Immersed in Away

Dizzying Dubai - 3

2011-04-04T13:39:00.000-07:00

Oryx and Sheikh (apologies to Margaret Atwood)
Leaving the bustling cityscape behind, I headed to the Dubai Desert Conservation Reserve and the Al Maha Resort, an unusual combination of raw nature and extreme luxury. We turned off the main highway and drove along a small sand-blown road until in the distance I saw a clump of trees with tents scattered among them. After check-in, a golf cart drove me to a villa with a large sail of a canvas roof. Inside, I was greeted by a king-size bed, Arabian antiques and bathtub in which you could launch a ship. Outside, wooden decks and a personal infinity pool offered long views over the desert. I felt guilty as hell, but it was absolutely, deliciously decadent.

The resort with its pools attracts a variety of animals and birds, an oasis in the middle of a dry, hot desert. I went for a drive with a naturalist in the afternoon as the sun turned soft orange. An endangered oryx posed against the sky. Delicate little Arabian gazelles gazed shyly at us. On spotting us, a sandfish lizard disappeared into the dune in a flurry of sand. The dunes were like art with sculpted ridges and rich shadowy ripples.

This piece of desert offers a good-news conservation story. The oryx, an antelope with long sharp horns, was declared extinct in 1968. The Sheikh organized a breeding program in Arizona using a number of captive oryx. In 1998, about 50 oryx were returned and released in the reserve. With government protection, including a fence around the 225-square-kilometre reserve, the population prospered and has grown to over 400 today.

Later, I mounted a camel and we rode for 20-minutes into the desert. We dismounted and walked among the dunes in bare feet, sipping sparkling wine as the sun set in a brilliant giant orb. Then we mounted up and rode back to our modest villas and a sumptuous dinner at the Al Diwaan restaurant.

Next morning I rose for an early swim and then lazed by the pool with a coffee listening to an avian orchestra of coos, chirps and warbles. I never imagined the desert would be so, well, luxurious and comfortable.

More Information:
+ General info: definitelydubai.com
+ The Desert Conservation Centre: http://www.ddcr.org/
+ Tours: http://www.knighttours.co.ae/

Dizzying Dubai - 2

2011-04-04T11:59:00.000-07:00

A filly, several actually, drew me to Dubai. I came to see the World Cup horse race, the richest in the world with total purses exceeding $26 million US.

A gala Arabian Nights evening preceded the race by two days. We drove along a modern highway and soon were in the desert. We passed the Outlet Mall, an enormous structure surrounded by miles of empty sand, and a sign that the recent financial crisis has slowed Dubai’s incredible boom. A camel train wandered past.

A roofless arena that looked like an old fort loomed out of the desert. We entered along a row of Persian carpets laid on the sand. Inside, the arena tiers were set up with elegant tables, glistening glasses and cutlery. We wandered around in the sand-floored centre enjoying displays of Bedouin crafts and foods. As the sun set in a blaze on the western horizon, we went to our al fresco table. We tucked into sumptuous Arabic style cuisine, washed down with, surprise, copious quantities of wine. Then the show began. We were entranced by music, including an Arab band playing bagpipes (!), and horses doing intricate manoeuvres and stunts. The Sheik was present and I got to within about 30 metres. The evening closed with a dazzling fireworks display. Arab hospitality is fabulous!

Two evenings later we fought through thick traffic to get to the big show, the World Cup race. What a party! It’s the social highlight of the year. Beautiful ladies in hats, stiletto heels and ample curves and cleavage paraded back and forth, occasionally contrasting with local women totally encased in black. The new state-of-the-art Meydan stadium, the largest and most opulent horse-racing venue in the world, was crammed with over 60,000 exuberant, happy people. Sheik Mo was in attendance, constantly followed by a coterie of sycophants, all dressed in flowing white traditional robes. Oh, yes, and there were eight horse races. The Godolphin Stables, owned by the Sheik, who else, was the big winner, with three triumphant horses. A magnificent show of dancing, lights and fireworks preceded and built up the suspense for the final race, the Dubai World Cup with a purse of $10 million US. In the thundering charge down the final straight, horses from beleaguered Japan came in first and second.

Late in the night, we fought our way hotelward through thick traffic. I closed my eyes and wondered. The evening had been spectacular, and it had delivered a clear message: the Sheikh is pushing hard to make Dubai a world-class destination. Only time will tell if the initial enormous growth will continue.

More Info: + General info: definitelydubai.com
+ Tours: www.knighttours.co.ae

Dizzying Dubai - 1

2011-04-04T10:48:00.000-07:00

The plane touched down in the Emirate of Dubai after midnight. En route to the hotel, I groggily watched an ultra-modern city pass by: high-rise towers, parks with flowers, modern multi-lane roads and, even at this late hour, plenty of traffic. The only clues that I had landed in an exotic Alice-in-Wonderland were road signs in both Arabic and English and frequent mosque minarets pointing skyward.

Next morning, I strolled through Dubai Mall, one of the world’s largest with over 1,100 shops. An elevator sped us to the observation deck of the world’s tallest building, the Burj Khalifa (828 m). The fantastic view showed clusters of skyscrapers stretching to the Arabian Sea, where a group of man-made islands in the shape of the world shimmered in the heat. I tried to imagine the immense construction boom that created this amazing cityscape, for only two decades earlier none of this was here. Furthermore, this instant city — just add water and petrobucks — is one of superlatives: tallest building, most luxurious hotel (the Burj al Arab, 7 stars), huge cruise-ship port, best horse-race track and to top it all off, an indoor ski hill. How could a world-class city rise so quickly from a barren desert? And would the recent financial crisis halt this frenzied growth?

I wandered through the Atlantis Hotel on the famous man-made Palm Island (Tiger Woods and other famous people have villas here.). Incorporating an enormous aquarium and water park, the hotel epitomizes the over-the-top attitude of Dubai. The Lost Chambers suite, for example, stretches over three stories with its own elevator. The bedroom and bathroom windows face onto the aquarium with sharks and manta rays lazily floating past. Pleasant dreams.

At the Mall of the Emirates the indoor ski hill was busy with snowboarders and skiers — outside the temperature was 30°C! A woman, enclosed in a long black abaya, carried her little son’s snowboard.

The portrait of Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid al Maktoum adorns many walls, a not-so-subtle reminder that Dubai is governed like a benign dictatorship. Not only is Sheik Mo incredibly wealthy with over seven palaces, several wives and 21 children, but he also has the ultimate power in the Emirate. Under his visionary direction this patch of sand has transformed into the thriving commercial and tourism centre of the Arab world, a cross between Singapore and Las Vegas.

I had heard that foreign workers, who form about 80 per cent of the population, are not treated well. But those I spoke with — all in the tourism business — had kind words for the Sheikh. I saw little trace of discontent or fermenting revolt. A dark note though: a critical article about Dubai had been cut out of every issue of Vanity Fair on newsstands.

That afternoon I went on a dune bashing tour in the desert aboard a huge Hummer. I walked barefoot, soft sand squishing delightfully between my toes. The dunes were like artwork with delicate ridges and ripples. The more adventuresome tried sand boarding. Then we sat on cushions on rugs on desert sand and enjoyed an Arab meal under the stars.

My favourite part of Dubai was the gold and spice souks. It was refreshing to wander through crowded, narrow old alleyways savouring the smell of spices, instead of in sanitized malls. The adjacent creek was jammed with dhows, reminders of historical trade routes.

I removed my shoes and entered the coolness of Jumeirah Mosque, one of about 500 in the city. A lady clad completely in black described the five pillars of Islam and its gentle and peaceful culture. These principles are reflected in the city, which for tourists is safe, with little alcohol and no gambling or beggars.

The social highlight of Dubai is the World Cup horse race, described in my next blog.

More Info:
+ General info: definitelydubai.com
+ Tours: www.knighttours.co.ae

A journey into First Nations culture

2010-11-14T14:49:00.000-08:00

Piers jut into the bay. Fishing boats, many in disrepair, bob in the water. Totem poles reach toward the sky. The tang of salt and seaweed hangs in the air. Alert Bay on Cormorant Island off the northeast coast of Vancouver Island is one of the most exotic towns in Canada.

My dearest, Ally, and I and eight other guests are aboard the Columbia III on a Mothership Adventures’ tour that is meandering through the Broughton Archipelago and focusing on First Nations culture.

We visit the U'mista Cultural Centre, which captures both the agony and glory of the Kwakwaka'wakw people. A film shows how the white man in the late 1800s banned the potlatch, an important Native ceremony. In 1921, a large “illegal” potlatch on Village Island was raided and the priceless ceremonial regalia confiscated. Some of the seized items were repatriated and are now displayed in the Potlatch Collection of the Centre. The gallery, designed as a big house, is full of colourful masks representing ravens, eagles, orcas, bears, the moon and sun as well as supernatural creatures. I sense a powerful pulse, an emotional celebration of the songs, legends and dances embodied in these masks.

