feelings about it: some believe it will prepare children for the future, while others fear it will ultimately draw them away from their traditional way of life. Many of the young girls here have never been into town, yet the allure of a different life to that of their parents is already entrenched, with many saying they want to leave the village. The adults of the village typically only visit town to purchase medicine, seek medical attention or buy urgent supplies. There’s clearly an effort being made by this particular village’s chief and elders to retain their way of life, but with constant improvements in education, communication and transport, it’s impossible not to wonder how much longer it can last. Chiefs from other villages have already adopted a more modern approach, accepting that the
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world has changed and it’s best to prepare the children for a potential life outside of the village. As we travel on from the village, we notice many small tracks leading off the dusty, gravel road, each going to another remote village. The car suddenly stops, immediately enveloped in a cloud of dust. Once the dust settles, we head down one of the tracks, which eventually reveals a new village, with a Herero woman standing proud, wearing her brightly coloured Victorian-style dress. As different as they may seem, the Himba are in fact descendants of the Herero and speak the same language. The arrangement of the Herero village is similar to that of the Himba one we visited, yet while they still share many cultural traditions –such as the sacred ancestral fire – their housing has taken on a more modern square shape, with metal roofing and curtained windows. In contrast with the simpler Himba huts we had seen, the Herero houses are fitted out with beds, lounges, electrical lights and appliances. Their colourful dresses, complete with several petticoats, are a reminder of their troubled past with German colonists, while their headdresses are a homage to the cattle that have historically provided the Herero people with their wealth. While these changes may be a sign of greater wealth from cattle farming, they’re also a prime example of change arising from western influence, historically with the German Colonists and more recently through improved education and access to the more modern facilities of Opuwo. After the Herero settlement, we wind our way to our third and final village of the day. Originally from Angola, the Zemba people are also known as Zimba or Dhimba.
C LO C K W I S E F R O M TO P L E F T: Ze m b a children excited to see us arrive; Daily life in the Zemba village; A Herero couple; The modern design of Herero houses; Zemba women dancing during a circumcision ceremony; Smiles from Zemba children, despite the chilly winter morning; Zemba women showing their colourful outfits; Zemba women and children huddling around the fire to keep warm.
NAMIBIA
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T H I S PAG E : T h e H i m b a h a ve a ve r y distinctive appearance, with otjize paste applied to their body and braided hair.
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T H I S PAG E : H i m b a front incisors that into a v-shape; he tucked behind his his head.
man with two have been filed uses the spear ear to scratch
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Upon arrival, we’re greeted by a group of women sitting and talking, while children run around chasing goats with joyful smiles. As with the Himba village, it seems devoid of men – they too are out tending to the cattle. This village appears somewhat less orderly, with basic raised huts spread over a much larger area. Inside, it is no different to what we saw in the Himba village, with a simple fire and bedding draped down the walls. While also sharing many of the same cultural practices and traditions as the Himba, there are distinct differences. Firstly, the Zemba speak their own language – it is closely related to Herero and regarded as a different dialect. As with the Himba, Zemba women have a unique hairstyle, though their black hair is formed into a bulbousshaped fringe, using a mixture of cow dung, fat and herbs. This fringe is adorned with colourful plastic beads and seeds, which matches various other items of natural and artificial jewellery that they wear, and their skirts are made from brightly coloured or patterned fabrics. While the Herero have found a balance between traditional culture and a more modern life, the Himba and Zemba seem to be resisting change – or at least trying to. At the moment, the wealth of a person and/or village is measured by head of cattle. Better education will likely result in paid employment for some of the villages’ youths, and money will certainly change the current dynamic. Some young people are already abandoning their traditional clothes for western apparel, and no longer apply otjize paste to their bodies, treat their hair or remove teeth in accordance with their traditions. Back in Opuwo, it occurs to me that Namibia’s ethnic people are now at a crossroads, caught between preserving their traditional ways of life and moving forward in a way that will potentially benefit their younger generations. One thing is certain: change is inevitable. T H I S PAG E F R O M T H E TO P : A Ze m b a wo m a n applies a clay/manure mixture to the walls of her new hut; Zemba women dancing. R I G H T: He re ro wo m a n we a r i n g h e r c o l o u r f u l Victorian-style dress and matching headress.
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NAMIBIA
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T H I S PAG E F R O M T H E TO P : Initially forced to wear the Victorian-style dresses by German colonists, the outfits are now worn with great pride by the Herero; Zemba woman grinding flour from maize, with a child harnessed to her back.
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T H I S PAG E F R O M T H E TO P : Himba girl with traditional plaits extended forward over her eyes; Himba woman comforting a child.
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T H I S PAG E : A y o u n g H i m b a g i r l wa r m s up in the early morning sun.
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE International flights arrive into Hosea Kutako International Airport in Windhoek. The easiest option for onward travel is to hire your own car; it’s an eight-hour drive up to Opuwo from Windhoek.
B E ST TIME TO GO Between July and October, when temperatures are comfortable and rainfall low.
