“Control your kite! Control your kite!”
At least I think that’s what the instructor was yelling at me as a 10m2 parabola of sail dragged me face first through the (thankfully warm) waters off Rodrigues. With one of the world’s largest enclosed coral lagoons to play in, the island of Rodrigues is kite-surfing paradise for those who know their control bar from their elbow.
I, on the other hand, didn’t. But as I was shaking the water from my ears it was easy to see the attraction of skimming across aquamarine seas. Brightly coloured kites bobbed and weaved across a bright sky scudded with clouds, a scene mirrored below in the palette of blues of the Rodrigues lagoon. Suntanned kiters flew across the water wearing enormous grins. I wanted to be that person. I wanted that smile.
Unfortunately, the joys of being pulled at speed by an unhealthy amount of sailcloth only struck on my last day in Rodrigues and, as good as they are, the instructors at OsmoWings kite-surfing school couldn’t transform me from pathetic to pro in a single two-hour lesson. Luckily, there is more to the island than sail-powered adventure.
From the coast the road runs steeply up to Mont Limon, the highest point on the island, with small vegetable fields and patches of forest dotting the roadside. Unlike the larger Mauritius, there are no acres of sugarcane here; just small-scale farmers and natural bush. It’s a peaceful rural picture, with walking trails around and across the island offering days of undisturbed hiking. Locals greet you with a friendly bonjour, but almost always speak a smattering of English to help with directions.
An uninhabited paradise when Portuguese sailors first discovered it in 1528, the lagoon thronged with dugong and teemed with sea life. In the island’s valleys, the hills were grazed by giant tortoises to the sound of solitaires, Rodrigues’ answer to the dodo.
Unsurprisingly, with the arrival of seafarers the lonely solitaire met a similar fate at the hands of hungry sailors. The tallest forests were cut down for ship repairs and the giant tortoises were loaded on board as food for the long journey home or ¬– bizarrely – boiled for their oil.
The island was changed forever, but a small piece of this pristine landscape is slowly being recreated at the Francois Leguat Giant Tortoise and Caves Reserve in the southwest of the island. Indigenous trees are being replanted, a sanctuary for the endemic Golden Fruit Bat has been established, and giant tortoises from the Seychelles are being bred to slowly repopulate this corner on the Plaine Corail.
The tortoises here may be for conservation, not cuisine, but Rodrigues still offers some of the best Creole cooking of the Mascarenes; a sultry mix of French, Asian and African flavours, the island’s food is both exotic and affordable.
“Every Rodriguan will ask for their fish at dinnertime,” laughs Marie-Louise at Villa Mon Tresor. “Maybe a little roast pork too on special occasions, but every day there must be fish on the plate!”
Like many women on the island, Marie-Louise offers Creole meals at a table d’hote – literally, a ‘table of the house’. Although usually attached to a guesthouse, visitors are always welcome to join the family and other guests for the meal of the day, turning a simple and affordable meal into an island experience.
“I learned most of my skills and recipes from my mother,” says Marie-Louise. “Cooking runs in my family, and I still go and see what my mother is doing in the kitchen. Then I bring the ideas here to my kitchen and play a little bit more,” she laughs.
Creole cooking generally revolves around fragrant curries eaten with maize, red haricot beans and tangy salads of green papaya, onion, chives and tomato. Rodriguans like a bit of spice with their food, but the fiery local chilis are usually served on the side. With the island lying some 600 kilometres east of Mauritius ¬– next stop; Australia – local produce is unsurprisingly king here. Maize comes from local fields, fish is caught in the lagoon that morning and salads are from the garden.
The regular Saturday market in the capital Port Mathurin is a good place to size up the island’s bounty, from local honey to the island’s famous baskets and hats woven from the Pandanus plant.
However, the undisputed king of Rodriguan cuisine is the beady-eyed octopus. As soon as the tide starts to fall the local fisherwomen make their way out to the fringing reef.
Metal spears in hand, they prise and pry for the eight-legged payday and invariably return with half-a-dozen slippery cephalopods slung over their shoulder. Hung out to dry across the island, they make their way into delicate curries and piquant salads, as well as onto planes to nearby Mauritius.
