Rome under wraps
If you’re planning a first visit to the Eternal City, you should be aware that a number of Rome’s main tourist sights are currently under renovation. You can still visit, of course, but you’ll need to rely on your guidebook or a postcard vendor to see the view you’ve missed out on. Here’s what it looked like when I visited at the end of May 2015:
At the Spanish Steps it’s business as usual, but its pretty church, Trinità dei Monti, is currently covered up.
All you’ll get at the moment is a glimpse of the Trevi Fountain as it’s being extensively renovated. Save your coin for another time.
The lower level and much of the rear of the Colosseum is undergoing repair, though it’s still open to visitors.
In preparation for Italy’s Festa della Repubblica on 2nd June, when a parade will pass, temporary grandstands are being constructed along the streets alongside the Roman Forum.
Know of any other tourist attractions currently undergoing repair? Add a comment and let us all know, thanks.
To Florence, for some sunshine!
Beautiful Florence never looks more charming than it does when the sun is shining. Here are some of my favourite shots from this trip. The sun was reluctant to make an appearance at first, but when it did, wow, what a show!
The city’s famous domed marble cathedral and tower
A cathedral that’s world-class
Perfect reflections on the still water, River Arno
Pasta-making
Dusk falls over the River Arno
Reflections on the water, River Arno, with the famous Ponte Vecchio to the left of the shot
A classic Italian riverfront scene
A plane departs as the sun sets
The Cinque Terre
Today’s visit to the Cinque Terre was tinged with disappointment as much of the Sientero Azzurro was closed and the weather, though mostly dry, remained resolutely cloudy pretty much all day. Even this early in the season, crowds are building, so I’m not sure I’d want to risk a later visit to improve my chances of sunshine. Trains saved the day for speedy transfers between villages, but for wow factor views I was glad I took to the sea.
Manarola, as viewed from Corniglia
A splash of colour on a wall in Corniglia
Vernazza as viewed from the stairwell of its ancient tower
Typical local produce on sale in Vernazza
Cliff top Corniglia as seen from the boat
A day out on Lake Como
An easy half hour train ride from Milan, Lake Como is worth seeing for a day out if, like me, you don’t have time in your schedule for a longer visit. EuroCity and Regionale trains arrive at Como San Giovanni station and from there it’s a short stroll down to the lake shore.
A boat trip gives you the opportunity to see lots of Como’s villages
From there, you can take a boat ride onto Lago di Como. If you only have a day, an express boat will save you time. I took one to Bellagio, paying just under 15 Euros; there’s a supplement for the fast boat which bumps up the price by about half. The vessel makes a few stops as it heads for this pretty village, passing George Clooney’s Villa Oleandra in Laglio on the way.
Laglio, where George Clooney owns a villa.
On a sunny day, with the snowcapped peaks of the Alps in the background, it’s a beautiful ride. Sit on the left hand side of the boat to get the best views as you aren’t supposed to switch seats once underway.
The Alps rising behind Lake Como
In Bellagio itself, there’s an attractive waterfront with gardens overlooking the lake and the Alps. Cafes line the street behind. You’ll pay a premium to sit and look at this view, but prices aren’t exorbitant.
The waterfront is packed with restaurants and hotels
I wanted something a little different, and had lunch at Cava Turacciolo. It’s a bar serving food, crammed full of bottles of wine from all over Italy. I’m not a wine connoisseur but they indulged my inappropriate choice of spumante without making me feel it wasn’t suitable. I didn’t care – it was like drinking alcoholic honey – and I really couldn’t resist a second glass.
Heaven for wine aficionados
To walk off lunch, I climbed the steps up to the main street, not as tough as it looked as the steps were shallow. At the top, there were plenty of shops to browse, including several selling silk, which is a speciality of Como. There’s also a church and tower.
Don’t be so focused on where you’re going you forget to look down side streets
On account of the extended window shopping, I didn’t have time for the gardens for which Bellagio is known, such as the Villa Melzi D’Eril. I caught a glimpse of it on the bus back to Como, a much cheaper option than the boat at less than 4 Euros. Sit on the right hand side when you return to Como for the best views as it hugs the lakeshore most of the way back.
View from the C30 bus
Blog post live: the Kapiti coast of New Zealand
I’ve been blogging for Go4Travel about the Kapiti coast this week. You can read my suggestions on what to do in the area here:
http://www.go4travelblog.com/kapiti-coast-new-zealand/
Sunset at Porirua Harbour by Karora (Public domain)
The bus drivers of New Zealand
So often, it’s the people that make a place memorable more than the sights themselves. To really engage with a place, there needs to be a connection, and it’s the human interactions that facilitate that. I’ve been thinking about which places have the warmest and most welcoming locals, and I have to say New Zealand comes high up the list. I spent a week in South Island using the reliable bus system to see the main sights, but didn’t realise just how much I’d enjoy the journeys between those places. Here’s a piece I wrote for myWanderlust not long after I returned.
Inside the man there was a scruffy boy itching to get out.
The commentary as we edged down South Island’s west coast may have been aimed at adults, but tales of Australians landing planes upside down in the swamp came right out of Boys Own. With his untamed mop of greasy ginger hair, Dave was one of those people where you could still vividly imagine what he’d have looked like as a lad, scraped knees and all. Heading south from Greymouth into country country, everyone got a cheery wave, but then Dave knew most people. When it came to the drop off, he flicked the rolled up newspaper expertly through the window hatch as he once had from his push bike, slowing only slightly before checking his wing mirror to smugly inform us it had landed accurately.
“Yup, that’ll do ya. That paper’s printed at midday. If I didn’t run it through, they wouldn’t get it until tomorrow. No point in old news, is there?”
Bridge between Greymouth and Hokitika as navigated by Dave the bus driver
Dave told us he had the best job in the country but salt and pepper haired George disagreed. Picking up the baton from Franz Josef, he made sure everyone had visited the glaciers, threatening to leave us behind if we couldn’t tell him enough about what he insisted we should have seen.
Yes, I passed the test! Proof I visited Franz Josef glacier.
He wound us expertly round impossibly tight turns to deposit us at viewpoints framed with the ubiquitous but elegant tree fern, fronds shimmying like a Twenties flapper. Jovial when on the move, he was quick to chastise anyone who dared hold up the coach. At breakfast, out of serendipitous necessity swapping a motorway service station for a salmon farm deep in the forest, he joined me at my table. The conversation flitted back and forth as George downed his second cup of tea. Gruff George, it turned out, was a gentle man underneath; having lost his wife to cancer, he confided that meeting people on his bus had helped him through the tough times.
Wheezy Pete, with a capacious belly nurtured over many years supping good beer, shook our hands as we returned from a roadside hike to a waterfall. George introduced his replacement and pointed to the bus parked on the opposite side of the road.
Awesome NZ just about sums it up!
“You lot are hard work,” he chuckled, “there are only four on that other bus, I’m off back to Franz for a quiet life.”