CURRENCY Namibian dollar;
South African rand is also legal tender
TIME ZONE GMT+2 209
ABOVE: This is a caption: Lorem ipsum Evelesti occatet dolleca erionec torepud
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LOSING TIME ON THE NORTH COAST 500
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We forget that it was us who took the poetic orbit of the sun and turned it into the prosaic year. That we took one rotation of the earth and called it a day. When we look at time, we see its sharp edges, the boundaries and barricades set in place by our calendar. Yet, in reality, time flows continuously, never stopping to acknowledge the things we call it. Still, we go on metering out our lives, squishing far too much into far too little. As it is with life, so it is with travel. How often have you planned an itinerary that rams as much as possible into the fewest possible rotations of the earth? How regularly have you spoken of “doing” a place, of “ticking off” an experience? How often do you speed, and skim, and skip over, when what you really want to do is slow down and dive in deeper? The first time I travelled the North Coast 500, I drove its 516-mile loop from Inverness in five days. This was the length of time billed in various places as how long it took to “do” the route and so I plonked a five-day-sized box in my calendar with little thought. On that journey, time slipped constantly away from me as I grabbed at it as uselessly as grabbing at water. I saw the landscape in flashes – a jolt of jade-green mountain here, a twinkle of sparkling, sapphire waterfall there – forever constrained by the edges of my windscreen. I resolved to return and to travel more slowly. I promised myself that I would abandon the car wherever possible and work on wearing down the treads of my walking boots instead. I would use the NC500 route as a trailhead, striking off from it to explore further. And so, on my next trip, I turn my back on the main route immediately after departing Inverness, heading east and out onto the Black Isle instead of due north. I am aiming for Cromarty, where I’ve heard captain Sarah takes visitors out dolphin spotting. Because we all love dolphins – seriously, have you ever met anyone who doesn’t coo over them? – this is a real draw, and the village is buzzing with people when I arrive. Most of us are here for a trip with Sarah’s company EcoVentures and we are soon being bundled into allover waterproofs, Sarah’s casual suggestion that it “might be a bit bumpy” causing my Highland understatement detector to flicker into life. After travelling extensively in Scotland – where someone saying it’s “a wee bit breezy” means you could well be blown off your feet – I’ve learned to add a healthy dose of dubiety to any local’s weather forecast. Sure enough, we are soon flying up and down as if on a rollercoaster, the waters of the North Sea drenching us until our eyebrows drip. Nobody gives a hoot though, because now we’re out in the Moray Firth, scanning the gunmetal waters for any sign that might herald the appearance of the world’s northernmost pod of bottlenose dolphins. At first all we spot are oil rigs and seabirds and we simply bob up and down on the waves, listening to the wind and squinting at the horizon.
P R E V I O U S PAG E : S a n d wo o d B a y. T H I S PAG E F R O M T H E TO P : I nve r n e s s C a s t l e ; A bottlenose dolphin in the Moray Firth; A n E c oVe n t u r e s t o u r ; R a z o r b i l l s i n t h e M o r a y F i r t h .
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There is a timescale for this trip of course, but Sarah is happy to push on its boundaries and so we wait, scanning and squinting some more as we try to distinguish the white cap of a wave from the tell-tale water break of a fin. After a while, a puff of air rises audibly above the wind: dolphins. Sarah points and pretty much everyone squeals as we fix our eyes on first one fin and then several, slicing up through the water, followed by blowholes and inquisitive faces, their mouths turned up at the corners as if in a wry smile. By the time we return to shore the sky is darkening. There has long been a ferry crossing at Cromarty and the shadow of past wealth lingers on every building, preserving an 18th-century feel that would have been ruined had the promised railway line ever made it here. This timeless charm winks at me from Georgian windows as they catch the sun’s waning light, and I am pulled into the cat’s cradle of narrow streets as if they do not want to let me go. For once, I do not tussle with my desire to stay awhile; I accept that more time will flow past me here than I had anticipated. The ghosts of past prosperity continue to follow me up the east coast. At my Cromarty B&B, Shirley had told me stories of the Whaligoe Steps and I seek them out just past Lybster. I find a staircase, plunging flagstone by flagstone down from the clifftop to a petite harbour. Around its edges the sea has been lulled very slightly into submission and I imagine the herring boats unloading their catch here, a line of muscular women with baskets waiting to take the so-called “silver darlings” to market. This was once the heart of a thriving industry; today all that thrives here is grass. As time has passed in the Highlands so too have its people and today the area is one of Europe’s most sparsely populated. This is a place young people too often leave – it has always been part of the North Coast 500’s purpose to encourage them to stay. When tourists come, the money follows, but it doesn’t land squarely. As new businesses boom with NC500 cash, people living alongside them bemoan the state of the roads, the overcrowding of the landscape. There are too many tourists dashing through at speed, hiring sports cars in Inverness and chewing up the tarmac in their rush to finish, to “tick off” the Highlands. Too many of us don’t listen when the locals tell us we are ruining their communities, that we need to slow down, that there is more to see if only we would stop and look. With this in mind, I set my course for Dunnet Head. Despite it being mainland Britain’s northernmost point, this is somewhere most people speed past on their way to take a selfie with the far more famous signpost in John o’Groats and so I have the headland almost to myself. I wander across the jade and russet landscape, sodden with puddled lakes, and watch gannets diving, risking their necks again and again as they plunge into the North Sea in search of food.