Next door sits the abandoned, decaying St. Michael=s residential school, a hulking, red-bricked reminder of the persecution of the Native people.

Then we visit the Big House where a large fire lights the dusky interior, showing colourful totems and immense cedar posts and beams. Amidst the smell of smoke and cedar four men drum on a log. The “Determined” dancers, mostly youngsters, circle the flaming fire, proudly performing traditional dances in native regalia.

I am touched by the cemetery in the middle of downtown with its extraordinary array of totems as well as crosses, a strange mixture of Native and non-Native faiths.

Boarding the Columbia I don’t know whether to rejoice or to cry. The soul of the First Nations people is laid bare in this town of contrasts. In places it has poverty and living conditions that makes it feel like a third-world country. But it also displays a culture that is powerful, rich, appealing and rooted in nature. This contrast screams out about the injustices that native people have suffered and the difficulties they continue to face.

We motor on. Once the rising sun chases the fog, the Columbia purrs through the archipelago leaving a wake that gently caresses the shorelines. A mortuary box peers out of the greenery on one island. On another, vertical scars on cedar trees mark where Natives “farmed” bark. At Village Island a decaying totem pole lies in the forest. Along the shore of another isle, rocks are piled along the tide line so clams could be harvested. Later, a petroglyph winks at us from a cliff.

One day, the captain catches up with the A12 pod of killer whales (aka orcas). High black dorsal fins slice effortlessly through the water and spouts of spray rise in the air.

At the Burdwood Group, a glorious gaggle of little islands, we lower kayaks into the water. Some of us paddle while others go ashore to explore the middens (layers of broken clam shells left by centuries of First Nations habitation) and enjoy the view while sitting on sun-warmed rocks.

All too soon it is time to go aboard and chat about today’s adventures over a glass of wine and a gourmet meal. Dusk settles and the islands transform into soft velvety shapes.

More Info

• www.mothershipadventures.com

• U’mista Cultural Center: www.umista.ca

• www.aboriginalbc.com

• I’ve prepared a 32-page, glossy, full-colour book that is rich with photos using Blurb publishing technology. It looks great and contains a lot of information about First Nations and the Broughton Archipelago! Order it through Blurb at:

http://www.blurb.com/books/1609312

Literary-Soaked Edinburgh

2010-09-23T08:49:00.000-07:00

Sipping a latté in Elephant House, the coffee shop where a destitute J.K. Rowling penned her first Harry Potter novel, I realized I had gone astray. Scotch whisky had lured me to Edinburgh, but instead I found myself immersed in literature.

Everywhere I found reminders that Scots love stories, and began to understand why, in 2004, Edinburgh was selected as the first UNESCO City of Literature. Only three other cities (Melbourne, Iowa City, Dublin) have gained this distinction, which recognizes publishing, writing, festivals and encouragement of the written word.

Meandering through Old Town along the Royal Mile that joins Edinburgh Castle with the Palace of Holyroodhouse, I stumbled upon the Writers Museum, a cozy rambling old house accessed via a medieval close or laneway. The Museum celebrates Adam Scott (The Wealth of Nations), Robert Louis Stevenson (Treasure Island, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde) and Robbie Burns (Auld Lang Syne, Scots Wha Hae), who is widely regarded as Scotland’s national poet. Portraits of the authors gazed down from the walls, dusty original manuscripts peered up from glass cases as I learned how these gentlemen lived and wrote. I hoped that some of their talent would rub off on me.

Piercing the skyline to the north, and a constant reminder of Edinburgh’s literary heritage, is an ornate Victorian Gothic statue commemorating Sir Walter Scott (Ivanhoe, Lady of the Lake). Known affectionately as Edinburgh’s Rocket, it is the world’s tallest statue to honour an author.

Farther down the street I came upon the Scottish Storytelling Centre, where “the story is told eye to eye, mind to mind and heart to heart.” The Centre celebrates Scotland’s strong oral tradition. The curator described the long list of events they host and how the Centre is integrated with other story-telling venues and events throughout the city. My favorite event was Tall Tales Oscar, where the silliest yarns are told with deadpan or surrealistic conviction.

For lunch, I savoured an ale and a dram at the Oxford Bar, the pub of choice for the gruff Inspector Rebus in Ian Rankin’s internationally acclaimed murder mysteries.

At the Scottish National Library I was led into the stacks. Amazingly, the international Dewey Decimal System of organizing books is shunned. Instead, books are shelved by size! A Library official explained, “We reorganized and saved five kilometres of shelving.”

That evening, nursing a nip of smooth, peaty single-malt, I day-dreamed about returning in August for the Edinburgh International Book Festival, the biggest celebration of books and the written word in the world. Authors range from up-and-comers to Nobel-prize winners and have included Margaret Atwood, J.K. Rowling, Al Gore, John Irving, Salman Rushdie and more. Perhaps it was the quality (or quantity?) of whisky, but I pictured myself at the Festival reading to a mesmerized audience from one of my books.

Previously, I had thought that Scottish literature consisted of quoting Robbie Burns in a dusky pub. But now I realize literature permeates the very soul of Scotland — and nowhere more than in Edinburgh.

If You go

Scotland info: www.cometoscotland.com

Edinburgh info: www.edinburgh.org

Edinburgh International book Festival: www.edbookfest.co.un

Scotch Whisky Experience: www.whisky-heritage.co.uk

Cardiff: A World-Class City

2010-09-18T19:28:00.000-07:00

It’s unofficial, but I rank Cardiff among the top ten cities on the planet. How can you not love a city full of pubs, with a crenellated castle at its centre, where a bizarre language is spoken and with a confusingly large proportion of males named David? Cardiff — population 325,000 — is caught in a tug of war between the urbanity of a large capital city and the friendly casualness of a small rural centre. I love it.

I checked in at the Angel Hotel, my home for the next few days. From the window I ould see the stolid walls and colourful clock-tower of Cardiff Castle. I set out to explore and was pleasantly surprised that Cardiff is designed around pedestrians not cars. And being flat, it’s perfect for cycling and — get this — they provide bicycles for free. The downtown encompasses St. David’s Shopping Centre and broad, open walkways that contrast with the surrounding delightful narrow lanes, arcades and cobbled streets. The Gatekeeper, the City Arms, the Old Arcade, the Owain Glyndwr and numerous other pubs kept interrupting my wandering, luring me in with foaming pints of Brains cask ale, the local brew.

Bilingual signs are everywhere. The Welsh are proud of their language, although I was baffled by its consonant-filled, tongue-twisting words like Cymraeg, wrthgyferbyniadau and Etifeddiaeth.

Next day I toured Cardiff Bay, a beautifully restored former dockland, where the sun sparkled on waves and the tang of salt water drifted in the air. I strolled along large open plazas, rode an old merry-go-round and explored the Wales Millennium Centre, a spectacular huge opera house. It is one of the finest in the world and celebrates the Welsh love of music. Nearby sat the Senedd, the National Assembly of Wales, an ultra-green, new (2006) building featuring Welsh slate and acres of glass. Time flew by as I jostled with crowds who were drawn by boat tours, cafés, art exhibits and, of course, pubs.

On my final day, I embarked on the Cardiff Centenary Walk under another cloudless sky. I meandered through markets rich with the colours and aromas of vegetables, flowers and fresh fish. I passed St. John’s Church from the 12th century, narrow arcades, remnants of the old fortified city walls and Millennium Stadium, the home of the Welsh passion: rugby union. I entered the gate of Cardiff Castle, which dates to Roman times, and toured through lavish apartments and an interior Norman keep. Soon I was at the City Hall in Cathays Park, one of the most impressive civic centres in Britain. The clock tower rises 60 metres with a Welsh dragon roaring at the top. The interior is ornate with a domed council chamber. Next door are the Law Courts and National Museum of Wales.

My tour continued through Alexandra Garden with its War Memorial and bronzed figures of a soldier, sailor and airman. I gazed across the street to the imposing main building of Cardiff University, a reminder that Cardiff is a university city with a boisterous night life.

Back at the Angel, I savoured a pint of Brains and pondered the long history and proud culture of this Welsh capital. Cheers, all you Davids!

If You Go
http://www.visitcardiff.com/
http://www.visitcardiffbay.com/

London: The Eternal City

2010-09-16T09:23:00.000-07:00

I stepped off the train in Paddington Station and struggled through the pandemonium. Was it really more than 30 years since I had last been in London?

I bumped my suitcase along narrow crowded streets enveloped in the smells of restaurants, the sounds of British accents and the blaring of traffic. Everything seemed so compact, old and, well, grimy. The ubiquitous black taxis I remembered were now emblazoned with gaudy advertising. Double-decker buses rumbled past. I was excited.

After unpacking in a room barely larger than a closet at the Olympic Hotel, I strolled to Hyde Park. The Albert Memorial soared skyward like an over-decorated rocket whose carvings and elaborate wrought-iron-work still celebrate the halcyon days of the Victorian empire. Across the street the rotund Royal Albert Hall watched sedately.