And so the thirteen of us headed for Queenstown, encroaching steadily on snow-capped mountains as we edged alongside Lake Wanaka. Pete pointed out the world’s oldest bungee jump, offering a free ride to anyone who took up the challenge.
A few days passed before I met Dione. Dione was different, the first driver under forty, with a baseball cap and an exceptionally good knowledge of sheep. When not talking farming, he spoke incessantly of the weather.
“We have two hundred days of rain down here, bringing seven metres of water every year. For you folks that measure in millimetres, that’s a lot of rain!”
But he had the most spectacular drive, through the mountains down to Milford Sound. Skirt folds of Rimu trees parted to reveal the tiniest slivers of silvery petticoat cascading into puddles that blurred onto the water below. Our day was sunny, the deep azure of the sky framing the sheer cliffs of the fjord and diamonds pricking the water.
“Jeez, you guys are lucky. Even the keas are behaving today – yesterday those bloody parrots flew into the bus and shat all over the dash.”
Kea inspecting the bus for Dione
Wiry Tom knew he had the rough end of the deal, for it was he who would remove us from the crisp air of the mountains and carry us across the Canterbury Plain in all its sheep-strewn monotony. He tried his best with Mount Cook, but our wonder at the beauty of New Zealand’s highest peak was tainted by the knowledge of what was to come. I passed the time trying to figure out which Hollywood movie actor he reminded me of; a cop, no, the President? It was a twelve hour ride and I reached Christchurch none the wiser.
The road to Mount Cook
Yes, Dione was indeed different. He was the only one who wasn’t a scheduled bus driver, our driver-guide on a coach tour to one of the country’s best known attractions. In New Zealand, buses aren’t just there to take their passengers from point to point. To be a bus driver on South Island you needed a sense of humour and a good head for facts. I’d say a good aim and experience as a paper boy got you a long way too.
Latest blogs for Go4Travel
Regular readers will know that I blog regularly for Go4Travel, usually about New Zealand. Every now and then, I persuade the editors to let me blog about other amazing destinations and they couldn’t resist when I pitched Chile. My overview guides to Easter Island, San Pedro de Atacama and Torres del Paine National Park are essential reading if you’re thinking of heading there yourself. Take a look here:
http://www.go4travelblog.com/author/juliahammond/
Sunset at Ahu Vai Uri, Tahai, Easter Island
Mapunda’s story
As a keen proponent of independent travel, you might be surprised to find I’m also an advocate of hiring a good guide. While it’s great to wander aimlessly round a city stumbling over its hidden and not so hidden attractions, there are some destinations where a guide will significantly enhance your experience. Sometimes, as in Cappadocia, hiking for the first time after injuring my back, I was grateful not only for my guide’s navigational ability but for a helping hand over what were at the time quite challenging boulders and slippery gravel paths. My favourite guide, by a considerable margin, was the inimitable Mapunda, with whom I spent an exhilarating, and at times hysterical, few days amidst some of Tanzania’s most beautiful scenery. Here’s why we had such a fun time:
“Let me tell you why I am named Mapunda. A long time ago, my ancestors lived in South Africa. They embarked on a long journey, crossing Mozambique before settling in the south of Tanzania. Along the way, they killed zebra to eat. It was the way they survived. Because of the zebra, I am here today. And in my language, the word for zebra is mapunda.”
Mapunda
Mapunda went by the nickname Zebraman. He had worked as a driver for a safari company based in Arusha, in the north of Tanzania, for the past eight years. Before that, until the threat from poaching got too dangerous, he was a ranger at Tarangire National Park. But Mapunda had a secret. He dreamt of owning his own safari company and working for himself. This was a huge endeavour. To buy a brand new safari vehicle outright would cost over $60,000, so he planned to rent. On the side, he dreamed, it would have a zebra logo, black and white not only being the colours of the animal after which he was named, but also, he added, for the black and white people that would all be welcome to travel in it. Proudly, he gave me his business card, bearing the logo of two zebras facing in opposite directions watching for lions. As he shared his plans, his eyes lost their customary sad, wistful appearance and shone brightly. It was clear this meant the world to him.
Tarangire, our first stop, is known for its elephants, a childhood favourite of mine. The first thing Mapunda pointed out, however, was not a living creature. Instead, he showed me the house he lived in during his ranger days. He spoke with fondness, apologising unnecessarily for delaying the start of our safari. Later, his ranger experience paid dividends as he always knew the best places to find the animals, even during their midday nap. Without malice, he was dismissive of many of the other drivers, tutting after they asked him where the best spots were, or, worse still, follow him to tailgate on the wildlife he had found. He always helped them, though.
Coming in dry season, the grass was dry and river levels low. We forded the Tarangire River several times during the course of the day, watching zebras and wildebeest linger bravely for a drink whilst keeping a watchful eye out for any hungry lions that might pick off their weakest. Impalas grazed under five hundred year old baobab trees, skittish as Mapunda cut the engine and pulled alongside. Nonchalant giraffes munched on the highest leaves, their long thick tongues gently caressing each stem as they made their choice.
As we ate our sandwiches, Mapunda taught me some Swahili. ‘Tembo’ meant elephant, ‘simba,’ lion; ‘nina taka’ translated as ‘I want’. After lunch, it was time to try it out.
“Nina taka tembo.”
The elephant, grazing a few short metres away from the vehicle, flapped his ears wide and lifted his trunk, warning us off. I was transfixed.
Male elephant scratching on a tree stump
Eventually, Mapunda asked if I was ready to go.
“Sawa sawa,” I answered. “OK.”
We headed down to the river, rewarded by the sight of more of these magnificent creatures blowing water and quenching their thirst. Others, further up the river, wallowed in the mud in the shallows, rolling onto their backs with the bliss that comes from cooling off from the relentless sun. Each encounter left me wanting more.
Mapunda was patient, indulging me. Click, click, click. Mapunda was keen to make sure I was getting good shots, and enthused when I showed him what I’d taken.
“Nina taka simba? Or more elephants, Julia? Or a zebra. Why don’t you like my zebras?” he teased.
It became a regular joke that if I saw elephants, I was happy. Equally, he would laugh when I would fake that the zebras were the highlight of that particular drive. We got each other. Sometimes a look was all it took to have us both hooting with laughter.
Mapunda’s beloved zebras
Mapunda and I joked that I said “Nina taka” and what I wished for immediately came true. Perhaps I should have said “Nina taka lottery win” or for Mapunda, “Nina taka lots of clients for the new business.”
Each day, Mapunda was punctual, eyes bright, grin wide. His enthusiasm was infectious: I felt lucky to be spending time with someone with such a zest for life. I’d been on safari before, but this time, the memories have endured, more than just the animals I spotted, and I reckon that’s mostly down to Mapunda. Every now and then I get an email from him. The business is slowly getting up and running and his gratitude to each client is a reminder that we should all count our blessings.