FROM THE TOP: Dunnet Head; Clachtoll Beach; Kylesku Bridge; Achmelvich Beach
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It occurs to me that our lives too are filled with risks. To care, to try, to love. To travel, even. I arrived here entirely consumed by my own concerns, dwelling on the risks I may be just too scared to take. Yet standing at the summit of cliffs sheerer than any I’ve seen in Britain before, it’s obvious how little the landscape is affected by my being here, how insignificant I truly am. I am no more significant than any one of those gannets, my human scale utterly dwarfed by the swell of the ocean, the howling of the wind. This is the magic of the Highlands. Here the elements are all-powerful. This is a landscape that disembowels, pulling all of our nonsense – our baseless fears, our needless worries – out into the light and exposing their inconsequence in the contrast with what is timeless and unyielding. The mountains, the waterfalls, the beaches – all were here long before I was. And they will be here long after I depart. When I finally turn away to continue on my journey, my face is damp with more than just North Sea spray and I feel that I have left at least some of my cares behind.
This is the real challenge of the NC500 not to complete it in record time, but to complete it at all once you’ve slowed down enough to truly enjoy it. The last time I was here, I had no time for Sandwood Bay. The beach is a four-mile stomp across the bogland from the nearest road – a road that is itself a diversion from the NC500 – and so I had ignored local insistence that this was a beach worth seeing, plunging on along the route regardless. This time I make no such mistake. I leave the car near Blairmore and follow a track as squally showers pass overhead, peeling my waterproof jacket on and off with indecisiveness. I have counted the cars in the car park and know how many groups have set out ahead of me. As first one couple, then another, pass me on their way back to their cars; I try to keep count of the vehicles they represent. The milky afternoon sun picks out details in the bogland to distract me, bouncing off pools of smooth water and catching the white wings of passing birds, but hope rises as I near the trail’s end and start to believe I might have passed every one of those car dwellers. As I climb the dunes, the hope soars; an arc of sand, sweeping away from me, is revealed on either side, utterly bereft of people. L E F T: D u n c a n s by Stacks near John O’Groats.
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To see a beach like this at all is a privilege, to get it to myself feels more like an illusion. And in a way, of course, it is. Because I don’t have it to myself at all; there are hundreds of other souls here, it’s just that they aren’t human. Kittiwakes and guillemots cause me to whip my head up as they catch the corner of my eye, while tiny snails shuttle their antennae back inside their shells as my boots approach them, flattening the grass. I clamber onto a rocky ledge exposed by the retreating Atlantic as the waves crash around my eardrums, tumbling with the squawks of the seabirds. It’s cacophonous yet peaceful, a jumble of noises just harmonious enough to be the sort you’d play to aid your sleep. I sweep my eyes over sands as smooth as the top of a jar of Ovaltine then close my eyes in order to feel and hear instead. As my breathing slows and my muscles unclench, I find I have let go of time entirely. This is the real challenge of the North Coast 500 – not to complete it in record time, but to complete it at all once you’ve slowed down enough to truly enjoy it. As I wend my way southwards, I find I am constantly pulled by glimpses of the Atlantic to stomp across more white-sand beaches – at Clachtoll, at Achmelvich – and that I have long since stopped resisting any chance to linger over a seafood platter, gouging every last salty piece from each lobster claw and langoustine shell. Slowly it begins to dawn on me: I am not going to finish the North Coast 500. I look at my map, encouraging my eyes away from the dotted red line stamped into it and suddenly I see the route for what it is. A suggestion. After all, the roads I’m driving were here long before anyone thought to brand them. They have always been, and they remain, the A838 or the A835, or some other similar number, and I need not be constrained by them. I throw the map onto the back seat and decide I will simply go where my mood takes me. 216
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ABOVE: Aerial view of Sandwood Bay and Sandwood Loch.
To see a beach like this at all is a privilege, to get it to myself feels more like an illusion.
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This turns out to be Stac Pollaidh, a toothy ridge-like pinnacle that appears pinched up from the earth like the spine of a stegosaurus. It has grabbed me by the eyeballs on my journey past and I find myself lacing up my hiking boots and setting off up the ridge side, near desperate to stand at its summit, to pretend for just a moment that I can conquer a Highland mountain. The air is cool but the sun is warm and as my cheeks pinken with the effort of my legs, my breath begins to labour and my mind can fix only on the physical effort of it all. It’s akin to a meditation, one foot finding the path ahead of the other, and by the time I reach the top my mind has ceased all racing.
A panoramic spread of rumpled sage and pea-green hills that appear almost velveteen, like the rucked-up baize of a billiards table. And then, the view. A panoramic spread of rumpled sage and pea-green hills that appear almost velveteen, like the rucked-up baize of a billiards table. Their lumpen mounds are separated only by calm, flat waters in pools and stripes that seem to merge with each other and then with the sky itself. I squint into the sun and find myself confused by what is cloud and what is distant hill. I find, though, that it doesn’t matter. It may feel like the elements are playing with me, but they are simply doing what they always have. I remain an inconsequential witness, passing through. I may not have completed the North Coast 500 this time, but I have slowed down to a pace I am finally comfortable with, not completely letting go of the barriers and barricades time seeks to impose on me, perhaps, but allowing the Highlands to hide them from view, at least for a little while. I emerge back in Inverness more in love with the Highlands than ever. And, as ever, time flows on around me, regardless.
FROM THE TOP: A gannet in flight; Stac Pollaidh; The road from Applecross to Culduie.
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE The North Coast 500 loops out from Inverness, the only city on the route. Inverness Airport is 15 minutes northeast of the city, while the train station (served by sleeper trains from London) is in the centre.
B E ST TIME TO G O Although the warmest weather tends to be in high summer, this is also when the route is most crowded. Visit in early spring (avoiding Easter when there are school holidays) or in late autumn and you’ll find quieter roads – and correspondingly happier locals!