I crossed Exhibition Road to the Victoria and Albert Museum and visited the Nehru Room to see an unusual and controversial exhibit: a model tiger eating a British soldier. A short walk took me to the cathedral-like Natural History Museum. An enormous dinosaur skeleton dominates the huge domed lobby.

Next morning, I took the tube to the Tower of London, the home of the British crown jewels. The ramparts gleamed in the sun as I imagined the many bloody executions in centuries past. I meandered across the colourful Tower Bridge. Up river, the London Eye, a giant Ferris wheel, turned slowly, an in-your-face modern landmark.

An amble westward along the Thames took me into the business section, where the crowded streets were full of people in natty suits. I went into the Guildhall and said hello to Gog and Magog, the mythical founders of Britain.

Another brief saunter carried me to Christopher Wren’s awe-inspiring St. Paul’s Cathedral. I planned to climb to the dome but, sadly, it was closed.

What a city! Simply too much to see! The tube transported me to a crowded Covent Garden where I savoured lunch at the White Lion pub. At Leicester Square many booths offered cut-rate tickets to the numerous West End theatres.

Then I found myself in the pigeon-infested Trafalgar Square with its towering statue of Nelson and bordered by the National Gallery and St. Martin-in-the-Field church. Soon after I arrived at one of my favourite places, the Horse Guards Parade on Whitehall. Sabres flashed and horses whinnied as the guard of bright-red-coated soldiers and horsemen changed.

At the Houses of Parliament I pushed through the heavy crowds and yellow-jacketed constables of a protest march. Big Ben chimed from above as I strode onto Westminster Bridge, which offers the best views of the splendid Gothic architecture of the parliament building.

The next two days flew by in a blur: Portobello Market on Saturday morning; the British Museum and the famous Elgin Marbles; Little Venice Canal, a peaceful quiet oasis lined with long, narrow houseboats; dinner at an Indian restaurant; Buckingham Palace.

Too soon it was over and I was at Paddington Station. As the train pulled out, I thought of how little London has changed. Perhaps it’s more polyglot, with more foreign accents, but just as exciting as always, bustling and bursting with history and culture. Only we people change, we revolve through this grand city in our brief lives. But London endures. London is eternal.

Plan Your Trip at: VisitLondon.com

Golden Inca Civilization

2010-03-26T10:24:00.000-07:00

I lean against an enormous, carved boulder, part of a wall at the world’s number one tourist attraction, Machu Picchu, Peru. Stone buildings, temples and terraces, overwhelming in their elegance and size, lie before me arrayed on the side of a frighteningly steep mountainside. I’m fascinated by the Inca empire, which in the 1400s stretched from Ecuador through Bolivia and Peru to Argentina and Chile, leaving impressive monuments like this, now abandoned and lifeless except for tourists.

Earlier I visited Cuzco, the former centre of the Inca empire. Memories of the golden days are everywhere. I strolled through Coricancha, a temple built for the Sun God Inti, whose walls and floors were once covered in sheets of solid gold and the courtyard was filled with golden statues. A few minutes outside the city is the sprawling Fort Sacsayhuaman, renowned for the size of its construction stones, from 90 to 120 tons.

I learn that the Inca society was remarkably advanced. They were accomplished engineers and designed and built complex stone structures without using cement. The tight fit and the concavity on the lower rocks made them extraordinarily stable, an important feature in an earthquake-prone area. Just as impressive, the Incas were also very capable administrators, governing in a benign and wise manner. Crime, for example, was almost non-existent. The Inca used quipu (bundled knotted strings) for recording and sending messages, and had an extensive road system including two main roads that ran the length of the empire, one in the highlands (5,250 kilometres) and one along the seacoast.

Providing food for the empire was a priority. On a hillside at Moray I looked down on a series of sinuous terraces laid out in concentric circles and arcs. The terraces mimic different climatic zones and were used as an agricultural laboratory to experiment with various types of plants.

At nearby Maras, I meandered through the oldest and most unusual salt mine in the world. It consists of about 2,000 small glistening white pools in which the waters from a saline-rich stream are evaporated, leaving salt. It is still “mined” as it was in the Inca days.

In 1553, Spanish conquistadors led by Fransisco Pizzaro and accompanied by disease, greed, treachery and cruelty, destroyed what was arguably the most socially-advanced society in the world. Now only the silent stones remain.

If You Go
Peru: www.promperu.gob.pe
Tours: www.inkanatura.com
Stay: www.aranwahotels.com
Fly: www.lan.com

The Best Jungle Experience

2010-03-23T09:18:00.000-07:00

Light headed and gasping, I was at 16,000 feet elevation, high above the Andes in an unpressurized Twin Otter airplane. While most visitors to Peru make a beeline to Machu Picchu, I was heading to the the Peruvian Amazon and the best jungle experience ever. Soon, happily, we descended into richer oxygen, and then bumped down on a small grass airstrip hacked out of the dense jungle. The smells were ripe and rich. The foliage was lush and alive with strange caws and chirps. Bugs buzzed. Most of all, it was hot and humid. We boarded a native canoe and travelled up a fast-flowing, turbid tributary of the Amazon, the River of Mother of God, ever deeper into the jungle, ever deeper into a strange lush world in which I felt totally lost.

Once at the Manu Wildlife Center, I settled into a small but comfortable thatch-roofed cabin on stilts. Generator-provided electricity was only on for a few hours each day so we relied on candles at night, a romantic touch. We arose early each morning and boated to clay licks where dozens of macaws and parrots, like technicolour rainbows, fluttered and swirled. We climbed canopy towers and found cactus, orchids and other exotic species high above a dense and variegated jungle. We boated along lake and river and saw endangered giant otters, lethal kaimans, toucans and birds of every ilk. Late one afternoon we hiked to a tapir blind where we lay under mosquito nets and listened to the awesome, scary sounds of the jungle as dusk fell and darkness enclosed us. Our imaginations ran riot as around us the jungle crackled, moaned, hissed and, occasionally, screamed. A troop of howler monkeys screeched past and then, our objective, a 500-pound tapir lumbered past.

Next day while hiking a troop of monkeys rained nuts down on us from the upper canopy. The visit into the jungle was an adventure, like a trip to Mars. Life abounded, nature was in control and I could almost see and feel evolution happening.

More Information
http://www.manu-wildlife-center.com/
http://www.promperu.gob.pe/
http://www.inkanatura.com/

Native Cultural Centre boosts Whistler

2009-10-20T14:50:00.000-07:00

Seeking some cultural enlightenment in the hedonistic, sports-crazy Whistler, B.C., my dearest and I wandered over to the Squamish-Lilwat Cultural Centre, an imposing and dramatic building set against soaring snow-capped mountains, that has quickly become a landmark since it opened in 2008. A large lobby with sweeping windows echoes a Squamish long house. Attached is a circular Lilwat istken, or pit house, its domed roof covered in native plants.
Drumming and a welcome song greeted us. We wandered amongst displays and large dugout canoes made from single old-growth cedar trees. We watched a film that explained the life of the two neighbouring nations and how they have lived side by side for millennia. A tour guide explained the difference between the cultures of the two nations. The Lilwat, more a forest people, traditionally wore leather buckskin clothing, while the Squamish, more a coastal people, built sea-going canoes and wore clothes woven of wool and cedar.
In the museum, dozens of beautiful ceremonial masks are displayed, similar to those used for thousands of years. “These masks,” explained the guide, “are used today in important ceremonies such as weddings and name giving. Next to the masks, two modern snowboards hung on the wall, decorated with bright traditional designs.
At the café, my dearest enjoyed a traditional salmon chowder accompanied by bannock infused with salmonberries while I wolfed done a bowl of venison chilli.
During the 2010 Olympic Games, the world’s attention will focus on Whistler. “The Olympics are going to be crazy, incredibly busy,” Sarah Goodwin, the training and program development manager told us. “These Olympics will have the greatest participation by indigenous peoples in Games history, and our Centre will be right at the heart of things. We are bringing in performers and artists from across Canada and offering story-telling and musical and dancing presentations. The public will participate in weaving and carving.”
We wandered behind the main building to a Squamish long house with cedar beams over three-feet in diameter. Youth ambassadors helped my dearest create a traditional cedar bracelet. Then we strolled along a forest trail with display boards describing various facets of this alpine forest and showing the close connection between native people and nature.
We departed, happy that the Cultural Centre has added an enormous dimension to Whistler and is ready to welcome the world.

More Info
www.slcc.ca
www.tourismwhistler.com

Whistler: Majestic opulence

2009-10-20T10:24:00.000-07:00

My dearest and I arrived in Whistler, British Columbia, in October before the much-awaited snows of ski season. We discovered that the village is over the top. It’s an area of grand alpine scenery with dramatic snow-capped peaks, raging rivers and thick forests. It offers mad, mad outdoor sports: down-hill skiing, mountain climbing, white-water rafting, hiking, horse-back riding and now the latest craze, plunging down steep slopes aboard a shock-absorbered two-wheeler while encased in more armour than a hockey player. And it is opulent! The village is full of million-dollar homes, the streets packed with Mercedes, BMWs and big SUVs and visitors aren’t shy about opening their wallets wide. Now the 2010 Olympic Winter Games are raising the Gucci standard to an even higher level.

