Are We Having Fun Yet?

So it must be time for another 'truth in travel' blogpost.  This one comes from the Metropolitan Lounge at Union Station in Chicago, where I'm waiting for an overnight train to New York.  It's late and I'm tired, and the best forecast at the moment is the train will be three hours delayed because of the latest Arctic blast.  Having checked out of a hotel at 11am, we've been on the go since then and am sorely in need of sleep.

But then travel can't always be fun.  It's not always easy.  Everyone has stories of being stuck on the tarmac for hours; the time they almost got swept out to sea, the twenty-four hour delay at the airport.  They might make a good anecdote some time in the future, but while they're happening they're frustrating, tiring, disappointing, infuriating and inevitably completely spoil that lovely, freewheeling feel.

Sometimes travelling just is tough.  Rocking up in February in Chicago has not been without its challenges;

 sub-zero temperatures, snow, wind, having to wear so many clothes to keep warm that you give up any idea of looking even vaguely presentable and just hope the bag-lady look is in this season.  But in spite of the weather, we've had a fabulous time - the city is like a dialled-down New York; hugely friendly, unpretentious and architecturally stunning, with public art everywhere - the most spectacular of which is Anish Kapoor's The Bean (actually called Cloud Gate) below

and an art gallery, The Chicago Institute of Art,  to rival New York's Metropolitan museum and London's National Gallery.

We've eaten soooo well - not just on the foodie tour (which saw us munch our way through hot dogs, chocolates, bratwurst and deep pan pizza) but at fantastic restaurants around the city.  We've done classic American fare at Wildberry Pancakes (www.wildberrycafe.com) and more avant-garde dishes at the fantastically-named Girl and the Goat (www.girlandthegoat.com).  Deep pan pizza at Pizano's (www.pizanoschicago.com) was a revelation; more like a deep-filled English flan, with shortcust pastry, than any kind of pizza.

When travel gets tough you motor on through; stick on the bright orange Carhartt hat that was the first one you could find to buy because it was so cold you thought your ears might snap off, and just keep on going.  There are inevitably going to be times when it's not fun, and if I'm honest one of those is right now.  But then I tell myself that whatever time I get on the train, when I get off it I'm going to be in New York.

It's a thought that brings a smile to my face.  Well it will, when the frostbite wears off.


NB: If the photo's are a little more professional than the usual content on this blog, it's because they're not mine.  The USB connector between my camera and my laptop is just the latest thing to be consigned to the ever-growing 'left-in-a-hotel-bedroom' list.  Still, at this rate my suitcase is going to be considerably lighter on the way home...

The Secrets of Santa Fe...

I hadn't realised that going from LA to New York by train would be seen as quite an outlandish thing to do, but everyone - from waitresses to train conductors, chatty fellow diners and taxi drivers - have all had the same reaction.  "Wow." Eyebrows reach up to their hairlines.  "By train?.  That's some journey."

And so it is.  An eighteen-hour overnight from LA to Santa Fe first - and what a place that turned out to be.  You haven't seen the middle of nowhere until you've been to New Mexico, where tufted desert rolls out to the horizon for mile upon mile upon mile.  

The station stop for Santa Fe is actually Lamy (population: 157).  From there we hopped a taxi shuttle for 20 mins to Santa Fe itself...which turned out to be a surreal mix of Sergio Leone film-set, a Native American Covent Garden and art-loving retiree town.

Santa Fe is unusual in the US in that it boasts some real, proper history.  Founded in 1610, it's the oldest state capital in the country, home to the oldest church and house and all architecture - restored and new - has to keep to the traditional adobe structures that would have characterised the original pueblo.

The historic centre of town, with adobe-lined streets fanning out from the historic central plaza, is a tourist's dream; endless boutiques selling (supposedly) Native American jewellery, art galleries, former trading posts converted into antique shops, cafes and upscale restaurants.  On a Saturday morning, even in February, the square was busy with shoppers, and the crisp, thin air (its 7000 feet up) gave it the feel of a ski resort (there is skiing nearby).