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FO OD Expect hyper-local seafood including langoustines, mussels and lobster, plus British pub-style dishes such as pies, sausage and mash, and fish and chips. Even the tiniest pubs have superb whisky selections; if in doubt ask for a recommendation and try what’s local.
MUST- PACK ITEM A waterproof jacket is essential; Scotland’s green landscapes are lush for a reason.
WHY G O To sit on the cool, sculpted stone of an ancient quayside, feet dangling, face seawards, and feast on decadent lobster and chips, without caring whether it’s lunch or dinner or something in between.
Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
Photo Credits: All photos by Kav Dadfar with the exception of: P212 - 2nd, 3rd, 4 t h i m a g e - a n d P 2 1 9 - 1 s t i m a g e - b y E c oVe n t u r e s , C r o m a r t y .
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T H I S PAG E : Ac h m e lv i c h B e a c h a t s u n s e t .
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A C O N F LU E N C E O F C U LT U R E S Uzbekistan’s strategic position between east and west – and its history as a passageway for traders – has led to a beguiling blend of cultures. The country’s secular constitution is etched across its landscapes, its people, and its many, beautiful crafts. PHOTO ESSAY BY LOLA AKINMADE ÅKERSTRÖM
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P R E V I O U S PAG E : T h e Ka ly a n M i n a re t a n d Po-i-Kalyan Mosque complex in Bukhara.
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T O P L E F T : Ta m a r a , a K a z a k h w h o i s married a local Uzbek shepherd. TO P R I G H T: A n a r t i s a n i n G i j d u va n shows some of his source materials. B OT TO M : A s p i c e s t a l l a t S i a b B a z a a r in Samarkand.
UZBEKISTAN
TOP: Kamilla sweeps her yard in the tiny village of Hayat, in the foothills of the Nuratau Mountains. B OT TO M : Ve n d o r s a t t h e f a r m e r ’ s market in Siab Bazaar in Samarkand.
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R I G H T: A n a r t i s a n h a n d p a i n t s a ceramic bowl at the Gijduvan workshop of sixthand seventh-generation ceramicists Abdulla and Alisher Narzullaevd. B E LOW : T h e S h a h - i - Z i n d a avenue of mausoleums and palatial tombs in Samarkand.
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L E F T: A l o c a l m a n l i f t s his skullcap, called a doppa, in greeting. B E LOW : T h e m a j e s t i c b l u e dome of the Bibi-Khanym Mosque in Samarkand.
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ABOVE: Artisans show off hand-painted ceramics and dishware, including large round dishes called lyagan which are often used to serve up Uzbekistan’s iconic and ubiquitous plov, also known as pilaf.
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L E F T: T h e Ka ly a n Minaret in Bukhara at night. R I G H T: A n i g h t market selling handmade crafts and fabrics in Bukhara.
The understated elegance of the architectural tile work, mosaics and motifs spills into the pottery and other handicrafts that Central Asia is known for.
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NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE There are international airports in Tashkent and Samarkand; trains connect both cities with Bukhara.
B E ST TIME TO GO Spring and autumn. T H I S PAG E : T h e P o - i - Ka ly a n Mo s q u e c o m p l e x in Bukhara consists of three structures built in the 12th to 16th centuries (Kalyan Minaret, Kalyan Mosque and Mir-i Arab Madrasa).
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P R E V I O U S PAG E : A p o l a r b e a r l o o k i n g a t i t s re fe l e c t i o n . T H I S PAG E : No r t h e r n Lights in Churchill.
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Miss Piggy, the community centre and the post office are not the recommendations you expect when you’re visiting a town on the edge of the Arctic. But expedition guide Jason Ransom turns out to be on the money. “Quirky” – a place or person characterised by peculiar or unexpected traits – is an overused word. But the subarctic town of Churchill, Manitoba is not your average Canadian town. From the prairies and farmland of the south, the landscape in Canada’s middle province transforms into the tundra and boreal forest of the far north, one of wildflowers and Arctic hares, polar bears and beluga whales, Northern Lights and Northern culture, colonial forts and indigenous stories. Also overused is “remote”. But Churchill is remote. There are no roads in or out of town; it’s a two-night train journey from the province’s capital, Winnipeg, or a plane ride. In March 2017, a blizzard and snowstorm left Churchill in a state of emergency – and when the ice melted, floods destroyed the railway, its main transport link. It was 18 months before it was restored, in which time prices increased, tourism dipped and many left town. Throughout, a sense of community held the place together.
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POLAR HARMONY
It’s often the people who make the place. And Jason was right when he said the community centre “is a real insight into life here”. It also takes the term “multipurpose” to new heights. The place is a social hub, a hospital, school, library and theatre. The noticeboard is a spyglass into everyday life (carcass collections for sale, indigenous language lessons) and there’s a gym, hockey arena, bowling alley, curling rink, pool – and a polar bear safety centre. Churchill is the “polar bear capital of the world”, and Polar Bear Alert Program signs around the Churchill Wildlife Management Area are numerous: “Stop. Don’t walk in this area”; “If a polar bear attacks, you must fight back”; “Don’t run or play dead, back away facing the bear, get into a vehicle or building asap”. Unnerving? A little. But all part of harmonious Arctic living. If a bear is provoked, it may be shot, and no-one wants that. Fatal encounters are rare, but don’t even think about that selfie. There’s a “polar bear jail” here, although it’s really a Polar Bear Holding Facility (with a spectacular mural) where wandering bears stay until they’re released safely back into the wilds. One bear can weigh up to 126 stone and stand up to ten feet tall. At Halloween, the town’s children still go trick-or-treating – but with a polar bear patrol. It’s all perfectly normal.
