The Fairy Tale City of Luang Prabang

We heard recently from long time travel companions that they were planning a trip to Asia and that Laos would be part of their itinerary.

That got me thinking about our own introduction to Laos when we visited the capital city of Vientiane and the ancient royal capital of Luang Prabang several years ago.

Despite the fact that after the Vietnam War Laos had the dubious distinction of being the most bombed country in the history of warfare, there is some irony in the fact that in 1995 UNESCO designated Luang Prabang the best preserved city in Southeast Asia - and what a treasure it proved to be.

The old capital lies sleepily on the banks of the Mekong river and is home to 33 Wats (or temples) and over 500 monks.

Luang Prabang has a fairy tale quality about it.

One of my lasting memories of our stay in the old capital was the daily ritual just after dawn when the monks walk solemnly from their monasteries to collect alms. Built in 1560, the monks' procession begins from Wat Xieng Thong where Lao kings were crowned and cremated. Beautiful murals constructed from glass fragments adorn the city's most famous temple.

Statues of Buddha in the Calling for Rain attitude line the Chapel of the Funeral Chariot.

Hmong embroidery and glass inlaid mosaics depicting village life in the hill tribes are very striking and form a rich tapestry.

Catching sight of a flash of orange in the distance I realise this is the beginning of the monks' daily procession - a snake of saffron robed men walk in single file toward me - first elderly monks with wizened faces, then novices of all ages, some as young as 6 or 7 years old.

Local women kneel at the pavement's edge holding containers of sticky rice wrapped in banana leaves while men (and the few visitors present) stand barefoot. As the monks pass we drop portions of rice into their alms bowls. The monks have a dreamy, distant look on their faces.

Every night near the entrance to the Royal Palace local vendors and hill tribe villagers display their wares along the street. The affair has the feeling of a social gathering with high energy.

There were so many wonderful things to buy but sadly I had to be dragged away from this shopping extravaganza, Lao kip and Thai baht unspent, because apparently we were well over the airline's meagre weight allowance. Never mind, I had my three-headed elephant Airavata. This symbol is associated with the old Lao Kingdom and the country's former flag which expressed the ancient name of the country "land of a million elephants".

And of course I had already loaded up with textiles at the Vientiane morning market - a large area with a huge selection of silk, fine cotton, Hmong embroidery, silver and gold. The quality of the hand-woven silk scarves with their iridescent hues was particularly good value and it soon became a question of "how many scarves is enough". All those gifts for friends back home. I have to confess I kept them all .....

Another must do in Luang Prabang is to climb the 300 winding steps to the top of Mount Phou Si. Get there well before sunset to stake out your position - its a popular place. The views as the sun sets over the Mekong, the lush vegetation and the temples with their stupas and sloping roofs is not to be missed.

As the light fades, the fast-moving Mekong's colour changes from milk to dark chocolate beckoning one to spend a day on the river and enjoy perspectives gained through watching life along the river bank in what seems to be a bygone age.

Cocktails in Punta Arenas

Punta Arenas in Chile is the southernmost city on the South American mainland, located in one of the wildest and remotest regions on earth.

The city has enjoyed two heydays in its history – the first lasted from 1850-1914 when the port was the principal supply station for ships rounding Cape Horn. By virtue of its strategic location Punta Arenas was one of the busiest ports in the world but its golden age ended abruptly when the Panama Canal opened in 1914. Punta Arenas languished until oil was discovered in the 1940s.

After a morning in town we set off to the Martime Museum but were puzzled when we arrived at what looked like a junk yard. Guards monitored the locked gates and beyond we could see a number of rusted shipwrecks stretching out into the sea.

No problem it seemed, the gates were opened and dodging pieces of tangled metal and other discarded maritime materials we ventured towards a cavernous hulk.

What happened next was one of those magical travel moments.

Peering inside the wreck we saw that a walkway had been constructed within its hull. Gingerly we stepped inside, careful not to bang our heads on the girders that criss-crossed overhead. Turning a corner we discovered that the walkway continued through a second wreck.