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Browsing in the jewellery shops, we were slightly sceptical about the fact so many of them had 60% off sales (and such vast amounts of stock).  It all became clear when we got talking to Mr Cliff, who had a small stall on the main square selling beautiful photographs that were his grandfathers original, overlayed with 21st century colours and techniques.  "They're all Middle East owned," he drawled from beneath his cowboy hat.  "Sales on all the time.  Everything made in big factories out west.  If you want to buy, buy from the Navajo."

He pointed towards the Palace of the Governors, on the north side of the square, where a long line of Native America men and women sat on fold out chairs, with displays of jewellery laid out on cloths.   

I felt like a child at a birthday party; earrings, necklaces, bracelets all studded with semi precious stones and minerals - turquoise, tigers-eyes, moonstone,  most of it with a story from where it had been mined.

Second only to shopping in Santa Fe is eating - and even in February reservations are essential.  It's a very particular type of food - spiced meats bundled up in wraps or blue corn tortillas, swamped with green or red chilli sauce or refried beans, topped with cheese.  Huevos Rancheros - the classic breakfast dish - comes with two runny eggs buried among the general slick. 

Needless to say,  it wasn't for me - just watching someone else eat it was enough.

Perhaps what makes Santa Fe so unusual is the constant sense that that beyond the clutch of houses and businesses lies nothing; absolutely nothing, just pockmarked hills and barren desert.  It's an outpost, albeit an artistic and a foodie one, but one that drew me in, and made me want to explore further, across the empty wastes to other historic towns like Taos, steeped in Navajo history.  But there was, as ever, no time.  Forty-eight hours after we arrived we were back on the train for the 24-hour journey through snowy Colorado and Missouri to even snowier Chicago.

But there was something mystical, haunting, even a bit magical in those great empty spaces and that unique, historic town.  I'll definitely be back.

LA Story

It's interesting how this trip is reinforcing the basics rules of travel; do lots of research, don't try to do too much, sooner or later you will always leave your swimming costume in the bathroom, and never believe entirely what other travellers tell you.  So it has been with LA which, from everything I'd heard, I expected to be a smog-ridden, freeway-latticed sprawling conurbation with little soul, heart or centre.

After a day in Palm Beach (above) and a couple of days in Koreatown, in the heart of the city, I'm happy to report that yes, there are freeways everywhere, is is pretty smoggy and there definitely isn't one centre.  But leaving those factors aside, the city I've discovered has been very different to what I was expecting.

For a start, its the most ethically diverse city I've ever been too.  There's not just a Chinatown but a Little Tokyo, Thai Town, Koreatown and Little Armenia.  We've eaten freshly-baked Bungeoppang in a Korean supermarket

munched on wonderfully-cheesey borek in an Armenian bakery, and ordered up pad thai from a Thai foodstall in the 19th century Grand Central Market.

We've shopped in a Korean mall, which sold everything from traditional hanbok dresses to second-hand Korean books.  It also had a branch of Daiso, Japan's equivalent of a poundshop - which sold a dizzying array of things from kitchenware to pencil cases, make-up, gardening tools and stationery, with almost everything for a $1.50.  I almost had to be carried out.

Perhaps I've got more of a sense of place because we've walked a lot - something Angelinos, and many visitors, don't tend to do.  The pavements are quiet, many lined with statuesque palm trees, and the high-rise skyline I was expecting just isn't really there (with the exception of the financial district).  Instead we've found the original hispanic pueblo, just across from Union Station, where tribal dancers were - literally - shaking their tailfeathers,

spectacular views from the little-known (and free) viewing deck on the 37th floor of City Hall - we were the only people there

and a surprising amount of rather lovely period architecture.

But there have been moments of reassuringly predictable bonkersness too, most notably at our second hotel, the Line, currently LA's hippest address.  This is a hotel where two of the bedroom walls are plain, exposed cement.  The third wall looks identical, but its actually specially designed wallpaper, made to match the...er, cement. The ceiling covering in the huge lobby is hundreds of crumpled t-shirts carefully pieced together and the restaurant menu doesn't have any words on it, just pictures. Could it be any more LA?