At Halloween, the town’s children still go trickor-treating - but with a polar bear patrol. A BRIEF HISTORY
Churchill, despite its imperialist name, is on Treaty 5 Territory, the original lands of the Ininiwak, AnishIniniwak and Dene, and home to Inuit and Métis. Land acknowledgments are increasingly common in Canada, as wrongs of the past are recognised towards First Nations (Indians such as Cree), Inuit (Eskimo is no longer used) and Métis (mixed indigenous and European, usually French, ancestry) communities. This spot on the Churchill River feeding into Hudson Bay, named after English sea explorer Henry Hudson, was prime property for the English-owned Hudson’s Bay Company, set up to find a northwest route to the Pacific (HBC is now a Canadian retail store). Churchill became their first trading post in the 17th century during the lucrative fur trade – or “soft gold” – and the town got its name from John Churchill, the first duke of Marlborough and governor of the Hudson Bay Company from 1685–91. In the 18th century, the company built the Prince of Wales Fort to promote easier trading with the Dene and Inuit people, who lived north of York Factory, one of the company’s main trading posts. It was a time of exploration, expansion and exploitation for the European imperialists. Indigenous and European trappers did most of the animal trapping, travelling by canoe to forts to sell the pelts. The fort had a short life. It took the British 40 years to build and just ten to surrender to the French, who were also seeking control of the Bay. You can visit the fort, too. It’s just across the river, visible from the headland of Cape Merry and Fort Churchill, a popular viewpoint for its sweeping views of the bay. On a lucky day, you might even see beluga whales.
LIVING HISTORY
Just as Dr Livingstone didn’t “discover” Victoria Falls, the Duke of Marlborough didn’t “discover” Churchill. Indigenous people make up around half of the town’s population and their ancestors were here long before European settlers. At Churchill’s Parks Canada Interpretation Centre inside the railway station, Florence Hamilton, a guide and descendent of the Sayisi Dene who settled in the Churchill area, shares stories beyond the Company and the fur trade. She talks about Dene Village, two miles southeast of Churchill, where the Sayisi Dene people were forcibly relocated to live in squalid conditions, leaving a nomadic, caribou-hunting culture for urban life. “A third of the population died between 1956 and 1973,” Florence says.
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Today, a memorial rock placed by Sayisi Dene First Nation commemorates this dark period of genocide and relocation that almost wiped out the community, with children forced into residential schools to separate them from their culture. “All my stories are here in Churchill,” Florence tells us. Next to her, a plaque reads: “This is how we were taught as native people. Land is not something you own. Land is a gift that you use to live. Protect it and look after it. (Chief Vera Mitchell, Poplar River First Nation)”. As Jason says back at Lazy Bear Lodge, Churchill’s story doesn’t just belong in the past. “History lives in the local people, their family traditions, working on family trap lines, raising sled dogs, hunting to provide for their families, fishing in the Hudson Bay … these still happen today and travellers seem genuinely interested in the town’s true history.”
CHURCHILL TODAY
Today, around 900 people live in Churchill, but it was once home to 4,000 to 7,000 people. During World War II and the Cold War – and until as recently as 1980 – it has been the site for a research station, rocket launch site, supply centre and military base. It’s hard to imagine a full house. Churchill can feel deceptively quiet, but there’s life behind those closed doors. Plus, they’re closed for a reason – doors, including car doors, are kept shut but unlocked, in case anyone needs a quick getaway from a bear encounter. Kelsey Boulevard’s clapboard houses, stores and churches are a joy to explore, with architecturally satisfying straight-lines design, such as the bright-blue Polar Bears International House visitor centre, and if you fancy a polar bear stamp in your passport, step into the post office. There’s also spectacular street art around every corner, usually themed around climate change, wildlife and polar bears. On these wanderings, you might come across a “weather station” with a rock. A sign says “If the rock is wet … it’s raining. If the rock is white … it’s snowing” and “If the rock is gone … tornado.” Who needs an app? Walk along Bay Shore Road and you’ll find Inuit stone structures known as inunnguaq (“in the likeness of a human”). These are, as the translation suggests, human-shaped, and are often a sacred spot or hold a spiritual meaning around safety, hope and friendship. They’re often beside inukshuk, which means “that which acts in the capacity of a human”; these stones were used by the Inuit to send messages and locations, something not always easy above the treeline in the tundra. There’s one supermarket, the IKEA-esque Northern Store where beer seems cheaper than potatoes. Fresh produce comes at a cost in the Arctic. Churchill’s Boreal Gardens are trying new
Churchill can feel deceptively quiet, but there’s life behind those closed doors. technologies to supply cheaper vegetables to locals, and the Rocket Greens programme, managed by the Churchill Northern Studies Centre, aims to supply residents with self-contained gardens. Shopping is an unexpected pleasure, at Wapusk General Store, Arctic Trading Company, Here Be Bears and Fifty Eight North to name a few, for Inuit art, textiles and more. Many double up as visitor centres where you can book trips like husky sledding (mushing) with indigenous-owned companies Blue Sky Expeditions or Wapusk. Restaurants tend to be connected to accommodations, like the Seaport Hotel and Lazy Bear Lodge (an excellent café with a focus on indigenous ingredients), but one exception is the Cheers-like Tundra Inn Dining Room & Pub, a favourite for its Tundra trivia night, Arctic char, elk meatloaf and vegetarian Borealis burger. The town has “quirks” in abundance. Miss Piggy - “You’ve got to see it, it sums the place up,” our guide Jason had said – is the wreckage of a cargo plane that crashed on this spot in 1979 with thankfully no deaths. It was too costly to remove the wreckage, so it stayed, getting its name from carrying too
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much cargo. Even the railway line, Churchill’s only land link to the world, has a tale. Work on the line began in 1911, reaching Hudson Bay in 1929 – which meant Manitoba’s grain production could now reach Europe via Churchill’s seaport. There’s more public art by way of two giant golf balls atop the abandoned, graffitied 1960s radar station that tracked launches from the nearby rocket range, now the site of the Churchill Northern Studies Centre, a field station. “The subarctic has always been on the frontline of environmental indicators,” says Graham Neale, its executive director, “and our goal will always be to provide a larger understanding of that context.”