Six feet up a mountain
Later this month, I’m off to Italy to review trains on behalf of Trenitalia and Trainline Europe, but I shall also be making a brief detour north of the border into Austria. I first visited at the tender age of nine months and since then it’s remained one of my favourite countries for a summertime visit. One of my most treasured memories is from a trip I took with my golden retriever Einstein a few years ago. The Pet Passport Scheme has made taking a pet abroad a simple and easy process. So long as I pack his favourite soft toy, Einstein happily travels in the boot of the car and loves nothing better than to give customs officials a surprise when they open up the tailgate to check what they expect to be luggage.
Here’s what happened when Einstein and I decided to take to the hills…
My walking companion, Einstein
There was no way either of us was walking up.
Both of us were far too lazy for that, so I’d decided on the gondola. It was located up a gravel track, steep enough to confirm that the decision was a correct one. He looked at me expectantly, checking to make sure I wasn’t going to change my mind and demand that we walk to the top. I looked up the mountain and then at him and then climbed the few steps to the ticket office.
“Ein und ein Hund, bitte.” That was about as far as my German went (grammatically appalling I expect) but taking a dog on a gondola was common practice here and the woman slid me my ticket without comment.
Inside, we hit a snag. The gondola couldn’t stop and the dog wouldn’t move. Einstein was having none of it, digging his back paws firmly into the ground and refusing to go near the terrifying machine with its hum and its swing. Lifting him was not an option; he’s 32kg of solid golden retriever. After several aborted attempts, we managed to board, me first and Einstein preferring to jump into the unknown than remain behind without me.
This walking business was tougher than we thought.
Time for a rest
At the upper station, we got off with somewhat less drama and took off at a slight run in the direction of down. Unfortunately, the path passed within a couple of feet of a toboggan run and a couple of kids flew past us, screaming and laughing. Slothful Einstein sensed his chance to speed our return to the village cafe where we’d both enjoyed a splendid Austrian breakfast, and dragged me forward in an attempt to slide down the mountain instead of walk. I yanked hard on his lead and disaster was averted.
Once we actually got into a proper routine, the walk down the meadow and along the mountain stream was really rather pleasant. From time to time, we’d pause to admire the view of the Wilder Kaiser in front of us. Stray clouds caught on craggy summit ridges. Geranium-adorned chalets peaked out from behind pine tree plantations down in the valley.
This area, in the Austrian Tirol, is one of my favourite. I’ve been walking in these mountains, off and on, since I was four years old. In the early days, I remember walks with my younger sister, a lot of cows and bellowing thunder – or was that a lot of thunder and bellowing cows? We got wet, she got chased, that I do remember. Later, as a student, I took Wilder walks, (that’s vill-der, not wild-er) and watched the cows being herded down to the village complete with flower-adorned headdresses for the annual Alm Festival. I always feel calm on these pastures, totally relaxed, breathing in the crisp mountain air and letting the freedom envelope the whole of my being.
Relief for hot paws
That day, the sun shone on Einy and I, but the mountain stream was still icy cold and perfect for soaking tired paws as we trundled downhill. I chattered, he listened, ambling beside me obediently unless he saw a squirrel or a bird or a hiker. Aside from the odd cattle grid, always problematic, the walk passed without further incident and, down in the valley, we reached the main road.
Where was the village?
“Oh, bugger, Einstein. The village has moved. Not sure the last part of our walk is going to be as scenic…”
Yes, this walking business was tougher than we thought, I decided, as we finished our walk along hard pavements. But if you have to tough it out, then tough it out with the Wilder Kaiser in front of you, I’d say.
And so would Einstein, if he could talk.
How to save money on your South American trip
Many people might rule out a holiday in South America on the grounds that it is too expensive, but there are ways to save money and make that dream trip an affordable reality. Here’s what you need to know:
Book independently
Tour operator prices to Latin America are often prohibitively expensive. Although some operators offer good value, such as Llama Travel and Journey Latin America’s value range, typical tour prices are high. Unpackage your trip and book it yourself. Get decent insurance and make sure that your Transatlantic flights aren’t going to be affected by a cancelled or delayed short haul connection by purchasing all legs as a through ticket. Don’t be tempted to book airport transfers or tours in advance for the popular destinations as you’ll pay a premium and it’s simple to arrange these on arrival.
Llama feeding in the village of Toconao
Book your trip for shoulder season
Peak period flights to South America are expensive, there’s no getting round it. But if you can be flexible with your dates, then it is possible to slash the cost of your Transatlantic fare. For example, travelling in the shoulder seasons (spring and autumn) can reduce prices significantly. Don’t rule out the southern hemisphere winter. Air France flights from London to Lima last June were on sale for a little over £500 (compared to over £1000 in August) and if your planned destination is up in the Andes such as Cusco in Peru or San Pedro de Atacama in Chile then it will be dry and sunny during the daytime – just pack a thick fleece and jacket for the evenings.
Don’t assume the European route will be the cheapest
There are few direct flights to Latin America, meaning demand often outstrips supply which pushes the prices up. Use a flight comparison website to see which routes are cheapest for the dates you wish to travel; many people consider the US and European hubs such as Amsterdam, Paris and Madrid, but there are often deals to be had to west coast destinations via Brazil or Argentina with LATAM. At the time of writing, LAN were offering return fares to Rio for £419. If you’re on a really tight budget but have bags of time, you could consider reaching your final destination overland from Rio or Buenos Aires.
Hubbing through Buenos Aires could save you a packet
Do your homework on internal flights
Sometimes, overnight buses provide a cheap and surprisingly comfortable alternative to flying. Many large bus companies in Latin America offer cama or semi-cama seating – large spacious seats which recline far enough for you to have a good night’s sleep. Stick to a reputable operator which will use two drivers and ensure they are drug-tested and safe to go behind the wheel. Try Cruz del Sur, for example, between Arequipa and Cusco. If you do need to fly, check the terms and conditions before purchasing. LAN offers sizeable discounts on its internal flights in Chile if you book from a Chilean website (use free software such as Tor) or via a Chilean travel agent – and you don’t have to be Chilean national to take advantage of them. This isn’t the case for all countries; in Argentina, discounted prices are for nationals only.
Valle de la Luna, Chile
Don’t rule out hostels and guest houses
Private rooms in hostels increasingly come with private bathrooms and can be a fraction of the cost of a similar quality hotel room. They’re also a good way to meet other like-minded travellers who might be willing to split the cost of tours with you. Use a reliable website such as Booking.com or Hostelbookers.com to fix up your accommodation in advance – use the free cancellation option, monitoring prices so you can cancel and rebook if prices fall before you leave. Check locations carefully so that you are within walking distance of transport operators or the attractions you want to visit.