One of the best places to see fishermen at work is in the South East Marine Protected Area, where locals are being taught the value of sustainable fishing. The lagoon stretches far from shore here, providing happy hunting grounds for octopus-fishermen and the traditional net boats. Local boats will happily take you out on the low tide to watch the teams of fishermen in their carefully synchronised net dance, seine-netting schools of fish or scaring shoals of unwary carangue (similar to Yellowtail) to their fate.
While the fishermen stick to the shallows, deep passes break through the lagoon and offer great diving, dropping quickly from waist-deep water to 40 metre walls. Game fish patrol the depths and pristine coral is a welcome change to the dynamite- and sun-damaged corals of other Indian Ocean islands.
Parts of the reef also offer easy and safe snorkelling, although the best spots are only reachable by boat.
Say hello, then, to Christophe Meunier – local artist, boat skipper, fishing expert, snorkelling instructor and tour guide. He’s a man who wears many hats, but it’s his T-shirt that catches my eye the moment we hop on-board his open fishing boat: “No Stress” is emblazoned across his chest.
It’s seems a fitting slogan for a day on the waters off this paradise island. He smiles, and hands me a hand-line as we troll for carangue destined for the curry at this mother’s table d’hote. The wind is calm on the lagoon this morning, so he guns the engine and our boat leaps towards the popular Ile aux Cocos.
One of a number of protected islands surrounding Rodrigues, the slender Ile aux Cocos provides a refuge for thousands of migrating seabirds; a holiday destination where they are safe to mate, breed and feed before heading north again for the winter.
Elegant Lesser Noddies, snow-white Fairy Terns and their darker cousins, the Sooty Tern, fill the sky and the casuarina trees that line the beaches. Long free of predators here, the birds happily preen and pout a metre or two from two-legged tourists, only squawking their unhappiness if I venture too near their nest.
“The island is called ‘Cocos,’ because of the eggs,” the park guide Marie-Claude mentions over her shoulder as we wander across the island, “not because of any coconuts!” Just a few hundred metres wide, by 1500m long, a third of it is for feathered visitors only. “For the rest of the island, tourists are welcome to explore on their own.”
I don’t do too much exploring though. Ile aux Cocos offers one of the best swimming beaches on Rodrigues and with a local pandanus hat to keep the bright tropical sun out of my eyes, the calm blue waters of the lagoon seem to stretch on forever. In the distance, a handful of kites leap and dive on their way downwind. Perhaps next time I’ll make it out of the water.
TRAVEL ADVISORY
- Air Mauritius is the best way to reach Rodrigues: the airline flies daily from Johannesburg to Mauritius, and on to the island a 90-minute flight away. For more information and to book, visit www.airmauritius.com.
- Accommodation is well priced, and ranges from simple family-run guesthouses like Auberge Anse aux Anglais to small resorts such as the Mourouk Ebony Hotel. Restaurant meals are a similar price to South Africa.
- Rodrigues uses the Mauritian Rupee. 1 rupee = R0.25
- To plan your visit, go to www.tourism-rodrigues.mu or visit your travel agent. To really get a feel for the island, plan to spend four to seven days exploring.
- South African visitors do not need a visa for stays less than 60 days.
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It has to be the world's most beautiful alarm clock. 'm lying in a bed as wide and white as the Makgadikgadi Pans, trying to focus my sleep-bleary eyes on the sun rising above the Okavango Delta, when my alarm clock goes.
Keee-ow kow kow kow
As wake-up calls go, the African Fish Eagle is pretty hard to beat. But then again, it doesn't take much to haul yourself out of bed when there's a day of Okavango adventure ahead
The stretch of Delta floodplains my alarm clock is soaring over is part of &Beyond's Xudum concession in the Okavango Delta; a 15-minute flip in a light aircraft from the tourist hub of Maun in the north-west corner of Botswana.
Built entirely of wood, the suites at Xudum Delta Lodge make the most of the outstanding vistas stretching out over the reed beds, with wrap-around wooden decks and billowing mosquito nets offering all the romance honeymooners could ask for. Well, that and the giant tub-with-a-view, that is. For lazy days and private dining, there's always the rooftop balcony.
Each suite gazes out over the channel where hippos break the night's silence with their grumpy 'ho ho ho', and the rising sun streams into the room to wake me just in time for the morning game activity. Well, that and my local alarm clock, of course.