Both close-to-the-earth, cheapskate types, we were pleasantly surprised to find that British Columbia’s top tourist draw, although expensive, is getting many things right. Whistler has had good urban planning from the get-go. The “downtown” is attractive, centred on a meandering pedestrian walkway with cafes and outdoor tables. The “suburbs” are built in pods with good bus connections. There are no ugly box stores or neon strips. Furthermore, their vision for the future includes a cap on future expansion. And Whistlerians are passionate about recycling.

One morning we clambered aboard the Village Gondola and rose and rose for over 25 minutes until we had gained 1200m/3900ft elevation and reached near the top of Whistler Mountain. We then had a stunning ride to Blackcomb Mountain aboard the new Peak 2 Peak gondola, which holds records for the longest span (4.4 km), height above ground (436m/1427ft) and speed. We hiked trails on the upper edge of the tree line past boulders splattered with green and black lichen. Glaciers beckoned, a marmot whistled at us and far, far below lay Whistler.

Every day we took a hike. Our favourite was to Cheakamus Lake passing through sombre old-growth forest. At Nairn Falls, the reds and oranges of fall were interspersed with the dark greens of hemlocks and firs. Fresh with rainwater, the Brandywine Falls cascaded dramatically over a cliff.

Our highlight was the ZipTrek Ecotour. The first step off the very high platform deep in the forest was scary indeed. Then the excitement built and built as we took a series of frenetic, heart-pulsing zip runs along thin wires that hung high, high above Fitzsimmons Creek. The longest line stretched 1100 feet. Between flights we walked high in the canopy between observation platforms and learned about forest life and the ways in which we should be helping preserve nature. Returning to base, we stopped at the new Olympic sliding track and watched only a few metres away as a skeleton sled hurtled past at over a 100 km/hr.

All too soon, the week was over and we set off along the beautiful Sea to Sky Highway.

If You Go
-
http://www.tourismwhistler.com/;
http://www.ziptrek.cm/;
http://www.whistlerblackcomb.com/

Tofino: Wild, wild beauty

2009-10-05T17:45:00.000-07:00

We arrived in Tofino and settled into a rental house on Chesterman Beach with two other couples. After unpacking we strolled the long sandy beach, watching the rollers crash in from far out in the Pacific Ocean. The afternoon light glinted in the water reflecting the clouds and highlighting the many surfers clad in their black rubber suits, toting their boards. At a rocky promontory, anemones and orange and purple sea stars clung to the rocks at water’s edge.

Next day we strolled to the Wickanninish Inn, which is perched on a rocky point so you feel almost amongst the wild waves. It’s the perfect place for winter storm watching. I chatted with Charles McDiarmid, the managing director, and learned this is a family business. The Inn is decorated with west coast Native art including a magnificent long house entrance, masks and totems. But my favourite was a simple carving shed, almost hidden in the trees about a hundred meters down the beach. Here I watched artists create Native carvings.

The highlight was a visit with John Dowd, the legendary long-distance kayaker, and his charming wife, Bea, who live on a nearby island. John picked us up in a marvellous contraption, an amphibious boat that lowered its wheels when we approached his island and drove right up to his home. And what a home it is! John and Bea have chosen to live a simple, close-to-the-earth life. Their island has no electricity or running water, yet their wooden home has charm, elegance and beauty. Working from a wood-fuelled stove, Bea served one of the best meals I’ve ever devoured: starters of smoked salmon garnished with home-made tartar sauce, home-cured salmon caviar and crackers with egg salad, with the egg provided by Bea’s own chickens. The main course was a coho salmon (caught by John the evening before), fried and served with home-grown vegetables. It was a memorable afternoon.

Next day my dearest and I explored the other face of Tofino, the rain forest. We wandered along boardwalks that meandered through giant cedars and Douglas firs. Moss hung from branches. Ferns and nursery logs covered the ground. Green, moist primordial growth surrounded us.

Before departing we took a last walk along Long Beach. A tangle of bleached logs marked the high-tide line; a father and son manoeuvred a kite; big waves crashed on the sandy shore, and the beach stretched for miles. Bliss!

The Road to Tofino

2009-10-05T05:43:00.000-07:00

Vancouver Island, perched on the western edge of Canada, is a wondrous place. Its eastern shore is protected, with soft gentle islets lying betwixt it and the fjord-carved mainland. The western shore has a completely different personality with a harsh but compelling beauty: big waves, fog-enshrouded beaches, treacherous islands and the Graveyard of the Pacific. Getting there is an adventure in itself. Recently, my dearest and I travelled the road.

A few miles west of Parksville, we entered MacMillan Provincial Park and Cathedral Grove, like a sombre deep canyon, with grand tall trees filtering the sun. This stand of old growth forest is just like a mighty cathedral. We wandered in awe amongst Douglas fir and western red cedar that soared skyward like turrets and flying buttresses. Some trees exceeded 800 years in age with a girth of over nine metres. Shafts of golden light angled down to the dusky forest floor like sunbeams through high stained-glass windows. Traffic sounds were replaced by silence. The occasional chirping of birds sounded like monks quietly chanting. The air was still and full of spirits. Amongst these ancient creatures, moss covered logs and ferns, I felt a reverence, a spirituality, a deep intimate closeness with nature.

We followed the road to Port Alberni, the Salmon Capital of the World, and then entered Sproat Lake Provincial Park. A short walk took us to one of the finest panels of prehistoric petroglyphs (figures carved on rock) in BC, named K’ak’awin. These are likely the work of the ancestors of the Hucasapath First Nation, who have traditionally occupied this region. We looked at nine figures carved into the side of a small cliff on the edge of the lake. Most of them featured some sort of whale. A few had what appeared to be dorsal fins; another had a wolf-like head. Do they represent a mythical marine creature, perhaps an ancient Loch Ness monster? Scratching our heads, we drove westward, heading for the surf and sand of Tofino.

For More Information

Cathedral Grove

- www.env.gov.bc.ca/bcparks/explore/parkpgs/macmillan.html

- www.britishcolumbia.com/parks/?id=286

Petroglyphs

- www.env.gov.bc.ca/bcparks/explore/parkpgs/sproat.html

- www.britishcolumbia.com/parks/?id=393

The Splash: A magical evening of music afloat

2009-09-08T09:46:00.000-07:00

As the sun settles low on the horizon, the inner harbour of Victoria is swarming with boats. My dearest, Allyson, and I are in our kayaks, paddling across the harbour, heading with friends and dozens and dozens of small craft toward a large industrial barge moored in front of the legislature buildings. We weave around opulent pleasure boats, one with a string quartet playing on its foredeck. Small harbour ferries flit to and fro like bathtub toys. A float plane thrums onto the water and passes in front of us.

Then we are at the barge, jostling for front-row seats with the most amazing collection of canoes, rowboats, kayaks, zodiacs, skiffs, dinghies and even two surf boards. This is the annual Symphony Splash, and everyone is smiling and laughing. Over 40,000 people are in attendance for this unusual event, which is held on British Columbia day.

Most of the crowd is assembled on shore, but the best place is on the water. One double kayak has a candelabra on its deck while its occupants sip wine. On a dinghy, hot dogs are being barbequed and then passed to nearby boaters using a long paddle. A blonde lady is quaffing champagne straight from the bottle. Our group is enjoying chardonnay and Thai chicken satay.

Then dusk deepens and a hush falls. The Victoria Symphony Orchestra, led by dishy maestra Tania Miller, begins to play, the lights of the legislature building wink on, and an almost-full moon rises in a cloudless sky. Spellbound, we listen to Rhapsody in Blue, the Star Wars theme and other classics. The concert ends with the 1812 Overture. Reaching its climax, real cannons are fired and fireworks light up the sky. For the encore, massed pipers played Amazing Grace. There is nary a dry eye in the crowd.
As the crowd disperses, my dearest and I get separated. I paddle alone across the now-dark harbour. Occasionally light glints from paddles of other boats wending their way homeward. The moon hangs overhead. The lights of the city glimmer on the water. This has been one of the most magical evenings of my life.