Package up tours
If you do decide to book tours, some operators will bundle up different day and half-day excursions offering a discount for cash. If you’re booking for the next few days ahead, they’ll be keen to fill their minibus and will want to make sure you don’t take your business elsewhere. This works well where it’s normal to take tours rather than use public transport to visit sites of interest, such as the Sacred Valley near Cusco and Los Flamencos National Reserve in the Chilean Atacama.
Inti Raymi celebrations take place in Cusco each June
Consider self-drive
In Chilean Patagonia, accommodation providers in the Torres del Paine National Park offered expensive all-inclusive packages. Self-drive from Punta Arenas (four hours) or Puerto Natales (one hour) and drive yourself round the park. Stock up at the supermarket in Puerto Natales for provisions to save buying expensive box lunches from the hotel (and make sure you have a full tank of petrol). The maps and information provided by the visitor centre are excellent and you won’t have wasted money on a guide.
The Torres del Paine National Park
Around San Pedro de Atacama
Despite its diminutive size, the village of San Pedro de Atacama, a desert oasis of adobe homes set around an attractive square, features on many people’s itineraries when they head for Chile. Reached by bus from nearby Calama, a two-hour flight from the capital Santiago, San Pedro is perfectly placed as a base from which to explore the picturesque scenery of Los Flamencos National Reserve. Tourists can explore lagoons framed by snow-capped volcanoes high in the altiplano, wander across salt pans or see dawn break at the atmospheric El Tatio geyser field. Despite a growing number of visitors, if choose your operator carefully it’s still possible to have a magical experience. I chose Desert Adventure: the guiding was excellent and the tours unrushed. Here are some of my favourite photos from the trip.
Laguna Miscanti with Cerro Miscanti in the background
Vicuña graze the altiplano in family groups
Salar Aguas Calientes – all the colours of the Caribbean but none of the heat!
Salar Aguas Calientes – almost like a watercolour
Flamingo spotting at Laguna Chaxa
Llama feeding in the village of Toconao
Valle de la Luna
Sunset at Valle de la Luna
Sunrise at El Tatio geyser field
Atmospheric El Tatio
The rustic church at the village of Macucha, famed for its delicious anticuchos de llama
One of the dogs that gives the village its nickname – San Perro de Atacama
Torres del Paine National Park: the highlights
Chile’s Torres del Paine National Park has been on my wish list for many years. Now that I’ve been, I can report that it didn’t disappoint. You can see my blog about the area on Go4Travel’s website: http://www.go4travelblog.com/torres-del-paine-national-park-highlights/
Here are some of my favourite photos from the trip.
Sunrise over Lago Toro
Cuernos del Paine as seen from Lago Nordernskjold
Salto Grande waterfall
Lago Pehoe in the late afternoon sun
Guanacos in the north of the park
Young guanacos play-fighting
The Torres del Paine
Glaciar Grey
Close up of the ice, Glaciar Grey
Blog post live: suggestions for a tour of Ireland
I’ve been blogging for Creative Travel Ltd and this week I offer suggestions for a trip to the Irish Republic. Here are my suggestions – where would you add?
Read the blog here: http://www.creativetravelltd.com/travel-destinations/explore-our-selection-of-ireland-vacation-ideas/
Photo credit: The Temple Bar at night by Wolfgang Sailer CC BY-SA 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons
Easter Island in pictures
Easter Island, the second most isolated island on the planet, yet famous the world over for the moai which stand sentinel, their backs to its shores. Spending Easter here has been a blessing, the island’s beauty a revelation and the warmth of its people ensuring the memories go beyond mere statues.
Sunrise at Tongariki, site of the greatest number of moai
Long shadows in the morning’s first hour of daylight, beginning in April at a civilised 8am
Sunrise in full colour
Heading north to the coast, but watch out for horses, wild or herded
The moai quarry, Rano Raraku
The kneeling moai at Rano Raraku
Moai quarried right out of the stone cliffs
The beach at Anakena, one of only two sandy shores on an island characterised by rocky cliffs
Ahu Nau Nau: Sand piled up right
behind the ahu (platform) on which stand seven moai
Close up shot of one of the moai at Anakena
Puna Pau top knot quarry
The seven moai at Ahu Akivi, unusual in that they face the sea
Visitors are requested to respect the island’s heritage and keep off the ahu, but the horses don’t always get the message
Rano Kau crater, near the main settlement of Hanga Roa
Vivid colours of the vegetation on the crater rim
The unusual buildings at Orongo
Hanga Roa’s quirky cemetery
Sunset at Ahu Vai Uri, Tahai
Rapa Nui flag – at present the Chilean government aren’t collecting (aren’t able to collect?) the National Park fee; the Rapanui people have roadblocks and are recording visitor details
Boeing Dreamliner takes off to begin its five hour journey back to Santiago on the mainland
Blog post live: Stewart Island
My latest blog for Go4Travel focuses on Stewart Island. Off the southern tip of South Island, many people don’t make the journey, but if you like hiking and bird watching, this is worth the effort. Find out more here: http://www.go4travelblog.com/things-to-do-in-stewart-island-nz/
Why you should visit the Turks and Caicos this summer
I’ve been blogging for Creative Travel Ltd about the Turks and Caicos. This Caribbean archipelago receives fewer than 7,000 British visitors a year – its main source of international tourists is of course, North America. It’s time to remedy this: March 29 sees the launch of British Airways’ direct flights from Gatwick to Provo (with a brief touchdown in Antigua, making this direct but not non-stop). Find out what Provo’s like in my blog here:
http://www.creativetravelltd.com/travel-destinations/turks-and-caicos-beaches/
“Turtle Cove Providenciales Beach” by Tim Stackton Licensed under GFDL
Looking back on my trip to Tanna, Vanuatu
The news that Cyclone Pam had ripped through the island nation of Vanuatu in the South Pacific broke last week and, some days later, relief and rescue teams reached the outlying island of Tanna where I spend a week in 2013. While loss of life hasn’t been as great as first feared, given that this was a Category 5 storm the islands have been hit hard. Knowing that Tanna Lodge, where I stayed, had its own generator, I sent an email, not knowing whether they’d receive it. Internet and phone connections are down across the outlying islands. Via a satellite phone, I heard on Sunday morning that the staff and buildings had miraculously survived unscathed, though the lush gardens have been devastated.
Tanna Lodge
Tropical vegetation grows back quickly, and I would urge you to consider visiting to give the islanders the much needed income to help them get back on their feet. In the meantime, I wanted to share a story I wrote shortly after returning from Tanna. The island has many kastom villages, where residents live a traditional lifestyle and some even worship our very own Prince Philip…
The Road to Yakel
Ozzy Osbourne would have loved this, but I was not Ozzy.
Heading for Yakel and expecting Tanna’s regular mode of transport, the dusty but trusty pick-up, I was caught unawares by the invitation to jump on the back of a canary yellow quad bike. Ned, my driver and guide, instructed me to hold on tight. Mild panic set in. I’d happily travelled in all manner of rustic transport from tuk tuks to donkey carts but I’d always steered clear of quads out of a not so irrational fear that they’d be certain to topple over. What was I doing? I didn’t even have a helmet.