"Welcome to the Hippo Highway"
Water-based safaris on speedboat and traditional mokoro are the main draw-card for tourists, and the excellent guides at Xudum certainly don't disappoint.
"Welcome to the Hippo Highway", beams my guide Basha as he deftly manoeuvres the flat-bottom speedboat along the narrow channels carved in the reeds by the foraging herbivores.
"We sign a contract with them," he jokes. "We can use it during the day and they only come down at night!"
The hippo channels are almost two metres wide and easily a metre-and-a-half deep; a good indication of the colossal size of these territorial titans. Every few hundred metres the hippo channel widens at the point where herds of elephant cross between the islands.
Neither of which I find very comforting when I'm perched in a slightly unstable mokoro which looks like it would be no match for a hippo's two front teeth.
But there's no use being cowardly… mokoro rides are, after all, what sets the Okavango apart. You can go on a game drive or take a boat safari throughout Southern Africa, but the mokoro is unique to the Delta.
These narrow dugout canoes are the perfect way get up close and personal with the reed beds that lay claim to much of the Okavango. They slip silently through the vegetation, sliding past reeds and over lily ponds without disturbing the wildlife. I keep a keen eye out for Green or Painted Reed frogs, and an ear open for the tell-tale splash of Red Lechwe escaping through the channels. After a while frog-spotting becomes easy, but the Lechwe keep to themselves.
You're unlikely to see a procession of big game on a mokoro ride though, so if you're a Big Five virgin you may fail to gasp at the sight of small frogs or trampled hippo channels.
But to me the highlight of visiting the Delta is, quite simply, the Delta. Not the toothy, furry creatures within it. You can see the Big Five almost anywhere in Southern Africa, but the landscape of the Okavango is breathtakingly unique.
Trees perch on bleached-white termite mounds. Fish eagles stand like sentinels on almost every bend in the channel. Fern Palms wave to you above a sea of Turpentine Grass… incongruous, yet perfectly at home as they wait for the floods to surround them. Not drowning, but waving.
And there are few better places to enjoy the scenery than the deck of Xaranna Tented Camp, my favourite of the two new lodges. Situated on a small island, the area is home to a fantastic array of birds that will have twitchers fumbling for their Zeiss spotting scopes faster than you can say "Squacco Heron".
Squaccos flap out of almost every corner of the Delta it seems, as do African Jacanas, Purple Herons and alarm clocks. I mean African Fish Eagles.
As with all of &Beyond's lodges, Xaranna also has a 'Star Birds' list of species particular to the area to help budding birders tell a Saddle-Billed Stork from a Malachite Kingfisher.
While the resident hamerkops may make unruly nests that are more function than form, they simply can't compete with the whimsical luxury of Xaranna's nine tented suites.
Xaranna is a 'Tented Camp' in the very broadest sense of the word. There are no flysheets to unzip or guy ropes to trip over. Instead you'll gaze out of floor-to-ceiling fly screens that keep the bugs out, but let the Delta views wash in.
The décor, particularly at the main lodge, is somewhere between Out of Africa and Alice in Wonderland; a colourful collection of Africana where nature guides are paraded in pink leather alongside hand-crafted plastic baobabs and chic modern furniture. In the parade of grinning hippos that greets visitors on the jetty I half expect one of them to be wearing a top-hat.
When the sun heads west and the temperature drops, life returns to the Delta. Red Lechwe emerge from the shadows, Kudu come to nibble on the green bushes at the water's edge and tourists gather for an afternoon cruise on the water. Guests clamber into the flat-bottomed boats and a sturdy supply of G&Ts are thrown in alongside the fishing rods. We head downstream to try our luck, as evenings are the best time to cast a line for African Pike, Tilapia or Bream.
Our skipper Mogale kills the engine and we slide into a large lily pond. "We'll try here first," he says, reaching for a rod.
'Ho ho ho'
Or perhaps not, as a testy hippo bull snorts his annoyance at the intruders and disappears underwater. We anxiously follow his trail of bubbles to see where he's headed. Luckily he's more interested in peace and quiet than showing us who's boss, and heads off into the reeds.
At sunset we pull up onto our own private island and Mogale does a quick circumnavigation to ensure the coast is clear. He's back in a few seconds… the island is only five metres across. The perfect spot for sundowners.