Kayaking in the Gulf Islands - Part 2

2009-06-18T08:59:00.000-07:00

I awake to the chirping, trilling, warbling of an avian orchestra, interrupted occasionally by the brash honk of a Canadian goose. Soon the tent is down and I push off into calm waters under a cloudless pale blue sky. Two squabbling young raccoons rush to the water’s edge but when they spot me they melt into the forest. I have a deep sense of pleasure for yesterday’s hard work has paid off: I’m immersed, alone, in achingly beautiful nature. The cliffs are scored into rectilinear blocks by cracks and fissures that tilt at bizarre angles. Broad-leaved stonecrops form patches of yellow on the steepest crags. Acorn barnacles and purple sea stars adorn the rocks near the waterline.
I cruise into Echo Bay and bounce my voice off the tall rock walls. Then I turn the corner and feel like I’ve entered a cathedral. Majestic cliffs bathed in golden morning sun soar heavenward. The rock is an attractive buff to brownish-yellow colour and has been sculpted into attractive curves and numerous circular hollows that range from pockmarks to grottos several metres in diameter, all arranged in delightful patterns. I’m overcome with reverence for nature and am glad that I’m spending time alone to re-connect with her.
Patches of bull kelp show the current is running my way. Ahead I hear loud bleating and baaing and then I see three feral goats, sure-footedly grazing along a steep slope.
I roll over huge 3-foot waves from a fishing boat that roars past in a cloud of foam and slowly work toward the Java Islets. From a distance I hear splashing and crashing and then I see that seals are frolicking in the water, enjoying this perfect day. Many more are lolling on sunny rocks all eyes watching my kayak. Soon they are in the water and I am followed by a flotilla of curious heads.
For lunch I pull in at Taylor Point, part of the Gulf Island National Park, and amble along the beach, around the old stone walls of the Taylor residence, which are decorated by slender bright-purple foxgloves, and the remnants of the quarry.
The long crossing from Saturna Island to the south tip of Pender Island is windless and like riding on glorious rolling glass. The swells are gentle, like caresses. Clouds are reflected and distorted in the water. This is heaven.
I paddle past Blunden Islet, then Gowlland and Tilley Points. An afternoon wind rises and now the water’s surface is a rough, unfriendly texture. I paddle on past luxury yachts at Poets Cove Resort and arrive at Medicine Beach with its layered middens speaking of a long native heritage.
All too soon this blissful retreat into solitude and nature is over.

For information on the Gulf Islands National Park visit: . www.pc.gc.ca/gulf

Kayaking the Gulf Islands: a Metaphor for Life

2009-06-17T11:43:00.000-07:00

The sky is blue and a brisk wind is creating a smattering of whitecaps as I lower my red kayak off the dock on Pender Island and start my annual solo, overnight expedition. I work against a headwind and tidal current. Soon I’m in the middle of Plumper Sound and enjoying the solitude, floating on this watery world that I cannot see into. One stroke automatically follows another. Time passes. My initial destination, Mayne Island, gets closer very slowly. It’s like watching the hour hand on a clock. For the last part of the crossing the wind picks up, whitecaps increase and I paddle harder.

Then I round St. John Point and it is bliss. Nothing, absolutely nothing, can beat sitting in a kayak with the wind and current flowing with you and surrounded by the soft landscape of the Gulf Islands. An eagle passes overhead and a seal’s head pops out of the water to inspect my progress.

Soon I am through Georgeson Passage and emerge into Georgia Strait and the Belle Chain Islets. The wind becomes calm, the sea surface is like gently rolling glass, and nary a cloud mars the perfect blue sky. I pass a rocky islet crowded with seals and sea lions, whose roars and grunts can be heard far away. After lunch on an islet a strong head wind suddenly appears and the bull kemp, the weather vanes of the sea, tell that the current is also running against me, contrary to what the current atlas predicted!!#@! Now the work becomes difficult and after an hour I am exhausted, for my aged body is not used to this. I pass an eagle and eaglet eating a fish on a driftwood log. A river otter with a long tail is sun tanning on an islet. Curious seals regularly check me out. Slowly I inch southeast along Samuel and then Saturna Islands. After an eternity I reach East Point and the aptly named Boiling Reef. I go ashore, eat a granola bar, gather my will power and then head around the point.

At first it’s not so bad. My kayak cuts smoothly through the eddies and swirls. But as I proceed the waves rise and become chaotic. The wind and tide, of course, run against me. I paddle like a maniac stabilizing against the tossing waves and turning to face the larger ones. Every now and again a wave surprises me from behind and rolls over the deck. Even in my weariness I notice that the light is soft and the waves form beautiful sculptures that are constantly changing shape. In contrast, the sandstone cliffs with delicate whorls and grottos are also beautiful, but are frozen in time. While battling through this wild art gallery a small fishing boat bears at me, stops and a man shouts out that I shouldn’t proceed, it’s too rough. But I have no choice, I can’t go back. I struggle on and after an agonizing hour arrive at the Narvaez Bay campground, part of the Gulf Islands National Park, about 2.5 hours behind schedule.

I hope it’s a metaphor for life, but having passed through purgatory I am now in paradise. Two Canada geese and their yellow, fuzzy gosling are in residence, the campground is sheltered from the wind, my tent is bathed in sunlight and, best of all, no one else is here. I’m alone in solitude.

For information on the Gulf Islands National Park visit: www.pc.gc.ca/gulf

Three Jewels of London, Ontario

2009-05-27T11:29:00.000-07:00

The bicycle is a wonderful contraption. Leaving no carbon footprint whatsoever, you are free to meander where your heart and impulses carry you. Here are three gems I discovered while cycling hither and thither in London.

- The Museum of Archaeology, located in the northwestern suburbs, is London’s best-kept secret. I was lured because it is the only active archaeological dig inside a major city in Canada. Wandering through a 500-year old Iroquois village complete with stockade, longhouse, sweatlodge and, of course, some diggings, I had fantasies of Indiana Jones, raiding war parties and mysterious old relics.

- I dismounted next at Fanshawe Pioneer Village, located in Fanshawe Conservation Area, a delightful large parkland surrounding Fanshawe reservoir that offers camping, fishing, hiking and more. But for me, the highlight was the Pioneer Village. I love history and wandering amongst the old hotel, school, sawmills, general store and many other historic buildings carried me back to the early 1800s. I can’t wait to return when they hold the War of 1812 re-enactment.

- Weary and saddle sore I arrived next at Banting House National Historic Site, the humble two-story house where Dr. Frederick Banting practiced family medicine downstairs while living upstairs. I gazed at the bed where he awoke one night with the idea that led to insulin as a means of treating diabetes. Another room displayed the Military Cross that he won in the Second World War. Colourful landscapes, which Banting painted under the mentorship of A.Y. Jackson, adorned a wall. I cycled away, profoundly moved by this gifted Canadian.

- If You Go

-London Information: www.londontourism.ca

-Archaeology Museum: www.uwo.ca/museum

-Pioneer Village: www.fanshawepioneervillage.ca

-Banting House: www.diabetes.ca/about-us/who/banting-house/

London, Ontario: A river runs through it

2009-05-27T08:32:00.000-07:00

My butt is sore, but the rest of me is happy! I’ve just spent two sunny days astride a Raleigh Tomahawk mountain bike, pedaling the paths that line the Thames River in London, Ontario. Two branches of the river flow from the east, right into the heart of the city, where they join and then continue westward as one. The riverside paths follow a cornucopia of parks, playgrounds and nature, and it quickly became clear why London is called the Forest City. As I discovered, the Thames-side trails are as good as any inner-city bike paths in North America, and a great way to explore London.

My friend Marty Rice and I started in the west end at Story Book Gardens and Springbank Park. We dodged around mothers pushing baby carriages and geese shepherding little fuzzy goslings across the path. We stopped for gelatos at the recently renovated Wonderland Gardens, where Glen Miller and Guy Lombardo once played on sultry summer evenings. A plaque marked the site of one of Canada’s greatest maritime disasters, the sinking of a pleasure boat with the loss of 182 lives. The paths also offer views of the city’s underbelly: we looked into back yards, passed old pumping plants and at the Labatt’s brewery the smell of hops hung in the air. We hopped off the bikes to wander through the gardens of Eldon House (London's oldest residence), to stroll about the elegant grey limestone buildings of the University of Western Ontario and to savour a hot dog at Grandpa’s Chip Wagon. With the sun sinking low and our legs pleasantly weary, we gingerly dismounted and headed for a pub.

-If you Go

-Bike rentals: Herms Sport Exchange: http://www.hermssports.com/

-London information and bike maps: http://www.londontourism.ca/

-Accommodation: Residence Inn, Marriott: www.marriott.com/yxuri, or University of Western residences (May to August): http://www.stayatwestern.com/

The Great Ocean Road Bids Us Farewell

2009-03-20T12:53:00.001-07:00

Australia is indeed blessed. Here is an immense island rimmed by thousands of miles of sandstone headlands, bays with azure waters and golden sand beaches. Living with the sea is an integral part of being an Aussie. Our last two days before returning to Canada were spent, appropriately, driving from Adelaide to Melbourne which, happily, includes the famous Great Ocean Road, probably the most beautiful coastal drive in the world.
The first day was mostly inland with some glimpses of the coast. We stayed overnight at Robe in South Australia, an attractive town with dozens of historic buildings of buff sandstone blocks and dating to the early 1800s. An obelisk (a cheap version of a lighthouse) built in 1855 stands guard on a cliff with turquoise waves pounding against the rocks below.
The second day we were immersed in the incredible beauty of the Great Ocean Road. Viewpoints were many, but the best was the Twelve Apostles (OK, perhaps only 9 and a half), large jagged stacks of rock that have been separated from the mainland by erosion. Mist swirled, waves rolled in from far out in the Southern Ocean and they stood impassively like giant sentinels.
The narrow winding road, often marked with "Drive on the left in Australia" signs led us to a broad white sand beach where we stripped down to our bathers for a final bit of sun.
Then the road turned inland and all too soon we were in Geelong and then Melbourne. Next day a giant metal box with wings carried us back to the tail-end of a Canadian winter.