The quad bike reaches Yakel
Ned set off at speed up the steep mountain track with the confidence of youth, a wide grin across his face and palm trees reflecting in his sunglasses. Behind him, my mouth clamped tightly into a nervous grimace. Try as I might my mind kept wandering to a story I’d read about Ozzy and his love of quad bikes despite almost dying after crashing one in the grounds of his home. Was he crazy? I wasn’t sure. He didn’t have to contend with a rutted dirt track liberally dusted with volcanic ash and loose gravel. Keep calm, I muttered, reminding myself there was a hospital on the other side of the island.
The ruts deepened into terrifyingly deep chasms and muddy crevasses. Ned, ever cheerful, pointed out the school to our right, funded by Australia. With all their mineral wealth couldn’t they have added to the budget and filled the holes in the road, I wondered? I gripped the handles more tightly than before. One false move and we’d overturn. Tense, I silently willed Ned onwards, wordlessly reminding him to keep left, no right, mind the tree roots, watch that squealing piglet! Up and up we climbed, pausing momentarily here and there to change into a lower gear when the gradient steepened even more.
Higher into the rainforest, the view below became more dramatic where Mt Yasur’s ancient lava flows had once oozed out to sea, but all I could think about was survival. Every approaching village inspired hope. Would this be Yakel? As Ned sped up, the quad bike emitting a throaty roar, we passed clusters of straw and thatch shacks. All looked promising. None, alas, were Yakel. As we bumped and thumped up the interminable track, I implored whatever local God might be listening to make Yakel the next settlement or at the very least, let me get off and walk.
Yakel kids playing in the tree
My plea fell on deaf ears. Instead of our destination, the Gods presented us with a bridge made from crudely tied logs, gaps surely big enough to lodge a wheel and pitch us into the river below. I peered over. Weathered lava bombs ejected from the volcano sat where water should have been. We picked our way over a second and then a third bridge of the same quality. Concrete? Why had no one thought of concrete? I could feel the logs give slightly as young Ned inched across. Even he’d paused before tackling this hurdle, I noted. Would it be better or worse if I shut my eyes?
My thighs burned from the Herculean task of keeping my body wedged up against the back of the slippery seat. Knuckles rose milky white against my sunbrowned hands which had petrified round the handles I had been told to grip. Ned would have to prise me off this thing if we ever reached Yakel. It became a battle of mind over body, but it didn’t help that my mind was still flitting between various scenes of doom which all ended back at Lenakel hospital. Just as I was thinking I couldn’t take much more of this torture, the track widened into a nakamal, a large clearing under the shade of several banyan trees. A smiling man clad only in a namba emerged from the rainforest. The namba, or penis sheath, identified Yakel as a kastom village, where people lived by the simple ways of their ancestors and, in this particular case, had a special fondness for Prince Philip.
Welcome to Yakel, he said, uttering words that were as magical as the forest itself. The emotion I felt was relief rather than euphoria. I still had to go back; downhill was going to be even more terrifying than uphill. But as the other villagers slowly filtered in and began to dance to the sound of their own rhythmic chanting, it was all worth it.
Yakel villagers dance for their visitor
After 104 countries, can I still have a bucket list?
When you’ve travelled to over a hundred countries, people stop asking where you’d like to go and start commenting that you’ve been everywhere. I’ve been lucky enough to visit the majority of places that feature on most people’s bucket lists: watching elephants play on safari in Africa, exploring world-class ruins like Machu Picchu and Petra, photographing the Grand Canyon and watched a New York sunset from the top of the Empire State Building. I’ve added quite a few more of my own: walking with lions, getting drenched under Iguaçu, Victoria and Niagara Falls and standing on the crater rim of Mount Yasur as it erupted in front of me. I’ve ridden a camel, flown in a seaplane and baked French macarons, I’ve seen the Northern Lights, lazed on Caribbean beaches and nearly crashed a Segway. So what is left of my bucket list? Here’s my current top five:
Salar de Uyuni, Bolivia
The world’s largest salt flat, the Salar de Uyuni is a photographers’ playground. The flat surface of this dried up prehistoric lake blends seamlessly with the horizon, opening up countless opportunities for crazy perspective photos. Some of my favourites appear here: http://mashable.com/2013/10/22/salar-de-uyuni-instagram/ in times of flood, if the air is still, it seems to me like it could be the most beautiful place in the world.
Salar de Uyuni by Kuroiniisan reproduced under the Creative Commons Licence CC BY_SA 3.0
Svalbard, Norway
Svalbard, or Spitsbergen, is a remote island in the Arctic, far north of Norway’s mainland and home to polar bears. Since reading Paddington as a kid, I’ve been mad about bears, and seeing a polar bear cub playing with its mother on the ice would be a dream come true. Watching Gordon Buchanan’s excellent Polar Bear Family and Me series on the Beeb, http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b01pyql5, only confirmed what I already knew; this would be an unforgettable experience.
Polar bear cubs by US Fish and Wildlife Service (in the public domain)
Danakil Depression, Ethiopia
The hottest place on earth, and at this time, possibly one of the most dangerous, the Danakil Depression is one of the most tectonically active places on the planet: http://www.bradtguides.com/destinations/africa/ethiopia/danakil-depression.html. It will be a tough trek, but once the security situation has improved, I want to climb one of Africa’s most active volcanoes, Erta Ale, and see the lava lake that has been a permanent fixture there for over a century.
Lava lake at Erta Ale by Rolf Cosar reproduced under the Creative Commons Licence CC BY 3.0
Dogon people, Mali
Visiting the masked dancers of the Dogon people who live in the central plateau of Mali has been on my wish list for several years. At present, the risk of kidnapping amidst political instability in the region has put paid to any definite plans, but I keep checking back on the FCO’s website just in case https://www.gov.uk/foreign-travel-advice/mali. The lure of heading up the Niger River to the fabled city of Timbuktu and to Djenne with its mud mosques makes a trip to this West African nation a must, one day.
Dogon masked dancers by Devriese reproduced under the terms of the Creative Commons Licence CC BY 3.0
Jericoacoara, Brazil
I first caught sight of this beautiful beach when it was visiited by one of my favourite travel presenters, the affable Ian Wright, on an edition of Globe Trekker (read the programme synopsis at http://www.pilotguides.com/tv-shows/globe-trekker/series-01/north-east-brazil/). It’s a pig to reach, involving a long bus journey from Fortaleza, but this fishing village is a draw for its dunes and laid-back vibe. Distances in Brazil are huge, so I’d have to fly of course, but I’d like to combine it with the cobbled streets of Salvador at carnival time.
Room for one more at Jericoacoara beach by Nolispanmo reproduced under the terms of the Creative Commons Licence CC BY_SA 3.0 DE
So tell me, what’s on your bucket list?