As soon as the sun dips below the distant shore Mogale hurries us back into the boat. Mindful of Basha's 'contract' with the hippos it'll soon be their turn to use the channel and I don't fancy any head-on collisions. The path home is lit by a fiery full-moon; a red light forcing us to stop for awhile. Well, that and the large bull elephant using our channel as a zebra crossing. It gets darker, and darker still, while we wait for the bull to move off a safe distance before heading back to camp. The boma fires are lit and supper is on the go.
Tonight our boma dinner is undisturbed by the local residents, although guests have previously had to abandon their plates when a young bull elephant came to join the party.
"He's a young guy," says Ross, the lodge manager. "He still needs to learn some manners." There's an elephant in my Boma. Sounds like a Leon Schuster movie.
As I tumble in to bed at the end of a long, dusty day of Delta adventure I instinctively roll over to set my alarm clock. And then remember there's no need. He'll be out as the sun rises, soaring above the floodplains in search of breakfast.
Keee-ow kow kow kow
TRAVEL ADVISORY
- When to visit: January-March is the rainy season, so expect to get wet. April-June is high season and the best time to visit the Delta, when the floods are flowing and there is still occasional rain to keep temperatures comfortable. With so much water about the Delta is impressive, but the game is also spread far and wide. August is usually windy and it gets progressively hotter and drier through until November/December when the rains begin.
- The Okavango Delta is a malaria area. Consult your nearest travel clinic for advice on prophylactics.
- For more information on Xudum Delta Lodge and Xaranna Tented Camp visit www.andbeyond.com or call 011 809 4300.
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An authentic taste of the Big Apple doesn’t have to take a big bite out of your travel budget. Try these pocket-friendly ways to enjoy the most exciting city in North America…
Don’t: pay for expensive hotels
Rather: book a self-catering room
New York is home to some of the priciest property on earth, so it’s no surprise that hotel rooms are eye-wateringly expensive. Even flea-infested backpackers can cost upwards of $100 a night, so finding somewhere decent to stay is likely to be your first problem.
Avoid the chain hotels and rather book yourself a self-catering apartment-hotel to live like a local. Rooms typically come with kitchenettes, so you can save some dollars on eating out, and most suites sleep up to four people. Travelling with friends, or as a family, it’s an easy way to sleep cheap without letting the bedbugs bite.
Our top pick is the recently refurbished Hotel Beacon on Manhattan’s stylish Upper West Side. With great views down Broadway and over Central Park it’s centrally located, yet away from the tourist hordes at Times Square. The Fairway Market across the road offers a cornucopia of goodies, or you can grab a pastrami on rye from the deli around the corner. Visit www.beaconhotel.com.
Don’t: bother with the Staten Island Ferry
Rather: take a Circle Line Cruise
Penny-pinching tourists love to sing the praises of the Staten Island Ferry, which runs from the piers near Battery Park. Yes, it’s free, and you do get a view of the Statue of Liberty. But that’s about it. Then you get to come back again. Not much fun, really.
Rather fork out the $34 it’ll cost you to join a three-hour cruise around Manhattan (yes, Manhattan is an island) on the Circle Line. Cruises leave the piers at 42nd Street four times per day during summer. Sailing anti-clockwise around Manhattan you’ll get an unobstructed view of the city’s famous skyline, cruise under the stunning Brooklyn Bridge and see parts of the city even locals don’t know exist. Oh yes, and of course you’ll get to see Lady Liberty too.
Witty banter and an on-board bar make the three hours fly by. Get there early to grab a seat on the port side of the boat for the best views.
Don’t: even think about McDonalds
Rather: Grab a Nathan’s ‘dog’ at Coney Island
You’ll find the golden yellow arches across the city, but for a taste of real New Yawk fast-food you can’t do better than the legendary Nathan’s out at Coney Island. A 30-minute subway ride from Manhattan, Coney Island has its own rickety charm with seaside boardwalks, freak shows and state-of-the-art (well, in 1985 at least) fairground rides.
It’s also home to Nathan’s – the hot-dog restaurant to end all hot-dog restaurants. $3.15 buys you one of Nathan’s famous ‘dogs, with a topping of your choice. I’d recommend the red onions.