The Barossa Valley and Other Vinophilic Temptations

2009-03-17T20:08:00.000-07:00

As my dearest and I discovered after many a blurry morning, Australia is a wine lover’s (vinophile’s?) paradise. Everywhere we went we saw rows of vineyards, often draped in netting, marching up and down rolling hills: in Tasmania, on Kangaroo Island, and in hundreds of places in South Australia and Victoria. It is clear that wine is one of Australia’s main industries.
Furthermore, it’s easy and inexpensive to purchase wine. In Canada, liquor stores are government-run, over-priced and inconvenient. In Australia, Bottle Shops, as they are called, are ubiquitous and, get this, many of them are drive-through. Best of all, the prices are very reasonable, starting at $5 Australian per bottle; boxed wines are even more of a bargain. Of course, some wines such as the famous Penfolds Grange can exceed a thousand dollars per bottle.
One day we made a pilgrimage to the Mecca of wine, the Barossa Valley north of Adelaide in South Australia, where world-class wines have been produced since 1850. We wended our way through gentle arid hills dotted with eucalyptus trees. The vineyards, which spread everywhere, were turning golden and the harvest had just passed. With 73 wineries to visit (another 50 don’t have visitor’s centres) we selected three that sell widely in Canada: Jacobs Creek, Penfolds and Wolf Blass. The size of these operations was impressive and far larger than anything we have seen in Niagara or the Okanagan. The drive through the beautiful valley was grand and the tastings were wonderful. It was a delightful day ... as we can best remember.

For information: http://www.southaustralia.com/ & www.barossa.com

Moorunde Wildlife Reserve: Saving a Hairy-Nosed Critter

2009-03-16T15:35:00.000-07:00

South Australia is an amazing place. One day we were hedonists in the vibrant, cosmopolitan city of Adelaide, the next day we were encamped in the dry, sparse landscape of the outback. My dearest and I were invited to Moorunde Wildlife Reserve, established in 1968 to help save the endangered Southern Hairy Nosed Wombat.
We drove many kilometres of dirt track with our windows open to catch the breeze and with a long plume of dust trailing behind us. We opened gates and closed them behind us. This is mallee country, named for a scrawny eucalyptus tree, but which is mostly barren ground, yet, as we were to learn, is remarkably alive with strange creatures and plants. Once we closed the last gate and entered Moorunde, the landscape was frequently like the surface of Mars with craters of warrens dug by the wombats who live underground.
The reserve, which consists of an enormous 6900 hectares but only gets about 13 cm of rain a year, was created in 1968, an amazing achievement, especially since it was done entirely by volunteers, the Natural History Society of South Australia, who continue to maintain the property. Not only have the number of hairy-nosed creatures increased by fencing out sheep, but the scientific understanding of these and other creatures has been advanced.
We stayed overnight in an old caravan without running water or electricity. Essentials consisted of a nearby roof-rain-tank that supplied remarkably tasty water and a long-drop toilet. It was grand, and the stars were better than an IMAX theatre.
Dr. Peter Clements took us for long walks and showed us that the soil consists of a delicate crust full of lichens, spider holes, ant hills and hardy plants. I loved the bird life, so bright and colourful including pink and gray galahs, brilliant green parakeets and, of course, not-so-tiny emus. Wildlife was everywhere consisting of kangaroos, wombats, emus, lizards and echidnas.
The focal points of the reserve are two water stations, where large sheets of horizontal, corrugated iron catch rain water and divert it into tanks. The tanks trickle water to small water holes that attract animals like a magnet. The water hole we visited was easy to find for animal trails led to it like the roads that lead to Rome.
We left, overwhelmed by the incredible adaptability of life and the bizarre yet beautiful forms it can take. Just as impressive is what volunteers can achieve. We all need to pitch in and help preserve the environment.

For information: http://www.southaustralia.com/ & www.nathist.on.net

Adelaide: Warmth and Great Eats

2009-03-13T15:32:00.000-07:00

Adelaide is a warm city, hot even. It’s early fall and today was 33 deg. C. Known as the city of churches, Adelaide is unusual because its downtown is laid out with geometric precision. The “square mile” was designed in 1836 with broad north-south and east-west boulevards and symmetrically-located parks. This inner core is surrounded by a ring of green space and only then do the suburbs begin.

North Terrace, along the northern edge of the square mile, is the cultural area. We walked slowly from one shady patch to another, stopping at park benches to sip water as we visited the old and new parliament buildings, the art gallery, the state museum, the University of South Australia, the Adelaide Botanic Gardens (established in 1855), Government House and other historic dwellings. A few hundred metres to the north, the river Torrens flows along.

The Hilton Adelaide, our home for several days, is located almost in the exact centre of the square mile and conveniently is next door to the bustling Central Market, which is crammed with shops and booths selling every conceivable item produced by mankind. It also has a fabulous selection of Asian food outlets.

Happily, a stop for trams, which are free in the square mile, lies directly in front of our hotel. Yesterday we took the tram westward to historic Glenelg on the coast. Tall palm trees, a broad beach, old sandstone buildings and hundreds of restaurants, cafes and shops greeted us. In contrast to the brash vibrancy of Sydney’s surf beaches, Glenelg has a genteel and charming dignity.

Best of all, Adelaide is surrounded by world-class vineyards including the Barossa Valley, McLaren Vale and the Clare Valley. Wines and good food are a way of Aussie life, a wonderful gastronomic hedonism. Gouger and Rundle streets are non-stop rows of restaurants and cafes and in the evenings my dearest and I jostled with happy crowds to find empty spots amongst the tables that spill onto the sidewalks. Ah, it’s bliss to dine al fresco in the warm air with a good bottle of Aussie wine.

For information: http://www.southaustralia.com/ & www.hilton.com

& www.touradelaide.com

White Man on a Walkabout

2009-03-12T15:59:00.000-07:00

On Kangaroo Island I had a glimpse deep inside the treasure chest of human culture. I met Karno Walker, who traces his lineage to the first black man seen by explorers in South Australia. In a strong Australian accent he explained how he is fighting a court case to get his tribe, the Ramindjeri, recognized as the original occupants of Kangaroo Island and the adjoining mainland.

He took me on a walkabout through the dry landscape. We passed an ant mound with an eagle skull on it, which Karno had left for his brothers, the ants. Picking up a feather from the ground, he did an elaborate ceremony, almost a dance, whirling the feather about and presenting it to me. “The bird is welcoming you to his land,” he said.

Approaching a large solitary eucalyptus tree, Karno told a story of a giant kangaroo bigger than the tree. The men wanted to hunt it but had only one spear. They cooperated and some men herded it toward the spear thrower. Others threw rocks. They were successful and cut up the body at the joints. There was food for everyone across the land. The rocks strewn about the landscape represented all the pieces of meat. The men then hunted a giant emu. Karno pointed at rocks that were the perfect shape of an emu footprint.

He held up his left hand with the fingers spread. “When I bring young aboriginal fellers here, I explain that my fingers show their way of life: drugs and addiction, flashy cars, loud music, bright lights and bullshit.” Then he did a broad sweep with his right hand, “and this is what you’re giving up. This is what’s really important,” I tell them. “The environment is essential to life, not the dole.”

Further along he told a story of paddling a canoe with a young man. It was a story-dance as he made the motions of paddling first a large canoe, then a small canoe and got out and back in.

He told more stories and explained that he was only scratching the surface, that each had many more layers. He also explained the enormous importance of such stories and dances to his people. They belong to individuals and telling someone else’s story is stealing.

I left with my head whirling at the richness and meaning of aboriginal stories.

For information: http://www.southaustralia.com/

Kangaroo Island: Bountiful Nature Preserve

2009-03-11T16:13:00.001-07:00

Floating in the deep blue sea south of Adelaide is a magical place called Kangaroo Island, a nature preserve without fences. My dearest and I were introduced to the unusual antipodean wildlife at the Pelican Lagoon Research Centre where Dr. Peggy Rismiller studies echidnas (she is the world’s expert), tiger snakes and goannas. Accompanied by a visiting scientist from Germany we wandered through a dry but rich terrain of termite hills, stunted eucalpyt trees, ant mounds and the odd hopping kangaroo. A metre-long Rosenberg goanna was snared, a transmitter inserted and a big H painted on its back for Hal (Hans and Ally). Lunch was a feast including tasty kangaroo-tail stew, roo burgers, feral olives, wild lettuce, marinated kunzia berry and pickled samphire seaweed.. Ah, living off the land!