Thomas Cook Explore the Elements competition
Looking for four suitable photos for the Thomas Cook Explore the Elements competition – find it here http://www.thomascook.com/blog/featured-posts/explore-the-elements/ – has been the perfect excuse to spend a Sunday afternoon browsing through my travel photo albums.
My entries
Fire
This was taken a month ago in Jacmel, Haiti. The man in the photo is a houngan, or Vodou priest, who was explaining some of the rites and rituals that form his religion. I love the atmosphere that this photo conjures up, with the shadowy skull in the background that hints at dark practices. Attending a blessing ceremony later that evening was an experience I won’t forget in a hurry.
Water
I got married last year in Iceland and the day after the wedding, my new husband and I revisited the beach at Jokulsarlon on Iceland’s south coast ten years after our first trip. Ice that has calved from the glacier is washed out to sea where these tiny icebergs slowly disintegrate. I love that this photo looks almost black and white in the sunshine.
Land
Not being a massive sports fan, I fled to Namibia to escape the London Olympics and found myself in the Namib Desert on the evening of the opening ceremony. The sunset in this remote location was spectacular and I especially love the tree silhouette which draws the setting sun towards you as you look at it. I sat outside my tent with a cold beer until the light faded completely before repairing to the bar where ironically the Olympics was on the TV.
Air
I found this category the most difficult. My thoughts turned to a hot air balloon trip I made a few years back in Cappadocia, Turkey. During the same trip, I had a brief stopover in Istanbul where these souvenir tins of air had caught my eye. I hope that this is valued as a unique slant on the theme. I have to add, I think the Turks could sell me anything!
My nominations
I’ve chosen to nominate people who have taken the trouble to comment on my own blog. So thank you, and good luck with your own entries.
Wilbur at http://wilburstravels.com/
Keith at https://wisepacking.wordpress.com/
Jude at https://smallbluegreenwords.wordpress.com/
Claudia at https://mermaidtravels.wordpress.com/
Ailene at http://rheacollections.com/
Finally, a win against CityJet
Last July, I flew in to Paris from Lima, Peru with Air France to connect with a CityJet flight back to London City Airport. I checked in as normal at Orly airport on 4 July and made my way airside.
At check-in there was no indication anything was wrong
Noting that the information board didn’t yet have a gate number, I took a seat and read a magazine. After a while, I thought it would be wise to check if the flight had been allocated a gate and was puzzled to see that fifteen minutes before the scheduled take-off slot, the flight had disappeared from the screens. There were no CityJet ground staff around and after asking a few airport employees, I decided to go back landside to find out what was going on.
At the check-in desk, I managed to find out that the flight had been cancelled “for technical reasons”. I was told that there was no way I’d be able to get back to London that evening as the Heathrow and City flights were all full. The CityJet employee was apologetic but when asked for a solution, gave a Gallic shrug and basically told me there was none. A couple of businessmen in the same predicament joined me and received the same treatment. Eventually, a supervisor was called who repeated that there was “no solution”. Eventually, after some heated debate, he acknowledged that it was CityJet’s responsibility to get us back to the UK and suggested that we go on standby for the following morning’s flight – but that it was possible we wouldn’t be able to travel as the flight wasn’t showing sufficient spaces.
To cut a long story short, the only way of a guaranteed return to London was to take the train to Gare du Nord and take Eurostar at our own expense – and under EU rules, claim compensation for the cancelled flight. To do this required the return of our checked luggage. At first, we were told it was waiting on the carousel, but it wasn’t and no member of ground staff knew where it was. Having booked a Eurostar ticket on the understanding I’d be able to leave the airport pretty much immediately, I then had a nail-biting wait for the luggage to be tracked down followed by a mad dash across Paris. I caught my Eurostar train with five minutes to spare.
My Eurostar journey was a very pleasant experience
Back in the UK, I submitted my request for compensation. Having been given a slip of paper at Orly with a handwritten note reading “ticket of the flight can be refound (sic)” I didn’t envisage any issues, even if it had been incorrectly dated as 4 June. I filled in the relevant form from CityJet’s website, attached scans of the relevant receipts and tickets and waited for a response.
Airlines should give you a written notification of a flight cancellation
Nothing happened for several weeks, until I received this reply on 21 August:
Dear Mrs. Hammond Johnson,
Thank you for contacting CityJet.
We write in response to your email regarding your flight incident and we would like to apologise for the inconvenience caused on this occasion.
Having studied your file, we inform you that the incident was due to a technical issue. Such cases are considered as extraordinary events for which we cannot be held liable according to the European Regulation 261/2004.
We therefore regret to inform you that we cannot agree to your compensation request.
We hope your subsequent journeys with us will be to your full satisfaction.
Kind Regards,
Veronica
CityJet Customer Care
Not to be fobbed off, I visited the Which? consumer guide website, which suggested that there was a relevant court case appeal being heard regarding Jet2. Basically, if the appeal went in the customer’s favour rather than that of the airline, technical issues would no longer be classified as extraordinary and I would be entitled to 250 euros in compensation. I decided to wait it out. In November, I read online that the ruling was what I’d hoped for and so I used the Which? template to create the following letter:
24 November 2014
Dear Sir/Madam,
Reference: WX024
I am writing to you in connection with the above flight on which I was booked to travel on 4 July 2014.
The flight was supposed to depart from Paris Orly at 1710, but was cancelled fifteen minutes prior to take off.
When I tried to get compensation under the EU Denied Boarding Regulation 261/2004, I was told I was not eligible because the cancellation was caused by an extraordinary circumstance.
Technical problems are not extraordinary circumstances unless they are the type that you could not expect to encounter when operating a flight.
The decisions made in the Wallentin-Hermann vs. Alitalia case 2009 and Jet2 vs. Huzar case 2014 have confirmed that routine technical difficulties are not extraordinary circumstances. Although Jet2 appealed the ruling, the decision was upheld in November 2014.
I am entitled to the sum of 250 euros compensation and look forward to receiving the sterling equivalent within the next 14 days.
I attach a copy of the ticket and previous correspondence I have had with your airline,
Yours sincerely,
Julia Hammond Johnson
Ensure any written correspondence can be tracked
I posted it recorded delivery as suggested and waited. Weeks passed and I heard nothing. I sent an email to CityJet requesting an answer to my letter. The following day, I received this reply:
Dear Mrs. Hammond Johnson,
I write in response to your email from Saturday, January 31, 2015.
We take into consideration all the emails sent to you previously from our colleague Veronica on the 21 August 2015 regarding your request for the compensation of your flight cancellation.
At that time as per the European Regualtions EC261/2004 technical issue was classified as Extraordinary events which was not eligible for any compensation. Your compensation request was denied in August before the decision regarding technical issues was amended. Therefore your case was close in August 2014 and the decision was made in November 2014.Taking into consideration the European Regulations at that time you are not entitle to any compensation.