Three days isn't long, but LA struck me as a multi-faceted, multi-cultural city that in some ways is quite under-rated.  I wish we'd had time to do Hollywood and Beverly Hills, particularly in Oscar week, but at 6pm last night we pulled out of Union Station, headed for Santa Fe.  But that's a different story altogether...

Tropical Island Holidays: Fantasy v Reality

So farewell, Fiji.   My week on the islands was definitely the most challenging of the whole trip; involving everything from tribal ceremonies to impromptu drinks with millionaire hotel owners and unexpected glass-blowing.  The itinerary was crazy, but the last three days on classic Robinson Crusoe-esque islands did give me some to reflect on the whole 'fantasy' tropical island holiday.

Before I go on, I should say that in my opinion, for a classic palm-trees-in-the-breeze, paradise-isle holiday, Fiji knocks it out of the park.  Compared to the Maldives/Mauritius these islands really have that castaway feel

  (not least because the island where Tom Hanks filmed Castaway is one of them). But one of the things this blog is for is to write honestly about things, and I do feel that this kind of holiday is something people spend thousands and thousands on, and sometimes end up disappointed.  So here's a few things to consider, based on my experiences in Mauritius, the Maldives and now Fiji, that travel agents and tour operators (and, sadly,  often travel features) may fail to mention.

First, the weather.  I've lost count of the people I know who have been on tropical island holidays and had bad weather.  Sun isn't guaranteed.

I was in Fiji during the rainy season, so grey skies were to be expected - but when I went to the Maldives, several years ago (supposedly in the 'dry' season), it rained all week. Weather patterns are changing everywhere and there are no guarantees; if you get a week of unbroken sunshine, anywhere, you're lucky.

Secondly, getting there.  Unless you're seriously loaded and can afford a seaplane or helicopter, you'll invariably go by boat.  These crossings can be pretty bloody scary; in Fiji the weather was kind and my half-hour zip across from one island to another was relatively smooth (while still being quite bouncy).

But in the Maldives, as we sailed towards hulking black clouds, I genuinely thought I was going to drown.  Choppy conditions are not uncommon.

Thirdly, wildlife.  If you come in the wet season, as I did, its a bit of a mosquito-fest. But all tropical islands are home to all manner of creatures; gekkos skittered across my floor, a crab was waiting on my doorstep one night, a frog the night before  There are bats in the trees and mongoose in the bushes.  The great thing in Fiji is there are no snakes and nothing poisonous.  But if you're not a wildlife fan, it can be an issue.

Fourthly, other people.  At Likuliku I went to have a sunset beer at the over-water bar.

I was by myself, so it didn't matter, but there was a gang of about eight Americans being really loud and shouty (and this is supposed to be a quiet, couples-only resort).  If I'd been trying to have a Romantic Moment, it would have spoilt it entirely.  Island resorts are often small, so you do trip over the same people all the time.

Fifth, it's all done for you.  Obviously a lot of people like this.  But if you're the sort that likes to go yomping off exploring, or discovering a place for yourself, it's virtually impossible.  Fiji has an incredibly vibrant indigenous culture, and many resorts run trips to local villages, schools etc.  But they are tour group excursions - difficult to explore on your own.

Sixth, the sea.  It's all about the beaches, right?

Yet quite often the beaches aren't really swimmable. In the Seychelles strong currents make some beaches unsafe for swimming.  In Fiji/the Maldives its often simply too shallow, particularly when the tide goes out.  If swimming/snorkelling in the sea is a big thing, choose your resort carefully.

If this all sounds overly negative, set it against the fact these islands are idyllically beautiful, utterly peaceful and have crystalline seas and all the swishing palms you could wish for. What you don't get - and what is so often sold - is perfection.  Fiji was full of character and tradition, and so different

that it seems almost dreamlike now, thousands of miles away in the familiar hustle and bustle of a first world city.  Santa Monica beach was drenched in sunshine this morning, perfect for an alfresco breakfast, but I missed the otherness of Fiji; the ladies with hibiscus flowers in their hair, how everyone beamed and said 'bula' all the time, the beautiful harmonic singing.  Expect different on a tropical island holiday and you won't be disappointed. Expect perfection...and you just might be.