This Coney Island institution is a hit throughout the year, but it’s July 4th that really brings in the punters. Over 40 000 people flock to Nathan’s to watch the annual Nathan's Famous July Fourth International Eating Contest that’s been held here every year since 1916.
In 2009, the surprisingly slim Joey Chestnut retained his title by eating 68 hot dogs in the allotted 10 minutes. If that wasn’t weird enough, according to Nathan’s the contest “is sanctioned by Major League Eating, the world governing body of all stomach-centric sport.” Only in America.
Don’t: go to the supermarket
Rather: discover farmers’ markets and local delis
If fast food’s not your jug of soda pop, you’re in luck: New York City is home to some of the best food on the planet… if you know where to look. While Michelin-starred restaurants will happily add years to your bond repayments, the delis and markets of Lower Manhattan offer mouth-watering meals that won’t break the bank.
Katz’s Deli on East Houston Street is home to the city’s most famous Corn Beef on Rye sandwiches and draws a mix of curious tourists and hungry locals. A few doors down, the family-owned Russ & Daughters deli has been open since 1914, selling kosher fish, dairy and baked goods to customers from the Lower East Side. Grab a few slices of cured salmon (they have a dozen varieties), some cream cheese and fresh-baked bagels for a picnic.
The farmers’ market at Union Square is also not to be missed. Small producers from across New York State set up shop four days a week (Mon, Wed, Fri, Sat) from 8am-6pm with gourmet offerings like hot apple cider, fresh breads, artisanal cheese, fruit and farm produce.
Don’t: pay for Wi-Fi
Rather: get it for free at Bryant Park
New York might be the quintessential concrete jungle, but it also boasts some of the world’s best public parks. Central Park covers a massive 800 acres, the brand new Highline Park brings design-chic to Chelsea, and Battery Park in the Financial District is a leafy haven of statues and views.
But Bryant Park in Midtown West takes the cake. Well-funded by the deep-pocketed corporations headquartered nearby, it’s hands-down Manhattan’s most attractive open space. In summer you’ll find free morning tai-chi classes, picnic tables for a lunch in the sun, clean public toilets (a rarity in Manhattan) and open-air film festivals.
But most importantly for travellers, the park is one giant free Wi-Fi hotspot. Turn up, log in, start skypeing. Cost per hour? $0.
Once you’ve updated your Facebook status, make sure you pay a visit to the magnificent New York Public Library on the eastern edge of the Park… the Rose Reading Room is breathtaking.
Don’t: pay for a Broadway show
Rather: see one for free with David Letterman
With his adultery scandal firmly behind him, talk-show supremo David Letterman is once again the king of the airwaves in New York.
If you can’t afford a West End show, signing up to attend a free live studio recording of The Late Show with David Letterman is the best way to enjoy a taste of the stars on Broadway. The show is recorded at the legendary Ed Sullivan theatre, which is also home to many ‘reunion’ shows of TV series Survivor!
You can apply for Late Show tickets in person (the theatre is at 1697-1699 Broadway, between West 53rd and West 54th Streets) or online at www.cbs.com.
First published in High Flyers magazine; April 2010
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"And to all of our customers flying on to Frankfurt this evening, we hope you have a pleasant flight."
I swear I heard a quiet snigger, milliseconds before the captain switched off the intercom. He knew, oh I’m sure he knew, that those of us silly enough to book an Air Namibia flight to Frankfurt via Windhoek, the belly button of Africa, would be doing no such thing that evening. Flying and pleasant experiences were not on the menu for us.
I’ve never been a huge fan of pilots. They always seem so smarmy and cock-sure prattling over the intercom like closet radio DJs. Frankly, I couldn’t care less whether we’re taking off on runway four-three-south or who’s at the controls for our left-hand turn. Perhaps they get lonely up there by themselves.
But I digress.
The departures screen at the lonely-looking Hosea Kutako International Airport only served to confirm my opinion of pilots. “Cancelled”, blinked the flight status in gleeful red letters next to our evening departure to Germany.
An anxious airline employee came scuttling over to explain that we would be going no further that night. Ash clouds across Europe, he said. Clogged engines and fiery plane crashes he warned. I was tempted to take my chances rather than spend a weekend in Windhoek, but eventually we acquiesced and followed him through to the luggage carousel.