On this occasion we must deny your request for compensation.
Yours sincerely,
Hunsini
CityJet Customer Care
Unimpressed by CityJet’s attempts to wriggle out of their legal obligations, I sent this terse reply:
As you are well aware, the ruling in November applies to flights going back up to six years. You are therefore not legally entitled to deny my request for compensation under British and EU law. I am quite prepared to take this to court and to the media, neither of which would do anything good for CityJet’s image.
Please reconsider the request. Surely 250 euros is better than the negative publicity which would be generated. I have no intention of dropping this matter.
Julia Hammond Johnson
It did the trick. I received this email response almost immediately:
Dear Mrs. HAMMOND JOHNSON,
I write in response to your email from Tuesday, February 03, 2015 whereby you explain you have experienced a flight cancellation.
We are pleased to inform you that we agree to offer you the full compensation amount of Eur 250.00.
In order to answer to your request, we would be grateful if you could send us the following documents by responsding to this email
•Complete bank details including the IBAN (International Bank Account Number),
•Swift code / BIC,
•the full name of the Account holder,
•bank name including address
We are looking forward to read from you.
Yours sincerely,
Kaminee
CityJet Customer Care
It made me chuckle – the first line of Kaminee’s response giving the impression that no previous correspondence had taken place. I did as I was asked and was promised compensation within 21 working days. I am pleased to report that the money was credited to my account on 4 March, eight months to the day after the flight cancellation. Other than the fact that the value of the euro has taken a nosedive against the pound during that time, I am happy with the result. Together with the refund I received last July from Opodo (with whom I booked) for the unused flight leg, the compensation I received covered the cost of my train journey back to London.
What have I learnt from this?
Firstly, know your rights and make sure any correspondence you send quotes the relevant court rulings. Secondly, keep all your receipts and paperwork, taking scans to send if your complaint is made via email. Thirdly, where you have to use the regular mail, ensure you use recorded delivery so that you can prove your letter was received and on what date. Finally, I’ve decided that I won’t be travelling with CityJet again – any airline can be forced to cancel a flight, but CityJet’s deliberate attempts to avoid paying out compensation and its lack of integrity as a company mean that I shall choose to take my business elsewhere in future.
A trip to Sicily sounds tempting!
Last night Leigh Travel Club hosted the delightful Francesca Sanniti from Chic and Unique Tours, down from Yorkshire to speak to the club’s members about Sicily. I didn’t know a lot about the island except about Mount Etna, but learnt a lot about its role as an Italian cultural melting pot, as well as having the chance to sample some delicious Sicilian chocolate. Now I’m sold, and shall be taking a look at Francesca’s website http://www.chicanduniquetours.com to see which holiday might suit me best.
Francesca’s talk was informative and entertaining
Throwback Thursday: the old man and his cigarettes
Before the present conflict kicked off, I visited Syria, spending a few enjoyable days exploring Damascus, Hama and Aleppo before crossing the border into Jordan. It saddens me to see what has happened to this once beautiful country, but I have fond memories of this trip, and especially when I think back to my journey to Jordan’s capital city, Amman…
Straight Street, Damascus
The taxi driver and his assistant scratched their heads as they unpacked the contents of the boot for the third time. My guidebook had said that service taxis only left when full but this was really stretching the concept. My small suitcase was not the problem. My three travelling companions, a Jordanian man and his two daughters, had with them ten or so large bags of assorted shapes, with most of their purchases loosely tied in black plastic sacks. The souks of Damascus were considerably cheaper than those of Amman and the family had taken full advantage.
At 6am the bus station had been almost deserted and my driver and his hustler had decided to try their luck on the main highway. And so it was that we found ourselves by the side of the road surrounded by packages. As the family’s taxi reversed towards us down the main road and popped open its boot, it was clear this was not going to be a fast transfer. Finally, the sixth, or so, attempt at loading the boot was successful – only a handful of bags on laps – and we were on our way. I considered myself lucky to have the front seat and only a small backpack; I had more space than anyone. The hustler balanced precariously the front driver’s seat as we careered along the road, leaning out of the door so as not to interfere with driver’s control of the pedals and trying to keep the door as close to its frame as was possible. Somehow, he was still in one piece when we dropped him off and set off for the border.
Our driver was in a tremendous hurry. It seemed a matter of personal pride to overtake every vehicle on the road, creating a third lane if need be to ensure that the brake wasn’t required. At breakneck speed, we hurtled through the Damascene suburbs and out onto the main road, scattering trucks, vans and cars by the wayside as we passed. No horn was necessary, such was his unwavering determination to push his way through. Each successful manoeuvre spurred him on more. And then, cornering on two wheels (or so it felt), we pulled in to a bunch of roadside shops and parked up with a jolt out front. For twenty minutes negotiations continued and finally our driver emerged with a box of perfumed tissues, large size and pink, and a two litre bottle of water. The almost full box of similarly fragranced yet blue tissues, and an untouched bottle of water in the passenger footwell were clearly insufficient for his needs.
As abruptly as we had pulled in, we were back on the road and, with the impatience of youth, soon accelerated back up to full speed. Fidgeting between lanes, and often straddling them as was the custom, he continued with his quest to overtake every other vehicle in Syria. Reaching a small town twenty kilometres from the border, we parked up with a small group of other service taxis and loaded the three Jordanians and their considerable luggage into one of them. Several hundred Syrian pound notes were handed over to their new driver. Even without me, it was a squeeze, and the back seat was still covered in black sacks next to the two young women. Taking the pink tissues, but neither bottle of water, the racing driver got out. I was introduced to his “father” who was to take me across the border. A leathery, slim fellow with brown jacket and a worried frown permanently on his face, he was a more considerate road user than his predecessor, though no less fast. After stopping briefly to collect the car’s paperwork, we were on our way.
Some reports had suggested that the border formalities could take up to five hours, but at 8.30am the Nasib border was quiet. The Syrian border officials were courteous and thorough, and, aside from a surprise 500 SYP departure tax not mentioned in my guidebook, I crossed into no man’s land without incident. When I emerged from the immigration building, however, my driver was nowhere in sight. I waited for some time in the sunshine until finally he emerged from the direction of the duty free shop clutching a large bag of cigarettes. Leaving one pack of 200 smokes in the bag, he stripped off the cellophane wrapping of the other two and threw it, together with the cardboard cases onto the floor. Every compartment of the taxi was used to store the now loose packets, two in the ashtray, six so perfectly in the armrest it could have been designed for the purpose and three more under the passenger sun visor. What wouldn’t fit were carefully placed, slowly and very deliberately, in his many pockets. Finally, we were ready to set off. Around the corner, a couple of dollars were palmed to an official, a friend, and after a brief exchange of pleasantries, we entered the Jordanian zone.