Through rusted portholes we could see Punta Arenas on one side and the open ocean on the other. The sun shone brightly enhancing the ocean’s deep marine blue colour.

Completing our walk through the second hulk, a third wreck beckoned. This time it was a three-masted vessel named the County of Peebles – an iron transporter ship launched on Clydeside (Glasgow) in 1890. Sadly the ship had ended its days washed aground by the unpredictable weather of the southernmost tip of the South American continent.

At the aft of the County of Peebles we entered a cabin which looked remarkably in tact. Still unclear as to what awaited us, smartly dressed waiters greeted us with trays of pisco and all sorts of interesting snacks. We were in the Chilean Navy’s Officers’ lounge!

The original helm, compass and figurehead from the County of Peebles graced the cabin which was lined with the ship’s original wooden seating and an attractive window through which Tierra del Fuego beckoned.

Our host explained the history of the County of Peebles adding that the Chilean Navy used all three rusting hulks as a breakwater. As we listened to the story, the structure moved gently with the incoming tide. We discovered that the visit had been made possible by the boss of the local travel bureau who happened to be a good friend of the local Naval commander. The very fact that we were able to sit within the confines of the County of Peebles and hear its history was a bit of a fluke.

As we ventured back through the convoluted series of walkways to shore one of our travel companions - a flamboyant art dealer from San Francisco - grasped Doug’s arm and gushed “Wasn’t that the most original cocktail party you’ve ever been to in your life!”

There was no denying that.

Kia Orana - Welcome to the Cooks

It was 3.30 a.m. Boxing Day morning and the balmy breeze brushed our tired, dehydrated faces as we disembarked the aircraft and entered the thatched terminal building.

We were in Rarotonga for a few days en route to New Zealand.

Half an hour later, our taxi turned down a gravel driveway flanked by colourful crotons to our hotel. As we walked down the winding pathway through lush gardens our feet sunk into powder-like sand. We turned a corner and immediately the surf became the dominant sound above our footsteps. For a moment we hesitated – it was a moonless night and we couldn’t see the ocean, but it was telling us just where it was. Low voltage lighting bathed the swimming pool in turquoise light and, just beyond it, Christmas decorations on a Norfolk Island pine shimmered as the breeze ruffled its branches.

Falling into bed we drifted off to sleep to be awoken at dawn by a rooster crowing, accompanied by a chorus of miner birds. Coming to our senses, we lay in bed and took in our surroundings now that it was daylight. Gentle waves washed over the reef right in front of our bure, which had a sitting area and verandah facing the ocean. All the pathways leading to other bures in the resort were formed with beautiful, clean, golden sand which the village boys raked several times a day to restore that feeling of paradise.

The setting was completed by palm trees which curved seductively up to the sky. While there were many shady places to sit on the beach and around the pool, hammocks strung between the palms caught my eye. What better way to start one’s vacation than by swaying in a hammock as the mind engages in meaningless thought. The only stress that day was being mindful of the fact that coconuts are missiles - and as the periodic signage warned us to beware - occasionally I would look up at the menacing clusters of coconuts in the crown of the palms. When would gravity have its say I pondered: stress is a relative thing.

Escaping the heat of the afternoon sun we returned to our bure and noticed that all rooms had metal foot baths decorated with floating tropical flowers so that we could part company with all that stubborn sand lodged between the toes.

Dinner that night became one of those lingering tropical memories. We had taken a seat at a plastic table firmly planted in the sand to watch the sun set. Within minutes the stark plastic tables had been transformed with white tablecloth, candles, blue napkins, silverware and tropical flowers. Perfect. Kia Orana – “Welcome to the Cook Islands”.

A visit to the Cooks is not complete without a trip to Aitutaki. The stuff of travel posters, Aitutaki has brilliantly clear water in shades of royal, turquoise and azure - and proved to be a fine place to snorkel.

The sand varies in colour from pearl white to shades of yellow and gold. It was also incredibly hot. Even the locals sat in the water to keep cool – and interestingly, ate mangoes which they dipped into the salty water.