A few thoughts on Fiji...

Its not even 7am in Fiji and I'm already up and sitting outside my bure, 

listening to the sea lap gently onto the sand.  There's utter silence apart from the birds, which is not surprising, considering I'm now half away from Vitu Levu (Fiji's biggest island) by boat, at a small island resort.  And it's idyllic.  The sea is so clear that when all the snorkellers had gone last night I wandered around up to my knees and fish as long as my hand swum by.  It's possibly the clearest sea I've ever seen.

But this state of general blissed-outness has taken a while to arrive at.  Fiji has been an interesting experience and the main lesson I would take away is always do some research about where you're going (you'd think I'd have learnt this by now!)  Never just assume.  Fiji is a country unlike any others I've visited and I was definitely on the backfoot for the first few days, playing catch up between my assumptions (chilled out beach islands) and the reality (traditional, village-based society with resorts along the coast).

I've also been quite cross at the itinerary the tourist board made up for me; a different hotel every night, which means constantly moving (Suva's tiny airport was quite an experience, this is the scales they use for weighing bags)

 and never getting the chance to stay long enough to really discover anywhere.  But now I'm here, on this tiny fleck in the middle of the ocean, I'm glad that I got to spend time on the main island, where I could get more an insight into authentic Fijian life.  Many visitors fly into Nadi, catch a cab through the expat houses and resorts on Denarau to the port and then spend their time here, or somewhere like it.  It's idyllic, but you don't see much of Fiji itself - this is the big market in Suva

and the open-sided buses everyone gets around on

And now is the time to come, I think, because tourism is changing Fiji, as it does everywhere.  It's seen as a force for good here - all the land on the islands is Fijian-owned, no non-Fijians can buy land, so there's no high-rise apartment blocks and even the biggest resorts are low-rise and non-intrusive.  Right now, life in the villages sounds like (mythical) Britain in the 1950's; doors are always open, everyone knows each other, people share what they have.  And a lot of cava drinking goes on.  But on every lamp-post in Suva, the main city, there are mobile phone advertisements and Stephen, the GM here on the island, was talking ruefully last night about the change he sees in what today's kids want for Christmas (iPads, phones etc) as opposed to his generation.

Change comes everywhere of course and its the classic tourism conundrum; it brings money in which is good, it often changes things for the better, but old ways tend to be lost.  In Fiji, however, tourism isn't new (my resort, Castaway, has been here for almost fifty years) so maybe the changes won't be too radical.  It is a different kind of tourism to anywhere else too - I've never been sung at so much - here's the reception committee for our arrival boat yesterday...

Today I'm moving again, to another island and there'll be another hotel tour and another hosted dinner; full-on again but a great way to gain more of an insight into the country.  Last night's was hilarious, with the hugely camp and very entertaining Lingo, who was rather like a Fijian Om Puri.  And this was my walk to dinner   

so I can't really complain.  Strolling back, the stars were mind-blowing.

Like the best of travel, Fiji has been fascinating, challenging, rewarding and utterly beautiful. Oh, and I've also learnt glass-blowing.  As one does on a South Pacific island, obviously.  Here's a pic as proof.  Happy Saturday.

And now for something completely different...

"Oh you are English?" said my taxi driver, as we pulled away from Nadi airport and the Fijian forests began to rise up around us.  "A lot of English people have been eaten here."

As opening gambits go, it's not exactly what you're hoping to hear, particularly as a single traveller, and I think it's fair to say that Fiji hasn't totally knocked my socks off in the first 24 hours.  But then that is the problem with this kind of travel; leaving behind the rarefied beauty of New Zealand, 

where I had my own car to explore, means that arriving in Fjij - on a tight tourist board timetable, with hotel inspections and early car pick-up times every morning - was going to come as a bit of a shock.

Fiji certainly feels more...hmmm....off-piste than I thought it would.