Each car arriving at the Jabir crossing is searched meticulously, first passing over the top of an official in a pit and then, boot and bonnet open, undergoing a thorough investigation of the rest of the car. My suitcase was opened and questions asked about a small packet of paracetamol tablets. Inexplicably, the driver’s cache of cigarettes remained intact. I didn’t see a packet exchange hands. Money changed and visa purchased, we entered Jordan.
Before dropping me in the Abdali district, we had one last stop to make. Calling in on his customer by a parade of shops, the cigarettes were painstakingly retrieved from each of their hiding places and the carrier bag eventually handed over in exchange for 24 JD. One very happy old man turned his taxi around and headed back to the border.
Unanchor interview about Cusco
To celebrate my Unanchor guide to Cusco and the Sacred Valley, Unanchor have interviewed me about this, one of my favourite cities. You can see the interview here http://blog.unanchor.com/2015/02/23/itinerary-writer-spotlight-julia-hammond-cusco-peru/ and remember it’s available on Amazon if you’d like to buy a copy.
Inti Raymi celebrations take place each June
The best beach in Haiti
Nothing much happened in a hurry in Port Salut.
The village sprawled beside the soft white sands of Pointe Sable, on Haiti’s southern coast about a half hour from the noisy bustle of Les Cayes. It was no small relief to arrive. My coccyx was numb after a ride in the most cramped and overloaded tap tap I’d had the misfortune to flag down. Not for the first time this trip, I wondered whether my days of travelling like this, eschewing comfort for a more authentic experience, were numbered.
Overloaded tap taps are the only public transport to Port Salut
The half-hour ride had stretched to five times that, delayed by the need to fill the vehicle to three times a sensible capacity, then tie and retie a large assortment of sacks and packages to the roof. Finally, the driver turned over the engine but instead of leaving, we waited while he carried out urgent mechanical work with much tutting coming from under the rusty bonnet. All the while we sweated under a relentless sun, listening to the football on someone’s portable radio. There wasn’t a murmur of complaint; such delays were clearly the norm. These tap taps had once been shiny new pick up trucks, but were now zombified skeletons, shadows of their former selves. Bereft of various body panels they were held together with frayed bits of rope that disintegrated and wafted fibres into my eyes, . Eventually we had left the goats and stray dogs to scavenge in the filthy depot, only to stop a few kilometres down the road at the edge of a rice paddy while the driver acquired sufficient water to cool the already overheated engine and finish the journey.
Missing the unmarked turn off from the main road, I’d been dropped at the far end of the beach road. I told the conductor I needed to find my lodgings.
“Is it far?” I asked in schoolgirl French, unsure if I’d been understood.
A shrug.
“Combien de kilometres?” I tried again. The conductor glanced at his other passengers.
“Cinq, je pense,” came the collective reply.
Inwardly cursing that I’d relied on my own inadequate observation rather than asking the conductor a little earlier, I resigned myself to a long (albeit scenic) trudge laden with luggage. A young man pulled alongside me on a motorbike and offered me a ride. Asking how much, he’d shaken his head and told me he was offering out of kindness. Gratefully, I accepted. Such a willingness to help was common amongst Haitians, I’d found, one of the delights of visiting a place where tourism was at an embryonic stage.
In the end, it was less than a kilometre. Bathed in the soft peach of late afternoon, the Auberge du Rayon Vert – the Inn of the Green Ray – looked as if it had been transported straight from rural France. Dumping my bags, I watched the sun settle languidly into the horizon and headed to the terrace to eat. The menu, chalked carelessly on a board, gave no inkling that the food served was to be the most delicious I’d have anywhere in the country. I feasted on creamy goat’s cheese enclosed by an exquisitely pink fillet of beef. The sky turned to blood orange before I sank into a deep slumber under crisp sheets.
L’Auberge du Rayon Vert
The following morning, I awoke to the sound of the Caribbean lapping at the shore and set off to explore Port Salut. Popular with Haitians from Port au Prince as a weekend retreat, I wasn’t surprised to see half-built houses strung out along the main road which I presumed to be holiday homes in the making. Hot pink bougainvillea made a welcome change from the ubiquitous grey concrete of the building plots and beach shacks.
Bougainvillea
Changing some dollars at the hardware store, I doubled back to the beach. Crudely fashioned dugouts on the sand didn’t look seaworthy. The flaking turquoise paint was photogenically shabby but didn’t appear to my untrained eye to be watertight. Piles of netting heaped in their bows indicated otherwise. A group of fishermen dragged a gnarled wooden boat out of the sea, their scant catch inadequate recompense for their labour.
Old wooden boats in the beach
A little further on, a cluster of beach bars catered to a largely local population. At this hour their plastic chairs and tables were deserted save for a group of men idly chatting into mobile phones. They looked up briefly to say hello. An old man slept soundly on a concrete bench, his forehead deeply lined and his feet calloused. Children giggled and pointed, “Blan, blan!” I smiled back. One of the bars was painted with a colourful mural of tourists waterskiing, which struck me as just about as far removed from reality in this backwater as you could get. Opposite, a six-point guide to cholera prevention on a painted billboard seemed a whole lot more relevant.
Fishing boat on Pointe Sable
Opposite the auberge, another catch was being landed. A group of villagers were hauling in their net, dragging its colourful floats into a horseshoe to corral the fish into an ever diminishing trap. But for all their toil, the results were meagre, a few fish the size of sprats tossed into a wicker basket guarded by a small child.
By far the best thing to do, or more accurately, not do, as it involved very little effort at all, was to relax on one of the hotel’s beach chairs and watch the world go by. This wasn’t an arduous task; there wasn’t much world to go by. The palms that edged the beach swayed almost imperceptibly in the breeze, fidgeting the shade. From my vantage point, I watched as delicate ghost crabs scuttled about their business before retreating from the heat into burrows drilled deep into the damp sand. A trio of avocets tapped away at the water’s edge while a lone pelican cruised overhead.
The perfect place to do nothing
The sun was now high in the sky. A single wisp of cloud hung like a vapid crescent moon. Traffic was limited to a few motos and the odd 4×4 – the auberge was a popular weekend hangout for the UN police and NGO personnel working in the area. Out towards the horizon, a small boat with tattered sails bobbed on a sea pricked with diamonds. The voice of an occasional hawker interrupted the sound of the waves’ ebb and flow, offering straw hats and fresh coconuts. They approached gently as they offered their wares; there was no need to be pushy. A young girl wandered up, carrying a large straw bag.
“Would you like mamba, ma’am?”
For a minute, I was alarmed, fearful she might produce a snake. It turned out mamba was a kind of peanut butter. The large jar being proffered would have been a tempting purchase had it not been made of heavy glass clearly unsuited to moto rides. Eventually, I dozed off under the shade of a tree, its dense bunches of fat leaves creating a natural sun umbrella. After all, nothing much happened in a hurry in Port Salut, so how else was I going to kill time before dinner?
Sunset at Pointe Sable
Julia's Travels 