There isn’t a lot to do on Rarotonga. It isn’t commercialized, partly because land cannot be owned by anyone but locals. This was part of the appeal, but if Raro feels too busy, Aitutaki takes one down another notch.

While there is a good bus service circling Rarotonga clockwise and anti-clockwise, renting a motorcycle is cheap and an alternative with its own sense of adventure. Doug rented one from our Resort, informing me that before we set out for the day he wanted to get the “feel of it”.

There are a couple of things visitors on motorcycles need to be aware of, as we were to learn. Dogs roam freely and cross the road at will. They are savvy though and do a better job of dodging you than you them.

The other thing to avoid is acquiring a 'Rarotongan tatoo', or muffler burn. Motorcycle mufflers are mounted on the side of the bike and get hot very quickly. Getting on and off has to be accomplished nimbly.

We circled the Island a couple of times, stopping off at various resorts to view their facilities. We had lunch at one of the resorts in an outdoor café with very relaxed service. No wonder everyone moves so slowly on the Cooks – the rooster wakes them up every morning at 4 a.m.

That night our Resort put on its weekly barbeque. The food was laid out in large shell containers on a flower-decked table, while we were entertained by “fire dancers” who twirled and dodged flaming batons in the moonlight. This was truly a family affair – the dancers were all age groups, from old men to toddlers, all of whom introduced themselves after the dancing ended – except for one little boy whose big brown eyes never blinked as he gazed into the adoring audience – never missing a beat while enthusiastically sucking his thumb.

Our short stay on the Cook Islands had come to an end. The next morning we were off to New Zealand.

Leaving the Resort the way we had arrived – under an endless black sky full of stars our taxi driver drove us the short distance to the airport. We asked him how many times a week his sleep was disturbed ferrying the tourists around. He acknowledged that this was how it worked with the international flights coming into Rarotonga in the middle of the night and was pretty much routine.

We were at the airport in plenty of time for our flight to Auckland and joined a long line for the only plane leaving that morning. Many of the passengers for the flight were Cook Islanders on their way to a family reunion in New Zealand. I say it was a long line up, but I should qualify that. The line was not so much long because of the number of people in it. The line appeared long because of the large number of luggage trolleys stacked high with all sorts of interesting belongings – mostly food packaged in large Styrofoam containers.

This in itself was interesting because we knew that the restrictions on importing just about any food product into New Zealand are legendary – while increased security is a fact of life everywhere, it is the agricultural police you have to watch out for on arrival in New Zealand. Travellers are approached with a no-nonsense attitude and sniffer dogs trained to tag a cheese sandwich at a thousand paces go about their work with unbridled enthusiasm. How on earth were the Islanders going to get the food into New Zealand and why weren’t the airline staff telling them. We never did find out.

The departure lounge had a convivial atmosphere. The 60-member Cook Islander family reunion had taken on a scale that had everyone’s attention – the group ranged from babes in arms to very elderly (and correspondingly large) family members. Each family within the group was attired in a “Cook Island tartan” - colourful shirts and other accessories made of the same fabric. Young men in the party spontaneously played a happy refrain on ukuleles while the children clapped their hands and smiled. All this, and it was only 4 a.m.

An interesting anecdote about Rarotonga Airport revolves around the Singing Fireman, Jake Numanga. He is present for every incoming and outgoing flight and regales passengers with songs of the Islands while accompanying himself on a well-used ukulele. At one time Jake was one of the airport’s firemen and would sing to airport travellers to pass the time. He has retired now and made ‘feel good’ a full-time pastime.

Our flight was finally called and the mass of Cook Islanders ignored every line in the most good humoured way, moving as one to the tarmac. Above it all, Jake sang and yodeled tunes of happy travels.

Beyond the terminal it was a very short walk across the tarmac to the two portable stairways up to the doors of the 767. The flight attendants were exceedingly patient as our Island friends, some of whom had never been on an aircraft before, switched seats, climbed over one another, played their ukuleles and discovered how far their seats could recline. Offence could not be taken - all transgressions were committed with a big smile. Although there was a trace of a sense of humour failure when one individual across the aisle from us was told his ukulele had to go into the overhead bin before we could get underway.