INUIT ART
For context, the best spot in town is the Itsanitaq Museum (formerly the Eskimo Museum), which opened in 1944 and is Canada’s first Inuit art museum. “Itsanitaq”, an Inuit word meaning “things from the past” is spot-on to describe this one-room wonder managed by curator Lorraine Brandson. The stuffed polar bear and narwhal horns grab your initial attention, but it’s the Inuit carvings made from whalebone, soapstone and caribou antler that tell of Inuit legends and stories, plus harpoon heads dating back millennia, and bone carvings of shamans and bears from the pre-Inuit Thule and Dorset cultures. For Lorraine, a visit to Churchill is also about understanding the ecology of a place on the edge of the Arctic, with tundra, boreal forest and marine habitats. “The ability of indigenous peoples to historically survive in this Northern environment provides a key understanding of this area. And for those who love the scenery and outdoor life, Churchill remains a constant source of beauty and amazement,” she says. Does she feel Churchill is better sharing the indigenous narrative? “The historic and cultural narrative is as strong or as weak as the individuals involved with these activities,” she says. It’s a valid point, putting the onus on those involved. She’s personally looking forward to the reopening of the newly built Myrtle de Meulles Métis Hall, the heritage hall devastated by a fire in 2014, which is named after Myrtle de Meulles, a local Métis historian and elder, whose many Métis artifacts – used in cultural presentations – were destroyed in the blaze.
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TOP IMAGE: Artwork on a building in Churchill. C LO C K W I S E OPPOSITE: The Polar Bear Holding Facility; The crashed remains of Miss Piggy; Churchill train station; A general store in Churchill.
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However, over the last 40 years, Lorraine has noticed increased interest in bears, whales and the Aurora Borealis/Northern Lights versus Northern culture itself. “Cultural interest has become tour-grouporiented,” she says. “How to find an indigenous person to inform a group for a specific time slot.” She’s also concerned about accelerated tourism in the bear season. “A shrinking economic base has, in part, created unhealthy competition in this highly seasonal time to generate revenue.”
BEARS AND BELUGAS
Lorraine is right – Churchill’s wildlife remains a big attraction. In the summer, an estimated 3,000 beluga whales gather in the Churchill river basin to feed and give birth. Snorkelling with belugas is no longer allowed, but Lazy Bear Expeditions have concocted “aqua gliding” using a drysuit, full-face snorkel and a foam mat pulled by a Zodiac. Lying across the mat, face down in the Arctic water, it’s a novel if cold way of coming face-to-face with the silvery, ghostly belugas, who are infinitely warmer in their five-inch-solid blubber. Coming up for air, you can still hear these vocal “sea canaries” chattering, whistling and singing. Another day, we kayak alongside the pods. The playful whales mess about with the rudder, while others leave your steering alone. Polar bears remain the holy grail, especially from September to November when the pack ice forms and they leave the tundra in search of food (seals) on the frozen Hudson Bay. That doesn’t mean you won’t see any at other times, including in summer. After several outings on Zodiacs, kayaks and on an Arctic Crawler (Lazy Bear Lodge’s tundra vehicle), it’s aboard the Sam Hearne boat that we get lucky. It seems trite to say there’s nothing quite like seeing a mother polar bear and her cub. But there isn’t. She appears above the rocks with her cub, and we watch the pair pad about, curling up together, as Arctic terns fly overhead. A polar bear notice comes to mind: “Give them room… Use your zoom”. Polar bears are the undisputed emblem of Churchill, evocative of the Arctic experience. And while they’re the star attraction, it’s clear Churchill has many more stories to tell, some more difficult than others. For now, we watch mother bear and cub move away until they’re no longer in sight. They’ll return in greater numbers when the ice forms in a month or so – a sign that all is well, in the tundra anyway.
O P P O S I T E PAG E : B e l u g a w h a l e s . T H I S PAG E F R O M T H E TO P : Churchill Northern Studies Centre; Lazy Bear Expeditions’ Arctic Crawler; Churchill sign in the town; Husky sledding.
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THAT TOWN THAT LIVES LIFE ON THE EDGE
T H I S PAG E : A n i n u k s h u k in Churchill, used to send messages and locations.
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CHURCHILL, MANITOBA
NEED TO KNOW G E T TIN G THERE With no roads in or out of Churchill, the choice is between a two-hour flight or a two-night VIA Rail train journey from Winnipeg; you can also travel by train from Thompson (16 hours).