Whisked stamp-less past passport control — immigration not a big concern in Namibia, it would seem — a geological age, much like one that formed the Eyjafjallajokull volcano, passed while the Air Namibia 'customer service' desk decided whether stranded passengers were really an airline’s problem.
"OK," they said, "We’ll put you up for one night. But no meals! And after that you’re on your own."
Force majeure trumps customer care every time, it would seem.
The delights of the Safari Hotel waited. The nearby casino tempted some, the delights of downtown others. I chose hibernation and Wi-Fi, with occasional glances at the Air Namibia status board.
Europe still closed. Ash spreading eastwards. No flight today, it reported. Everything for your own account, it reminded. Thank goodness for credit cards.
The Dutch family stranded with us didn’t seem to mind too much. Their kids were happily stocking up on their annual intake of vitamin D at the poolside, and I think the adults were only too happy to spend a little more time in a land with topography. For all I know they are still there, wondering if they’ll ever see a tulip-field again.
More German tourists arrived from their safari in Süd West Afrika, alarmed and outraged to discover that volcanoes could disobey the rules of flight schedules. The taxi drivers rubbed their hands with glee at the windfall. The hotel struggled to make a chicken sandwich in less than 30 minutes.
48 hours later, we decided enough was enough. Eyjafjallajokull had spent the last few millennia gathering up steam for this party and it wasn’t going to bed anytime soon.
While we waited for the airline clerk to charge us R2800 to take us back to square one, I got to thinking. Apart from Björk and a global banking crisis, what has Iceland ever given the world?
And perhaps that’s what galls me most. It’s not the wasted weekend, the string of diabolical in-flight meals, the Hotel Safari pillows with the soft touch of sandstone, the state-of-the-art breakfast room circa-1983 or the Air Namibia staff with the interpersonal skills of the ANC Youth League.
No, it’s that we can’t even ask that bankrupt island for compensation. Across Europe you’ll get slapped with a fine for tossing so much as a cigarette butt aside, but spewing thousands of tons of poisonous dust and rock across a continent? I’m willing to bet that the icy lump of North Atlantic rock gets away with this scot-free. So long Iceland, and thanks for all the ash.
First published on http://travel.iafrica.com; 20 April 2010,
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I am pretty good at reading the lay of the land. I can find my way on the Tube, tell my Southern Cross from my Scorpio and read a map with the best of them. But the broad sweep of sand beneath the Tamboti trees? Well, it had me stumped.
The powder-soft grains, glowing a deep ochre in the setting sun of the KwaZulu-Natal bushveld, crumbled at every touch. A smudge here, a few broken twigs there, a tuft of matted fur to one side… all useful clues, but I still had no bloody idea which way the lions had gone.
“You need to use all five senses,” said Grant over my shoulder, with the patience of someone who has long understood the answer. “Don’t just look at the sand. You have to fit all the pieces of the puzzle together.”
I’d travelled to Phinda Private Game Reserve in northern Zululand to join a small group learning the ways of the veld on &Beyond’s four-day Bush Skills course. By the end of it I’d know – if all went according to plan – how to handle a vehicle, track game, identify fauna and flora, and speak the subtle language of the bush. A language that seems to be second-nature to game rangers in this paradise for pachyderms and all-things toothy.
As jigsaw puzzles go, Phinda is a challenge: 14 000 hectares; seven ecosystems; over 400 types of bird; hundreds of flora and fauna species, and countless sandy tracks to get lost in. Thank goodness for Grant and Sifiso – our guide and tracker – who were there to help us start at the corners and work our way towards the sky. And make sure we didn’t lose any pieces along the way.
After a night spent settling into Mountain Lodge, one of six luxury lodges on Phinda, Grant greets us at a breakfast table groaning under the spread of goodies.
“So, where would you like to start?” asks Grant, and it’s a tough question. How do you cram 14 000 hectares into four short days?
Casual cruising through the reserve is definitely out. The Bush Skills course is aimed at the safari tourist who’s ticked the Big Five off their list, done time on the back of a game vehicle and is looking for something more. It’s a chance to understand the bush and enjoy a slice of life as a game ranger. Thankfully, we aren’t handed any pairs of too-tight khaki shorts.