I'm kind of imagined it like Mauritius for the Australian/NZ market, but apart from the coastal strip - which is, unsurprisingly, dotted with resorts, it feels like stepping into a very different world.

Under a million people live in the whole Fijian archipelago, and life outside the cities carries on much as it always has; communities live in villages, each village has a chief, and all sorts of ceremonies and traditions are still observed (thankfully the eating English people one seems to have gone by the wayside).

As has been the way with every leg of this trip, an astonishing amount has been packed into my first 24 hours.  My first night was at the kind of resort I'd normally swerve; a kind of theme park version of Fiji (although it does look lovely in the pic),

 although watching the local dancers give a performance was fun (although I could have done without the part where one of the dancers mock-charged me with a spear, oh how we laughed).

But one of the best things about this trip is the people I've met.  Today was no exception; at 9.30am this morning I found myself glass-blowing in the outdoor studio of the lovely Alice, from Devon, who has lived in Fiji with her husband and family for nine years, and is a professional glass blower.  Really, you couldn't make it up. (there would have been a pic, but just discovered I've left my camera in the taxi, grrr).

Today's resort is more upscale and tucked away, and although it's not actually billed as a wildlife adventure hotel, I appear to be sharing my room with a mongoose and a lizard.  Actually, the mongoose is currently hanging out with me by the pool, God knows what the lizard's up to. Finding my camera,, hopefully.


All this was written before I got a note under my door inviting me to a 'surprise' at 6pm, which turned out to be a traditional 'Cava' ceremony, which basically involved me sitting cross legged in front of quite a scary bunch of chaps,

while they made 'cava' - a drink of powdered roots which is a staple part of village life.  By the time he'd finished wringing out the roots, and mopping round the bowl, it looked like muddy water.  Which is exactly what it tasted like.

There comes a point when nothing can surprise you any more.  So the frog pinging past us at dinner didn't raise an eyebrow, nor did the mud crab, skittering across the drive when I parked up my swanky transport for the evening.

I am, lets face it, the new Bear Grylls.  Just off to double lock the patio doors.

Adventures in Tribal Lands (Part Two)...

...so the Hangi dinner was over, night was falling across the lake and the brave few were off to put on their waders to go down to catch an eel or two.  Was I among them???

Well, obviously I'd have LOVED to do it, but I had an appointment at eight the next morning with Maurice,

a Maori elder and Dad of Karl (co-owner of the lodge), who was taking me on a tour of their tribe's Marae (their equivalent of a town/community hall) and on into the Whirinaki rainforest for a bit of a stomp.  Since the eelers weren't going to be back before midnight, regretfully I had to decline.

But my time with Maurice was a unique treat -he was able to tell me everything from what it was like growing up when tribe all lived together round the Marae; before they used money and simply lived off the land.  He's also part of the commission for his tribe, the Ngati Manawa, involved in reclaiming their land from the government - some 176,000 hectares.  He was fascinating, open and honest about being a Maori; it took ten years for the land reclamation to be agreed, and when I asked him if he ever doubted it would happen, or felt like giving up, he said firmly 'Maori never lie down.  When they want something they just keep going.'

A visit to the Ngati Manawa's Marae, was fascinating; inside the main building

were wood carvings of every tribe, through which every Maori can trace his heritage.  Everything happens at the Marae; birthdays, funerals, parties, story-telling, community meetings.  I couldn't take pictures inside the building, but this was one of the chiefs depicted outside (a particularly scary one apparently).

From there we went up to the rainforest, where Maurice knew every tree, plant, shrub, pathway, from having spent months at a time living in the forest.

The Whirinaki Forest is miles from anywhere, and yet when we walked out of the rainforest there were a couple of minibuses of walkers tying up their boots, readying for a walk.  Tourism gets everywhere, but here - because its so low-fi and small in numbers, its generally seen as a good thing

Driving away from the land owned by the Ngati Manawa, I genuinely felt like I was coming back from somewhere incredibly different.  And the contrast was made even stronger when I happened across Te Puia in Rotorua ; a Maori 'cultural attaction' combining spectacular hot springs

demonstrations of Maori crafts such as weaving and carving, a recreated village, wildlife projects and the chance to watch some traditional music and dance.  Intrigued to see how different it would be I paid up and went in, along with several zillion other people.  To be honest, I rather enjoyed the haka and the singing, even if it was quite touristy...

but it did make me think how different, and wonderful, my experience with Maurice had been, at a real Marae, out in vast swathes of empty fields.