His frown was to be short lived and soon replaced with a large beaming smile exposing perfect, pearly white teeth.

Harp Scratchings 10 - Want To Make A Bet?

Mum was a hot shot at skittles and a member of the Harp's team. Here she is concentrating hard during a game at an opposing team's pub.

Long before the popularity of pub quizzes, entertainment at the Harp took many forms. There were the devotees of dominoes, skittles, coits, whist and darts – all played in good fun - although it did bring out the competitive spirit at times when teams were engaged from other pubs in the area in a “friendly”.

This was good for business of course and trade would be brisk when a tournament was underway. Mum and Dad would enter into the spirit of things, making free snacks to serve the combatants – bread, cheese and home-made pickled onions. The prize for the winning team was generally a free round of drinks from the host pub.

Every March a friendly competition would take place amongst the locals around the running of the Grand National at Aintree racecourse. This famous horse race had its beginnings in 1836 and involved horses and jockeys having to successfully jump 30 fences with legendary names like the Chair, Beecher’s Brook and Valentines. The Chair was the tallest and broadest fence on the course – over five feet tall with a six foot wide ditch on the take-off side.

Mum and I agreed that it seemed like a cruel race. Often there would be catastrophes when horses collided and fell. I wondered what it would be like to be in the midst of all that confusion, the noise of pounding hooves and flying mud.

In 1960 the Grand National was televised for the first time and Dad brought our old black and white TV into the bar so that everyone could follow the proceedings.

In 1961 I officially became a gambler. In the Harp’s Grand National pool every participant drew the name of one of the runners and hoped for the best. The odds were a factor but so were the tribulations of those mountainous fences. My name had been drawn against a 28 to 1 long shot called "Nicholas Silver".

I remember this vividly because he stood out as the only grey horse, and this somehow made me feel he was going to be special. Nicholas Silver turned out to be only the second grey horse to ever win the National. I don’t remember what I did with my meagre winnings.

Before the proliferation of betting shops, a “flutter on the gee gees” by the Harp’s locals took place usually with the first drink of the day just after the pub had opened. The racing form would be studied in the sports section of the National daily. Bets would be written on a piece of paper. The wager – usually a few coins – would be wrapped up tightly in the paper and handed to Dad for pick up by whoever it was that managed these things. I don’t remember too many paydays, but when they came, the winnings would appear in similar wrappings.

Moving with the times, I remember the installation of a one-armed bandit in the top bar. It didn’t really fit into the homey surroundings of the Harp but it was placed well away from the grandfather clock and lovely old wooden chair that belonged to my grandfather. Installed on the other side of the fireplace next to the notice board, this gleaming icon of modern gambling soon became a fixture.

Mum was particularly taken with it and on her daily cleaning activities would often be seen polishing the machine’s chrome handle, perhaps willing it to produce three cherries the next time she engaged it.

The company who had installed the machine would come by periodically to empty it of its cache of coins. The technician would always leave my mother a small supply of coins that she would keep in a half pint mug behind the bar. These coins were mainly used to break down larger denominations that didn’t fit in the machine but now and again, the polishing led to a trial run funded from the half pint mug in search of the illusive trilogy of cherries.

Duster still in hand, Mum would be heard to mutter, “They don’t call it a one-armed bandit for nothing, bloody thing.”

Harp Scratchings 9 - The Jug and Bottle

Tending the dolls on the Harp's top bar doorstep, the Jug and Bottle behind the open door.

In my world, growing up, the Harp Inn seemed like the village meeting point – a welcoming place for the locals to gossip with neighbours and play a game of skittles or dominoes while enjoying a drink. The problem with that was that there were no secrets – everyone knew what the other was up to and perhaps rather more than the odd person would have liked.

Despite the joviality of the welcoming setting around the coal fire, there were those who preferred to keep their drinking habits private. Hence the “Jug and Bottle” – a small, frosted sliding glass window accessible from the pub entrance with a “direct line” to the innkeeper behind the bar and unseen from customers on the other side of the counter.