The island (much bigger than we anticipated at 150-km long) is ringed by glorious beaches where a hot sun beats down and huge waves pound onto wide swathes of soft, pure sand. Although a long weekend, usually we were the only people in the entire cove. At Duck Lagoon (dry) we saw many “fuzzy butts” or koalas sleeping in the tall eucalypt tree. Koalas are an introduced species whose exploding population is killing gum trees, which in turn affects the water table (not good in this 17-year-long drought). Each morning we rushed from breakfast at the Kangaroo Island Lodge to watch as a flock of Australian pelicans and sea gulls were fed on the foreshore. The enormous birds lumbered along on their large webbed feet and fought for and gulped down the thrown fish.

One afternoon we visited Seal Bay, an incredible refuge for about 700 Australian sea lions who live here year-around. We watched from a boardwalk as mothers nursed little pups and giant bulls roared and fought amongst themselves for sexual supremacy. Then we visited a rookery for little penguins. Trails led from the ocean to numerous burrows were the penguins rest during the night.

All too soon we were on the ferry returning to the concrete canyons of the city.

For information: http://www.southaustralia.com/ & http://www.echidna.edu.au/

& http://www.kangarooislandlodge.com.au/ & www.sealink.com.au (for ferry service)

Ultimate Luxury Down Under

2009-03-10T21:24:00.001-07:00

It was in Hobart, the charming capital of Tasmania, that we fell into the lap of luxury. As a travel writer, my dearest and I often stay at fairly decent digs, but the Henry Jones Art Hotel was over the top. It’s a 5-star hotel built in a historic jam factory (circa 1859) on the waterfront. The architects lovingly preserved every possible historic relic including beams, window casings and even pieces of old machinery. Shortly after opening in 2004, a guest complained of blood dripping from the ceiling. But it was only the melting of strawberry jam that had crystallized into the beams over a century. Our room is luxuriously appointed with, for example, a huge glass enclosed bathroom with gigantic walk-in shower and soaker tub - all with ultra-modern fittings that somehow mesh with the old parts of the building. The king-sized bed has a silk coverlet.

The owners also turned the hotel into a working art gallery showcasing the best artists in Tasmania. Shortly after checking in there was a guided tour. Carrying glasses of champagne, we followed Matt Casey (general manager) and Christine Scott (curator) who described the history of the hotel and the artistic merits of the 360 paintings that are found in every wall throughout the hotel. What a glorious place! The Henry Jones has won over 60 awards since it opened in 2004, including the best hotel in Australia.

As though that wasn’t enough, our window faced onto the wharf where, by chance, the black Sea Shepherd ship (they call themselves eco-pirates) was docked proudly bearing a long gash from its recent anti-whaling campaign. I was in heaven!

For information: DiscoverTasmania.com & www.thehenryjones.com

& www.seashepherd.com

Port Arthur: A World-Class Monument to Humanity’s Cruelty

2009-03-08T00:08:00.000-08:00

The huge popularity of the Port Arthur Historic Site, the former penal settlement in Tasmania, is due to our dark side ... and we all have one. We’re drawn to the horror stories about the hardened men and boys who were incarcerated here. It is also a key part of Australia’s unique history as a convict colony.

As my dearest and I entered, our first impression was of Port Arthur’s vast size. After its founding in 1833 it grew into a major penal and industrial centre with over 200 buildings and many trades before it was closed in 1877. Today about 30 buildings in various states of rehabilitation sprawl over a large site, which was magnificent, even in the light rain we encountered.

We started with a short cruise. The guide noted that Port Arthur had been completely serviced via the sea. We circled the Island of the Dead where free people were buried with gravestones on the high land and convicts in unmarked graves on the low ground. Back on land we wandered in intermittent rain through the sandstone ruins of the penitentiary, the hospital (all operations were conducted without anaesthetic), the guard tower, servants’ quarters and the restored Commandant’s house, whose palatial elegance contrasted with the miserable conditions of the prisoners. We wandered through the flagellation area to the Separate Prison, probably the saddest display, where the convicts were kept in solitary confinement and silence. They had to wear hoods and slippers for the one hour a day they were allowed out of their cells. As we were leaving, a group of young students set up an enormous wailing as they were "locked"in to the prison by their teachers. Next we wandered through the pleasant cottages of the free people like the chaplain and doctor to the ruins of the church.

As we left we wondered why people are so intrigued by this penal colony. Because it’s Australia’s heritage? Because we could so easily cross the line and find ourselves in a place like this? Because we are naturally drawn to horror stories? Whatever, it’s a fabulous place.

For information: DiscoverTasmania.com & www.portarthur.org.au

& www.stewartsbaylodge.com.au

East Coast of Tasmania is Stunning, Even in Inclement Weather

2009-03-05T21:19:00.000-08:00

We arrived in Freycinet National Park – a cluster of hills surrounded by stunning bays and beaches – on Tasmania’s east coast, together with rainy weather. After checking into Freycinet Lodge we drove to the Cape Tourville Lighthouse, passing through eucalyptus forests with tea trees covered in delicate white blossoms. The stark white lighthouse is perched high above reddish granite cliffs that fall down to the sea. The steep terrain and nearby rocky islands were softened by mist and dark clouds.
Next morning my dearest and I set out for Wineglass Bay in spite of rain and winds predicted to reach gale force. We hiked through a pinkish granite landscape enveloped in blowing mist and cloud. Within minutes we were soaked, but it was a warm rain. We passed enormous falls of rounded granite boulders some as big as houses and some balancing on each other in a worrisome manner. The smell of eucalyptus was all around and a few tree trunks were embroidered with delicate insect tracks like calligraphy.
We reached the pass, and far below, Wineglass Bay, the most beautiful beach in the world, was barely visible in the cloud. The bay looks like a wine glass and in the 1800s when the bay was a whaling station it often seemed full of red wine from the blood of the slaughtered whales. We slogged downward to the bay. It was exquisite with perfect white sand and turquoise water. The wind was blowing hard with large waves crashing and swirling.
We didn’t linger and started the uphill climb, drenched and bedraggled. A friendly kookaburra posed on a branch. We reached the pass and soon were back at the carpark. A small ‘roo sat in the rain beside our car.
That evening, the rain having relented, we sat on our deck with a bottle of wine and watched the moon come out. Surprise, a possum joined us. She climbed onto my leg and gently bit my finger. Finding it inedible, she then nipped my dearest’s toe. Bewildered by this strange country, we called it a night.

For information: DiscoverTasmania.com & www.puretasmania.com.au

A Friend of the Devil is a Friend of Mine

2009-03-03T13:36:00.001-08:00

The drive from Lauceston to Freycinet National Park on the east coast follows a harrowingly narrow, shoulderless national highway. En route the landscape turns from dry parched-yellow savannah to green pastures and with forest cover on the hills. The road corkscrewed across Elephant Pass with mist enshrouding the eucalypt trees and ferns as though we were in Middle Earth. On the coast we visit East Coast Natureworld and have the pleasure of meeting one of the rare people who are making a difference, Bruce Englefield, the owner. The preserve is a large rambling place where kangaroos bounce, pelicans and black swans float on the lagoon, and wombats, tiger snakes, koalas, emus and, most importantly, Tasmanian Devils live in large enclosures. The aviary is alive with the brilliant foliage of technicolour parakeets. My dearest and I spent the afternoon meeting animals and birds wholly strange to our home country.
Englefield is about 70, thin and tall, and his bespectacled face is alive with enthusiasm as he describes the plight of the Devil, who only live in Tasmania. Over 60% have been wiped out by the facial tumour disease, a rare cancer that is transmitted by biting. Given the lack of success in finding solutions to human cancer, the outlook for Devils is not good. We watched as Englefield, an animal behaviour expert, placed a large male Devil in a pen with a female in heat. An ear-splitting screeching and growling ensue, but Englefield ensured us it’s only part of the mating game. He then climbed into a neighbouring pen and pulled a young Devil from a tree by her tail and firmly held her while he spoke soothingly to calm her. He explained how here and at a near-by island he is breeding Devils for a tumour-free "insurance" population. We wished him luck and drove on.