B E ST TIME TO GO Spring for wildflowers and birdwatching with thousands of snow geese in June. Summer for beluga whales in the Hudson Bay and bears on the tundra. Prime polar-bear viewing is September to November; this is also a good time for the Northern Lights which you can hope to see until late March.
CURRENCY Canadian dollar TIME ZONE
GMT-5
FO OD Food is generally hearty and warming in the subarctic. Elk, Arctic char, bison, Arctic cranberries and wild berries are local specialities at many places such as the cosy Lazy Bear Lodge restaurant, and the Tundra Inn’s elk meatloaf and vegetarian burger are borderline legendary.
MUST- PACK ITEM Layers. Weather is changeable in Churchill and you just never know when you need to peel off or wrap up.
WHY GO Churchill is the type of place that really sticks in your head; isolated and sparse, yet welcoming and cosy. After a cold day, you’re warming up by the fire at Lazy Bear Lodge, recalling the polar bear spotted and the belugas beside your kayak, thinking about the settlers who arrived and reshaped the town, and the stories, art and culture of the Inuit and indigenous communities. It’s a town with so much personality and so much to say that you want to hang out in it as much as you can.
Plan your own trip: jrnymag.com/issue-1-info
Photo Credits: A l l i m a g e s b y Tr a v e l M a n i t o b a w i t h t h e e x c e p t i o n o f : P 2 3 5 - D e r e k K y o s t i a / P i c f a i r ; P 2 4 2 - K e v i n S c h a f e r /A l a m y .
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CONTRIBUTORS
E M M A G I B B S - E D I TO R A freelance editor and writer, Emma’s worked with some of the biggest names in travel publishing – including Lonely Planet, Rough Guides and Bradt Travel Guides – and has updated guides to Laos and France, among others. She works with a broad range of established and new writers and small companies, across fiction and non-fiction. She’s currently knee-deep in editing her own novel, which was shortlisted for the 2020 Agora Books’ Lost the Plot Work in Progress Prize.
emmagibbseditorial.com @emmgibbs
JA M I E L A FFE RT Y A writer and photographer based in Glasgow, Jamie has been visiting Antarctica and South Georgia for over ten years. Once, when snorkelling in Antarctic waters, he found out his dry suit hadn’t been fully sealed and observed that it felt like he had “been stabbed”. He’s often nostalgic about the smell of penguin guano, fishing for glacial ice and feeling so cold his face has gone numb. Jamie was the 2020 Consumer Travel Writer of the Year.
jamielafferty.com @ MegaHeid
PH I L I P L E E H A RV E Y Born in Canterbury, England, Philip is a multi-award-winning photographer, film-maker and former Travel Photographer of the Year. He has travelled the globe in search of his subjects, from the dark drama of a Haitian voodoo ceremony to the stark brightness of the Bolivian salt flats. His images focus on the character of people and places. His photography acts as a physical and emotional adventure, a journey and an exploration of the perfect moment.
philipleeharvey.com @ PhilipLeeHarvey
I A N PAC K H A M Ian is an award-winning freelance travel writer, adventurer and after-dinner speaker. The author of two travelogues, he has also contributed words to the likes of Africa Geographic, Adventure Travel and TNT, as well as two Bradt travel anthologies. Fascinated by off-beat destinations, he specialises in Africa and has spent more than two years in total travelling around the continent, largely by locally available transport, including a five-month stint on Sierra Leone’s Banana Islands.
encircleafrica.org @ianMpackham
DA R L E N E H I L D E B R A N DT With over 32 years’ experience, Darlene has photographed everything from food, products and editorial to portraits, weddings and events. Nowadays she prefers doing street and travel photography but still considers herself first and foremost a people photographer. Darlene shares her skills and experiences with beginner and intermediate photographers through articles on her website and video tutorials on her YouTube channel.
digitalphotomentor.com youtube.com/DigitalPhotoMentor
B E N L E RW I L L Ben is an award-winning freelance writer and children’s author based in Oxfordshire, England. His work has appeared in dozens of different publications, including National Geographic Traveller, The Guardian, The Sunday Times, The Observer, The Telegraph, BBC Countryfile, Wanderlust and Time Out. His children’s books focus mainly on the natural world. He likes loud music, long walks and good books.
benlerwill.com @ BenLerwill
M AT T PA R RY Matt is an award-winning travel photographer based in Cheshire, UK. His images and articles have been featured in leading travel and photography publications, ranging from National Geographic Traveller to Amateur Photographer. He hosts videos, gives talks and runs workshops on travel and film photography.
mattparryphoto.com @ MattParryPhotography
S T E PH DYS O N Steph is a bilingual freelance travel writer, guidebook author and blogger originally from the UK, who now splits her time between her home country and South America. Since 2014, she’s spent her time travelling across South America, authoring guidebooks for Moon, Rough Guides and DK Eyewitness along the way.
stephdyson.com @WorldlyAdventur
R A L PH V E L A S CO A professional travel photographer, author, public speaker, YouTube creator and podcaster, Ralph is the founder and CEO (Chief Experience Officer) of two highly rated travel brands: PhotoEnrichment Adventures and Alla Campagna Experiences. He’s organised and led more than 100 cultural tours around the world, with a focus on photography. Ralph has been location independent for more than eight years and runs the Continental DRIFTER YouTube channel.
photoenrichment.com @RalphVelasco
C L A I R E B O O B BY E R Claire first went to Cuba after Fidel Castro restored Christmas Day to the public holiday calendar in 1998. Hooked immediately, she has returned to write about the island ever since; Cuba is her second home. She’s written about the island for The Telegraph, The Sunday Times Travel Magazine, Wanderlust, The Independent, Condé Nast Traveller and Lonely Planet, among others, and has authored guides to Cuba for Frommer’s and Hardie Grant.
claireboobbyer.com @ClaireBoobbyer
J O R DA N B A N K S Jordan is one of the founding editors of JRNY Travel Magazine as well as an accomplished travel and lifestyle photographer. His 20-year career has seen him shooting assignments and high-end content for travel, tourism and lifestyle brands such as British Airways, Kuoni, Lonely Planet and National Geographic.