The air of secrecy created by the squeaking window always intrigued me and when I helped Dad in my teenage years behind the bar I would feel a mild anticipation when summoned by that knowing tap to serve an unknown shadow behind the glass.

Those who frequented the Jug and Bottle often made their own personal statement when announcing their presence. For instance a couple of soft rat-a-tat-tats on the window and Dad knew that would be Auntie Lil wanting a couple of bottled Guinness to take home. She didn’t want her son to know even though he was already holding court in the bar.

The school teacher often kept half a bottle of whisky at home for medicinal purposes but kept her replenishing missions private from prying eyes via the Jug and Bottle. Those who had given up smoking used the Jug and Bottle as an emergency means to purchase a packet of Woodbines when they had fallen off the wagon.

Village kids would bang noisily on the window in their quest for crisps and vimto, or bored, would knock, then run away once the window was opened.

Errant husbands were sometimes summoned by proxy – “Bill, you tell him he’d better come home soon or else ..." Dad would obligingly pass the message on from exasperated wife to a husband full of cheer up until that precise moment.

One Christmas a group of carollers knocked on the frosted window and began their repertoire once it slid open. They were immediately welcomed into the top bar so that everyone could see as well as hear their singing. Some of the younger members of the troupe were very nervous by all the attention they were receiving and the pressure of the performance in front of a festive audience. I vowed never to join their choir unless we could sing in the secrecy of the Jug and Bottle.

Serengeti - An Endless Plain

The name Serengeti comes from the Maasai word “Siringet” meaning “endless plain” and the experience of standing on the southern grass plains of the Serengeti National Park is one of vastness. The knowledge that the area contains one of the greatest, if not the greatest, concentration of plains animals left on earth is amazing.

The plains were formed 3–4 million years ago when ash blown from volcanoes in the Ngorongoro highlands covered the rolling landscape. A thick layer of ash preserved traces of early man and established the rich soil which supports the southern grass plains today.

We were in the midst of a week-long safari encompassing Serengeti and Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania. This story recounts our experiences during one of those memorable days.

With no telephone in our room at the Lodge, the early morning wake-up call was someone banging on the door – but we were ready. We had been studying the sky from our balcony – it was clear and full of stars but in the distance lightning flashed. Walking up to the main lodge, morning tea had been set out in one of the sitting areas and everyone appeared for the morning game drive. It was cool.

The first signs of dawn appeared in the sky as we left the Lodge – Fiscal and Magpie Shrike darted in the thorn bushes. We were amazed by the variety of birds active at this time of the day – the White Bellied “go away” Bird (because of its cry), Ring Necked Doves, Long Tailed Starling, Black Winged Stilt, Blacksmith and Ground Plovers, Lilac Breasted Roller (particularly beautiful bird), Yellow Necked Longclaw, Brown Snake and Bateleur Eagle.

Giraffe, Zebra, Buffalo, Thomson & Grant’s Gazelle, Impala, Guinea Fowl, Hartebeest, Hippo, Verdant Monkeys, Hyena, Rock Hyrex, Silver Backed Jackals, Topi, including Lion and Leopard footprints, were early sightings on the morning drive.

Thomson’s Gazelle, in particular, were a wonderful sight - they are colourful, graceful and in large numbers - running and leaping with ease through the grass. Their speed seems unmatched but we were reminded that the Cheetah is the fastest creature on earth.

A Cheetah can only sustain its speed for short periods of time and has to hunt its prey wisely. The Gazelle, while slower, is a distance runner. Even so, the poor Tommy appears to be the “weetabix” of the Serengeti.

A Hyena was sighted running with a recently killed Tommy clamped firmly between its jaws. Our guide explained that when a Cheetah kills a Gazelle, it devours as much of it as quickly as possible because Hyena, who are creatures of opportunity, will challenge the Cheetah and steal the kill. The cry of the Hyena is bloodcurdling.

We spotted a flock of vultures hovering ominously over something on the ground. Another Tommy was being consumed by a Jackal, but the lone Jackal was frightened away by the Vultures, about 12–15 of them, who pounced on the carcass, tearing it apart.
We were within feet of this spectacle and their devouring of the carcass was hard to describe - the Vultures kicked up the dust as they fought one another for a piece of the kill.