On, then, to the Coromandel Peninsula, where I sit now with the most glorious view  - a long, sandy, totally undeveloped beach almost close enough to touch.  I swam this afternoon, with just one other person in the water, the odd wave rolling in, and the mountains in the distance a pale lilac shade of blue.

I think this might just be one of the most idyllic places I've ever been (its called Kuaotunu Bay) - and hey, guess what, its bloody miles from anywhere.  But I'm used to that by now.

Adventures in Tribal Lands (part one)

Forty-eight hours in New Zealand can be a very long time indeed.  Somehow, in the last two days, I've done the following; had a cold cider in the company of a wild boar, tried tightrope walking, eaten dinner that's been cooked in hessian and a layer of mud, trekked in rainforest, joined a busload of twentysomething backpackers, watched a haka, and been invited eel-fishing in the stilly watches of the night (but more of that later).

So much has happened it's hard to know where to start - or end, which is why this blog post is a two-parter.  I supposed it really all began yesterday, when I had to leave my cottage with its gorgeous view of Lake Taupo

saddle up my SUV and head into the hills.

The day before had been a gentle introduction to New Zealand's diverse, gorgeous, unspoilt empty landscapes, criss-crossed with roads that seem to barely ever see a driver.  God, but driving in this country is fun; I channelled my inner rally driver to whizz along the wonderfully-named Forgotten World Highway, stopping off to get my passport stamped at the Independent Republic of Whangamomona (population 15), and crawling  along the unmade road through the spectacular Tangarakau gorge, trying to take pictures over the steering wheel as I drove.

None of which prepared me for my foray deep in Maori tribal lands, when I left the main highway to drive through mile after mile of towering pines (turns out its the biggest man-made forest in the world).  I drove on through the small Maori town of Murepara, and finally ended up at a ramshackle lodge that wasn't actually in the middle of nowhere - it was beyond that, a good few kms beyond.  From the moment I arrived the day went bonkers - off to meet the owners family and then catapulted onto a backpacker bus who were touring the tribal lands before all staying at the lodge as well.

Surreality aside, it was an amazing glimpse into Maori culture and life.  Dinner was a hangi - a traditional feast where they wrap meat and vegetables in hessian sacks on hot stones, cover it with mud and leave it to steam cook for three hours.  Here, Karl is throwing water on the meat and hot stones to create steam...

before its covered in sheets of hessian, and the great shovelfuls of mud

If it sounds naff and touristy it wasn't (I've done that version of Maori culture today too, but more of that in part two).  Perhaps because it was SO back-woods, so low-fi, it just felt genuine.  Plus, after dinner we all packed up the leftovers into boxes to give to the elderly in the village - normally guests take the leftovers into the local school the next morning, but it was the weekend so the olds were in luck.

What's so fascinating is how much Maori (they actually pronounce it Moudi) culture is a part of society here.  There are massive issues - Maori's are in the process of being given back huge swathes of land that were originally theirs, and that's breeding resentment in some quarters.  And there's  problems in Maori society; lack of work in places like Murepara means drugs, gangs and crime.

But I've learnt an amazing amount in the last few days about a real tribal culture - and one that is still very much alive (and one that feels, according to every Maori I've spoken to, quite fortunate compared to other indigenous peoples, such as the Aborigines).  It adds another layer to this slightly other-worldly, far-flung, spectacularly beautiful land.

Anyway, back at the bonkers lodge the wild boar had just ambled past my front door,

and the sun was starting to set on the lake,

I'd tried my hand at tightrope walking (as you do) and the hour of eel-fishing was almost upon me.  Could I avoid it?

Wait till tomorrow to find out...