And perhaps the word ‘course’ is the wrong one, conjuring up images of windowless rooms and interminable flipcharts. Think again. Here the bushveld is your boardroom, where notes are jotted in the dusty soil and grumpy elephant may disrupt the agenda.
“Let’s start with some tracking,” suggests Grant, breaking us from our breakfast reverie. “Put on your walking shoes and something you can go bush-walking in.”
Tracking is a good place to start, as being able to read the myriad signs of the bush can tip the scales from sighting to solitude. And unhappy guests.
“See how the edges of the track are slightly rounded?” says Grant, as we kneel down at the edge of a dry waterhole. “That tells us this track is old; the wind has blown across here and taken away the detail. Look at the grass too; it’s dried out and dead, so it was trampled some time ago.”
They’re all tiny whispered clues to what was here before us, but piece them all together and a clear picture of the landscape emerges. The puzzle begins to take shape: animals moving from grazing to waterhole, and on to a warm spot for the night; rhino marking their territory and cats looking for their next meal.
Much of a ranger’s life is spent on the game vehicle, so we each take a turn behind the wheel. The turbo diesel roars with delight at the lightest touch of the pedal, and I drive our small party in a wide figure of eight across the reserve, keeping an eye out for game in the road.
“You never have the vehicle in low range when you encounter elephants, and you always plan your escape route,” says Grant from the backseat. “If they become uncomfortable, or if there’s a mock-charge, you need a quick getaway.”
We take turns in the tracker’s chair up front, attempting to spot and identify the subtle signs while zipping along at 25km/h, and I start to appreciate the incredible skill of the tracker and guide. Sifiso quietly points out the signs that I’m oblivious to. I still have a lot to learn, but perhaps it’s the rifle mounted on the dashboard that’s distracting me.
To get a feel for the .375 Brno – made in the Czech Republic it is the standard bush rifle for rangers – we head up to a distant rifle range in an abandoned quarry to fire off a few rounds. Despite the thrill of the retort, it’s oddly out of place in the pristine bush of Phinda. The very name means ‘The Return’ in isiZulu, after the massive game relocation that took place in 1991, and the thought of removing any of those animals by gunfire is a sorry one.
“The rifle is an absolute last resort for any ranger,” explains Grant. “If it gets to the point where you have to use your rifle, you probably haven’t done your job properly.”
At the end of each day we return to Mountain Lodge, where we wash off the dust in the outdoor shower, soak up the wraparound views of the bushveld and ready ourselves for another fireside feast in the boma. But on the last day, Grant has something up his sleeve.
“Bring your warmest kit and a spare set of clothes to dinner with you. We’re sleeping out in the bush tonight.”
After a drive through the starlit darkness we pull to a halt in a dry riverbed: waiting for us are some low camp beds, a roaring fire and a table with a drinks laid out.
“Just to keep the mozzies away!” laughs Grant.
As we settle into our camp chairs, and agree on who’ll stay awake to keep the fire burning, the conversation turns to our few days in the bush learning to be a safari guide. One thing we all agree on is that driving a two-ton 4x4 over rough ground, all the while chatting amiably with guests behind you, identifying that brown splodge a hundred metres off as a young Nyala and watching you don’t land up in the middle of a herd of elephant is not as easy as it looks
After an hour or two the conversation dies, and it’s just the snap and crackle of the dry firewood that disturbs the silence; all eyes are locked quietly on the embers. A log falls, sending a flash of sparks into the sandy riverbed. Gently, a deep voice in the darkness muses: “Shew, there’s nothing quite like watching a bush TV.”
I chuckle to myself and stare up through the Tamboti branches at the spread of Milky Way. We’re finished with the jigsaw puzzle for now. We deserve a little time in front of the TV.
First published in Sawubona magazine; April 2010. |
‘Slumdog Millionaire’ almost put me off going to India. All those back-alley shops, dirty cesspools and crowded trains? Hell, no. Not for me. But it’s amazing what a woman’s charms will do, and before I could say, “I don’t want any bloody dhal makhani” we were touching down at Delhi’s Indira Gandhi International Airport. Destination? Udaipur.