For information: DiscoverTasmania.com & www.natureworld.com.au

& www.tasmaniandevilpark.com

Launceston and Tasmania’s North

2009-03-02T21:18:00.000-08:00

We drove into Launceston, Tasmania’s second largest city (about 100,000), the capital of the north and the gateway to the Tamar Valley wine region. Founded in 1806 the city is full of gracious Victorian homes decorated with the distinctive Australian wrought iron. Our Peppers Seaport Hotel is superbly located on the river front with a tall ship, a fishing boat and a host of pleasure boats moored under our balcony. In the morning we ambled off to Cascade Gorge, a 16-ha wilderness park in the heart of the city with dramatic cliffs and rushing waters .
The Tamar Valley beckoned so my dearest and I drove northwest. Vineyards, most of them covered in netting, tumble down the valley sides. We passed Legana and Exeter and pulled in to Beaconsfield, a pretty little town where gold mining started in 1881 and continues today. A tall mine shaft towers over lovely rose gardens, a museum, a coal miner’s cottage, a school house and other historic items.
Next we stopped at Beauty Point where Sunday fishermen were lined up on a large wharf that also contains Platypus House and Seahorse World. In the bay, sailboats were heeled over in the stiff breeze, their sails aglow in the sun. We motored on, enveloped in the soporific afternoon heat, to the Narawntapu National Park. For 20 km we rattled and bounced along a corrugated dirt road with a long plume of dust trailing behind. Once there, we wandered through bushy sand dunes, spotted a little wallaby, and stepped onto a long glorious beach with nary a person on it. After a refreshing dip into the waves we returned to Launceston. For dinner we wolfed down a pail of giant prawns, fish and chips and several bottles of Boags, reputed to be the best beer in Australia. We couldn’t argue.

For information: DiscoverTasmania.com

& www.winetasmania.com.au/the-wine-route/tamar-valley-wine-route

& www.peppers.com.au/Seaport

Touring Tasmania’s Convict Past

2009-03-02T14:08:00.000-08:00

The plane banked downward and we landed in Tasmania. We admired the sea, the rolling hills and Georgian architecture that have made Hobart one of the most photogenic cities in the world. The population is much smaller (about 200,000) and the pace more relaxed than in Sydney. Settled in 1804 on the banks of the Derwent River where it joins the ocean, Hobart has a rich history based on convicts and sailors. After settling in at Wrest Point, Australia’s first casino, we drove to Battery Point, an historic area of narrow streets and terraced cottages with lovely wrought-iron filigree. We stumbled onto the Shipwright’s Arms, an old pub with stained glass windows and many a story to tell of ancient mariners.
Next morning (Saturday) we jostled through a crowd of several thousand at the sun-dappled Salamanca Market, where handicrafts, food, coffee and artisans’ stalls stretched for over a kilometre beside historic warehouses. On the other side fishing and sail boats bobbed in the harbour.
Then we motored northward into a glaring, hot sun nervously keeping to the left on the fast (110 kph) two-lane-only main highway through a landscape of rolling dry hills covered with sparse pale-yellow grass and dotted with gum trees in drab olive colours. We pulled into the historic town of Ross, a charming place and a living memory of the convict days. The sandstone bridge, which is beautifully decorated with 186 carved figures was built by two convict stonemasons and a convict workgang. The two stonemasons were freed on completing the bridge in 1836. Bucolic elm-lined avenues lead past convict-constructed sandstone buildings. The main intersection has four unique old buildings tagged Temptation (Man O’Ross Hotel), Salvation (Catholic church), Recreation (Town Hall) and Damnation (former jail). A hiking path leads along an old stone wall to a lonely rise where tombstones from the mid 1800s stand out against the dry hills. We passed the Ross Female Factory, the sad site of a jail for convict women, then a solid sandstone church and a few fat sheep and we’re back at the car.

For information: DiscoverTasmania.com & www.hobartcity.com.au

& www.wrestpoint.com.au

In Australia, Smart Regs Mean Great Eats

2009-02-25T14:37:00.000-08:00

As dusk fell my dearest and I wandered out to a restaurant, the Jaipur Masala (188 Elizabeth St., Sydney), I had discovered during an exploratory walk. It turned into a memorable evening for two reasons. First, the food was outstanding. We had freshly baked naan, Tandoori Tikka with mint sauce as a starter and for mains a Butter Chicken with thick creamy sauce and a Vindaloo Lamb with spicy, hot curry sauce. The spices and sauces were exotic and super tasty, the servings generous. The restaurant was attractive with many Indian decorations but also, strangely, an electric guitar, scooter and motor bike!

The second reason was the incredibly cheap prices. Did I mention this was a bring-your-own place? We purchased a chilled bottle of Long Flat semillon sauvignon blanc from a nearby bottle shop. The grand total for the meal was $40 (about $34 Cdn) including wine and all taxes and tips!! Prices are kept low by having self service. We placed the order at the counter where we received two wine glasses (no corkage fee!) and a little mast with #17 on it. We helped ourselves to napkins and cutlery at a central station and sat at a large wooden table. We sipped our wine and soon a waitress delivered the food to our table, marked by the numbered mast. We gorged ourselves on one of the best Indian meals in many years, and watched as the place filled up. And, yes, most of the other groups pulled out their own bottles of wine from knapsacks or carry bags. By the time we left, the Jaipur Masala was full of happy diners drawn in by the aromas of exotic spices that wafted far down the street.

I thought about our meal for days after. It was such a unique Australian experience. In Canada this meal would have cost about triple; with the wine alone exceeding the cost of this meal. With such low prices, Aussies eat out frequently, and because they do, restaurants, especially Thai, Chinese and Indian eateries flourish. I am ashamed of Canada’s ludicrous liquor laws, red tape and political correctness.

Life is a Beach

2009-02-23T14:25:00.000-08:00

In Sydney it’s all about beaches. A surf-rescue competition was taking place at Coogee, so we jumped on a #374 bus and were soon watching perfect waves curl in from far out in the Pacific to crash and swirl onto a perfect golden beach.

Coogee is but one of Sydney’s many fabulous surf beaches that include Bondi, Manley, Bronte, Maroubra and Clovelly. Each beach has its own life-saving team, and the competitions between them are serious matters. Crowds roared and TV cameras rolled as lithe athletes paddled kayaks and surf boards and swam around a series of buoys in the tossing waves. The whole time the sun glared down like a giant cyclops from a big blue sky

Next day we caught the ferry to Watsons Bay, near the entrance to Sydney's immense, convoluted harbour, and enjoyed a fresh seafood lunch at the famous Doyle’s Restaurant. Our tummies full, a short walk took us to a small, secluded beach. Uncrowded and with turquoise water lapping onto crunchy golden sand, it epitomized everything that makes Sydney a paradise.

We caught the ferry back to Circular Quay passing sail boats, big lumbering yellow and green ferries, a jet boat and even a submarine. Then the gleaming Opera House and the looming Sydney Harbour Bridge greeted us. Soon we were ensconced in a pub with cool schooners of Victoria Bitter in front of us and our skin tingling from sunburn.

Sydney, Australia: One hot town

2009-02-21T14:46:00.001-08:00

I’ve always loved Sydney. My dearest and I flew in yesterday, pale from a Canadian winter, and were soon immersed in the sultry, humid, vibrancy of this iconic city.

We went for a long walk from our hotel at the south end of Hyde Park, passing Chinatown and wandering the crowded booths of Paddy’s Market. Next was Darling Harbour with its monorail and ultramodern shops and trendy restaurants lining the water front. Soon after we entered The Rocks, one of the first settled areas in Australia. The modern city transformed to small sandstone terrace houses, brightly painted and decorated with wrought iron. At the Lord Nelson, the oldest pub in Australia, we sipped chilled pints of Nelson’s Blood and Quayle Ale, the glasses slippery with beads of condensation.

Next was Circular Quay, the throbbing transportation heart of the city. Ferries skittered here and there under the elegant sails of the Opera House. The Sydney Harbour Bridge (aka the Coat Hanger) punctuated the skyline with tiny dots (humans who have shelled out $200 each!) climbing slowly up and over. Aboriginals with didgeridoos, mimes and fire eaters entertained the happy crowds. And right beside us, towering into the sky was the Queen Victoria, one of the biggest cruise ships I’ve ever seen.

The Botanical Gardens drew us, green, verdant and lush. Birds cawed and sang, the air was heavy and it felt as though we had descended into the Jurassic era. We wandered around Government House and its gardens, then headed south past the historic, sandstone Parliament House -- its flags flying at half mast for the victims of the devastating Victoria fires -- Sydney Hospital and the Barracks.

We ambled through Hyde Park with its glorious avenue of large Hills fig trees forming a cool, shady canopy. Nearing our hotel, we were forced to sit and rest our feet at the Crown Hotel while cradling a cool glass of Toohey’s New.

Islomania

2009-02-16T09:34:00.000-08:00

I must confess: I suffer from incurable islomania. Islands attract me and hold an immense power over me. They are addictive. I am in their thrall.

Off the west coast of British Columbia is an archipelago that is largely undiscovered, although it is near major centres of population. The Gulf Islands, seldom crowded with tourists and a refuge for wildlife, draw me like a magnet. Seals, killer whales, eagles, deer, giant pileated woodpeckers and much more live here in harmony.

There is no better place to launch a kayak and laze on the water, letting the tidal currents gently carry you along. Here is photographic proof of paradise.