In the distance a lone Hyena recognized its opportunity and ran through the Vultures, snatching the carcass and taking off in a flash.

We returned to the Lodge for breakfast and a rest before the afternoon game drive.

Soon we were in the midst of Topi, Cape Buffalo, Impala, Zebra, Reedbuck, Egyptian Geese, Yellow Necked Spurfowl and Heron -- and then one of the most memorable sights of all – a female Cheetah and her two cubs feeding on a Tommy.

A flock of Vultures waited patiently on a nearby termite mound.

We were so close, observing every nuance – we just couldn’t take our eyes off mother and cubs.

When they had had their fill the family walked gracefully away, the mother’s belly protuding, her cubs stopping periodically to wash one another’s faces.

Today would be slim pickings for the Vultures.

Ngorongoro Crater

The view from above the 12 mile wide and 2000 foot deep Ngorongoro Crater in Tanzania is impressive, the Crater being the remnant of an ancient volcano that erupted and collapsed more than two million years ago, creating a huge stone-lined bowl.

The Crater has been compared to Noah’s Ark and the Garden of Eden, but as the Lonely Planet guide remarks, Noah may be a bit disappointed by dwindling animal numbers these days. However, in our opinion Noah would have no trouble finding Lion, Elephant, Rhino, Buffalo, Wildebeest, Thomson’s Gazelle, Zebra, Reedbuck, Hippo, Hyenas (spotted and striped) and thousands of Flamingo wading in the shallows of Lake Magadi – the soda lake on the Crater floor.

The Maasai have cattle grazing rights on the hillsides surrounding the Crater – hence its designation as a conservation area rather than a national park. This was one of the Government’s grand experiments to maintain the integrity of wildlife in the Crater while giving the Maasai as much freedom as possible.

We were unable to get a specific translation for “Ngorongoro”. All meanings relate to its shape - a Maasai word meaning “cow bell”, “grinding bowl" or "mortar”.

Our Lodge was located on the rim of the Crater and next morning we set off in Land Rovers to begin our descent down through the bush to the Crater floor and were thrilled to see Elephant grazing on the side of the road.

Leopard spotting began in earnest. Leopards hunt at dusk and dawn and attempt to get their kill up into a yellow acacia or fig tree as quickly as possible where they spend the day. Leopards are harder to see in acacia trees because their yellow and black coats blend in so well – they are slightly easier to see in green fig trees, but sadly today was not to be the day.

We crossed the Munge River and resting by one of its streams were several lions who casually walked towards us, plopped themselves down for a few minutes in the shade of our vehicle and then interested by something else, meandered away over a narrow stream and out of sight.

The numbers of wildlife in the Crater were astonishing – no sight greater than when our vehicle stopped in the midst of countless Wildebeest and Zebra. Wildebeest is the Lion’s favourite food. The Wildebeest is referred to as “the joker” because it has the horns of a buffalo, the body of a giraffe and the tail of a horse.

At such close quarters the Zebra looked very fat and our guide explained that they produce large amounts of gas and were not necessarily pregnant, although some were. Zebra manes in this group were reddish in colour whereas on the Serengeti the manes were shorter and darker. Lions hunt Zebra too, but have to be careful because the Zebra’s kick is vicious and can smash a Lion’s jaw. Zebra foals are able to walk within minutes of being born and are capable of running within ten minutes in the event of danger.

And then a special sight – a hippo pool containing two dozen of these seemingly loquacious creatures. We couldn’t decide whether they were yawning or just plain talking to one another as they opened and closed their enormous mouths, some of them appearing to bite one another. The Hippos’ underbelly is pink and they spend their days in the water to protect their skins from the sun, coming out to forage by night.

Approaching Lake Magadi, Flamingoes congregated on the water’s edge. A lone Hyena padded through the shallows in the hope of catching an errant Flamingo.

A Jackal had been successful earlier, crunching happily on an unfortunate bird, feathers protruding from its mouth.

The circle of life continued.