The city of Udai. Jewel of Rajasthan. Venice of the East. Whatever you choose to call it, Udaipur is pretty damn impressive. Unlike so many Indian cities, it’s not a random sprawl of tumble down buildings with a sprinkle of chaos thrown in for local colour. In Udaipur the city revolves around the lake. Lake Pichola, to be precise. One of five that lie lazily in front of the Aravalli Hills, their placid waters at odds with the chaos of streets that bicker behind the lakefront havelis.
Once home to Udaipur’s aristocracy, these lavish waterfront homes were the Clifton bungalows of 16th century Rajasthan. Everyone wanted one, hardly anybody could afford it, and gawking visitors would peek in the windows as they thumped down the steps to the water. Most have now been converted into hotels, but why bother with aristocracy when royalty will do just as nicely?
You’ll probably only go to Udaipur once, and if you’re travelling in style there is simply only one address. Except this hotel doesn’t have an address. It doesn’t need one. It’s a place where the post – and everything else, for that matter – arrives by boat, and a healthy stretch of water separates the chaos of India from the blissfully calm courtyards of what is, quite simply, the most romantic hotel on the planet.
A handsome Rajasthani doorman sweeps down the red-carpeted staircase as our boat glides up to the landing deck. A brocaded velvet umbrella shields my wife from the spring sunshine and an elbow is offered to escort her up the stairs. Seamlessly, the umbrella disappears and a rain of rose petals marks our entrance. The doorman beams from under his bushy moustache: “You are welcome at the Taj Lake Palace!”
The name says it all really. This gleaming white hotel is built on a small island in the middle of Lake Pichola; an island so small that the hotel is the island. And it used to be a Palace. A pleasure palace, in fact, built in 1746 by Maharana Jagat Singh II. The 62nd successor to the royal dynasty of Mewar would use the manicured courtyards and rooftop terraces for summer shindigs for his royal court.
The royal family have since packed their bags for the City Palace on the mainland, but regal touches abound throughout the hotel. Marble corridors lead to our opulent Palace Suite, where lake views flow in from almost every direction. The City Palace peeks in the bathroom window, and from our small balcony I look out to Jagmandir Island; another pleasure palace where the gardens still host Udaipur’s most glamorous parties. Marble, velvet and crisp linen abound, but like a new maharajah I’m hungry to soak up the pleasures of my palace. Well, mine for a night or two, at least. And pleasure is something the Taj Lake Palace offers in spades.
The therapists at the Jiva spa greet me with a beatific namaste, and ask if I’ll be having my massage on land or water. As if the hotel isn’t enough of an escape, the ‘spa boat’ allows couples to set sail into Lake Pichola for treatments and a little time alone.
The pool-loungers beckon, but the sun is dipping behind the hills and I have a date with a gondola. Mercifully free of gondoliers murdering Italian love songs, all we hear is the gentle murmur of the water under our keel as we slowly circle the hotel, admiring the sunset and sipping our glass of Bollinger.
Back at the hotel, a quandary awaits: dinner at the rooftop Bhairo for outstanding city views and a menu of contemporary European cuisine, or back onto the water. Ah hell, when in Rome… so we opt for a romantic pontoon dinner, perhaps the most unique dining experience in Asia.
Moored on the calm lake waters, the pontoon is a floating restaurant for two. We order the tasting menu from Neel Khamal, the hotel’s Indian fine-dining restaurant, with a bottle of New Zealand merlot and sit back to soak up the lights of Udaipur. Our waiter hops in his boat and motors off to fetch our starters. Soup follows, then mains and a spread of desserts, all the while Udaipur glints back at us across the water. Fireworks from a local wedding light up the sky and boom out across the city, declaring new love to all and sundry.
Behind us the Lake Palace shimmers in the moonlight, a white marble jewel giving the Taj Mahal a run for its money in the romance stakes. Shah Jahan may have built his Taj as a monument to love, but what’s so sexy about a mausoleum? When it comes to romance in Rajasthan, the Rajput kings of Udaipur certainly knew how to woo their women. A pleasure palace, indeed.
Taj Lake Palace Hotel, Udaipur, India. Visit www.tajhotels.com or call 00 800 4 588 1 825 (toll-free).
First published in Private Edition; Autumn 2010 |
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Or just a sign of commercialism heading south? Refuse to shop at Melissa's nowadays: overpriced and average