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jordanbanksphoto.com @JordanBanksPhoto
CONTRIBUTORS
LOT T I E G R O S S lottiegross.com @LottiecGross
Lottie is a award-winning travel writer and editor from south Oxfordshire. She has lived on the south coast, spent a decade in London and has travelled all over the world, but she’s happiest romping around the footpaths where she grew up, close to the River Thames, with her dog. Her work has appeared in British, American and Asian publications including The Daily Telegraph, The Times, AFAR, National Geographic Traveller, World Travel Magazine, HELLO! and Woman & Home.
M A R K S T R AT TO N markstrattontravels.com @MarkofDartmoor
Mark is first and foremost a traveller, both independent and persistent, who writes, photographs, and dabbles a bit in radio. He loves the remote corners of the world and all animals, and turns his words for national UK titles and BBC radio – written from either his laptop on the go or his wild Dartmoor base.
UGO CEI ugoceiphotography.com @UgoCei
A landscape and travel photographer from Italy. Ugo sees himself as an educator who helps photography enthusiasts sharpen their skills so they can take amazing pictures. He creates educational content on his personal website and YouTube channel, collaborates with websites and magazines, and leads photo tours and workshops around the world. He co-hosts and publishes a weekly podcast about travel photography, The Traveling Image Makers.
K AV DA D FA R dadfarphotography.com @DadfarPhoto
Kav is one of the founding editor of JRNY Travel Magazine. He is also a freelance writer and photographer, based in the southeast of the UK. Over the years he has worked with tourist boards, and editorial and commercial clients, with work appearing in the likes of Condé Nast, National Geographic, Wanderlust, Lonely Planet, Rough Guides, American Express, Daily Mail, The Sunday Times Travel Magazine, The Express, The Guardian, and many more.
L AU R A G R I E R lauragrier.com @LauraGrierTravel
Laura has been called the “Indiana Jones of Adventure Travel Photography”, and is a recent addition to the Discovery Channel UK’s “20 Richest People in the World List” – people who are rich in life experiences, that is. A globetrotter from an early age, having grown up internationally with parents who worked for the CIA, she graduated with a dual degree in Photojournalism and Art Photography, and has made a life out of exploring the world and writing about her experiences.
KEITH DREW lijoma.com @KeithDrewTravel
Keith writes about the wilder regions of the world for a variety of print and digital titles and has authored and updated over a dozen guidebooks to places like Argentina, Costa Rica, Japan and Morocco. He is the co-founder of Lijoma, which provides inspirational itineraries for independent family travel.
M A LCO L M FAC K E N D E R malcolmfackender.com @MalcolmFackender
An award-winning travel photographer, Malcolm specialises in small-group international photographic tours. With four decades of photographic experience, he has conducted hundreds of workshops and presentations in his home country, Australia, and some 70 photographic tours to six continents. As a travel photographer, Malcolm’s photography covers many different genres, though he has a special interest in wildlife, people and culture.
HELEN OCHYRA helenochyra.com @HelenOchyra
Helen is a Scotland-obsessed freelance travel writer and author of the critically acclaimed Scottish travel book Scotland Beyond the Bagpipes, a Times Travel “book of the week” and one of Wanderlust’s “best travel books of 2020”. Helen specialises in British travel and her work has recently appeared in The Times, The Telegraph and Grazia, among many others. She lives in London with her husband and two young daughters.
LO L A A K I N M A D E Å K E R S T R Ö M lolaakinmade.com @LolaAkinmade
Lola is a Stockholm-based award-winning visual storyteller and bestselling author who contributes to the likes of National Geographic, The New York Times, The Guardian, BBC, CNN, Travel Channel, Travel + Leisure, Lonely Planet, Forbes, and many more.
M E E R A DAT TA N I meeradattani.com @No_Fixed_Plans
A freelance journalist, travel writer and copywriter with bylines including The Telegraph, Wanderlust and Rough Guides. Meera is also co-editor of online travel magazine Adventure.com, launched in 2017. She is co-founder/co-writer of the Unpacking Media Bias newsletter, and is currently exploring the ethics and decolonisation of modern travel writing. She has a special interest in heritage tourism, travel and food writing around diaspora communities.
B R A D L E Y LU C A S - A RT D I R EC T I O N A N D D E S I G N bradleylucas.co.uk @iWant2ShootYou
A multi-award-winning freelance creative designer, digital artist and photographer. Bradley has more than 20 years’ experience in his field and has shot all around the globe, both film and photography and, with his creative hat on, has crafted award-winning digital content for the likes of Bentley Motors, NetJets, Qualia, WildAid, &Beyond, Monaco Yacht Show, Hennessy and many other luxury brands. 247
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