Rhinocerious? Absolutely

Well at least this idiot gave the NZ Herald sub the chance for a satisfying pun. The man spent about a quarter of an hour splashing about in the water while Auckland Zoo's three white rhino watched from a distance, twitching their ears, and the nyala antelopes were thoroughly spooked. The perp was hoicked out and whisked away into custody, but subsequently released without charge, presumably because he's not all there.

You would have to be mentally lacking, to do something like this. Rhino are notoriously un-laid back about encounters with people, and can launch into a fast charge remarkably quickly for such huge and heavy animals. And if they catch you? Not good. That's why it was such a thrill to go on a rhino walk in South Africa, out on foot and perilously vulnerable.

Thanks to Imake a Difference, I did this in Somkhanda Game Reserve in 2013, on a trip there to learn about and publicise the disgusting growth in rhino poaching (currently still a huge problem, and threatening the very survival of the species in the wild). We went out looking for collared rhino, to demonstrate how the electronic tagging works via telemetry, but ended up tracking down by traditional means a group of five untagged white rhino - a bull, two cows and their calves - which we then walked up to. In single file, silent, each of us eyeing up the spindly thorn trees which would be our only refuge in case of a charge. We got to within 50m of them, and it was tense, especially when the bull looked towards us - we froze, trusting in the knowledge that rhino eyesight is very poor, though their hearing is excellent.

Then, even more excitingly, at &Beyond's Phinda reserve, we walked to see a black rhino - notoriously more touchy and bad-tempered than the white - which was tetchily prowling around a burnout, looking for browse.

That I'm still here to tell the story of course shows you that it can be done, and survived - but only thanks to the people in charge who knew what they were doing. And who were totally fired-up to get the story out about the obscene market in China and Vietnam for cruelly-obtained rhino horn that's made of keratin and is no more effective against illness or hangovers than chewing your own fingernails. This is the sort of rhino encounter I'd wish on everyone involved:

There are no roads in the air

With thanks to Destination Queenstown for this famil

Unfortunately. So even when you’ve flown between the same destinations previously, there’s no guarantee you’ll take the same exact route again. I dunno, wind? Anyway, the upshot was that my gamble on sitting on the right side of the plane (should I say starboard?) so I could gaze upon the Southern Alps in all their post-Polar Blast glory, backfired spectacularly. Reader, I saw sea. And more sea. Meanwhile, those on the port side (I’m getting the hang of this now) got the whole package of snow-capped Ruapehu, Tongariro and Taranaki, with the final bonus of a close-up of Aoraki Mt Cook. Spit.

Mt Aspiring did its best, near the end, there was a glacier, I saw the full length of Lake Wakatipu, looked down at Walter Peak Station, and it was all very lovely. Just not properly spectacular.  Again, spit.

Anyway, here I am once again in Queenstown, star of New Zealand’s tourism sector, doing a first: winter. Yes, yes, people come here from all over the world to ski and soak in hot pools, and swan about in beanies and puffas - but not in my experience, which has always been in summer. Brown hills, swimming (er, not actually me - it’s still a mountain lake, you know, always 9 degrees), ice creams, all that. Gorgeous. 

Ever of the inquiring mind, and equally always looking for an angle to pitch, I decided it was time to round out my Queenstown experience - so here I am, just past the shortest day, here to get a taster of everything this chillier version has to offer. Bar skiing. That’s a chance I missed, back when I was fit and young, but also an impecunious student, and I’m not chancing my arm (more likely hip) at that now I’m so long in the tooth.

There is still active fun to be had, and I will be having some (heard of the Yooner? No? Then be sure to come back) - but today was about glorying in some beautiful snowy scenery. Classic drive up to Glenorchy at the top of the lake with perfect reflections, skeletal winter trees, slippery shaded patches on the road, and snow all over the place, adding a whole other dimension to this familiar but always spectacular bit of the country.

Finally - after giving up on finding a parking place in streets that were choked with traffic (on a Thursday!) - there was dinner at Flame Grill, the restaurant full of people chatting loudly in an unexpected variety of accents given, you know, Covid. Very international - plus the menu was heavily South African, focused on meat, of course. Yebo! Pretty good sustenance for a startlingly cold, but pretty,night. 

Devonport by Segway

With thanks to Magic Broomstick Segway Tours

No two ways about it: I'm a sucker for a Segway. Today was my ninth ride, as far as I remember - one in Perth, one in Durban, a couple in the US, and the rest here in NZ - and I've only fallen off once (epic bruise!). There was no chance of that this time, as Pauline of Magic Broomstick Tours was very good at indicating all the potential snags and dips that might catch me out.

It was such an easy day - ferry across to Devonport, quick demonstration on a quiet bit of the wharf that I knew what to do, and then we were away, off on a seamless ninety-minute tour that took in the waterfront, North Head's tunnels and gun emplacement, gorgeous villa-filled suburbs, and lots of places I knew nothing about, despite having often been to the suburb.

We passed Elizabeth House, the Wren's base during the war and, not surprisingly, Party Central back then; and then cruised on along Torpedo Bay, stopping often for bits of naval and other history, local gossip and architectural drooling. Devonport is a treasure trove of beautiful old wooden villas, all lovingly restored, surrounded by neat gardens and each worth millions. One, Pauline said, was bought for $5m-plus by an English family who spent another $3m on doing it up and then - just as it was finished - got trapped in the UK by the lockdown. Painful.

We skimmed up North Head - now under iwi control, so get used to hearing it called Maungauiki - to prowl through the hand-dug tunnels where small boys were making the most of the echo-effect. There's a maze of tunnels under the hill, mostly closed to the public and, I was disappointed to hear, none of them seriously thought to be hiding the first two Boeing aircraft ever built. That was a story I was intrigued to hear the beginnings of at the Everton Boeing factory, near Seattle, in 2010, and it would have been such fun if it were true. And it still might be...

Still, the views over the harbour, city and Rangitoto were terrific. Then we scooted back down and along the seafront, to discover a tearooms right over the water that I had no idea existed, past a giraffe in some eccentric lady's garden, paused outside an even more tempting French café that I really must get back to, and then dived into the depths of Devonport's secret suburbs. So much gorgeousness! 

Pauline told me some interesting geology, and we visited Mt Cambria, that I'd never even heard of before, and saw the little museum set up in a disused church. Another must-visit for the future. There was more local gossip - always fun - and then we headed downhill again, pausing under a big pohutukawa where Bertie (should actually be Beatrice) the cockatoo sometimes hangs out, and stopping at Old Albert, a huge Moreton Bay fig tree by the fancy new library - planted way back in 1883. 

Nearby is the band rotunda which, I'd never noticed till Pauline mentioned it, has music notes all around it - the beginning of God Save the Queen. Except, and I only found out later, looking it up, the workmen got the notation order wrong, and the music goes wonky. The first bit is right, though, I was pleased to be able to, er, note.

And then we were back at Windsor Reserve, with its temptingly fun-looking playground, and the old Nothing Happened joke plaque in the ground, and the tour was over and I had to get off. That's the worst thing about a Segway tour, every time. But up till that point, it had been great fun.

Yebo, Phinda!

Dutifully watching the TV news last night, it was a novelty, though not a relief, when the gloomy focus moved away from Covid, prison riot, road toll etc to Africa. Not just Africa, but South Africa. And not just South Africa, but Phinda Game Reserve, where I've been. Twice.

The topic was the poaching of pangolins - inoffensive, cute little creatures covered in scales which the Chinese, despite being clever in so many other fields, insist are a vital ingredient in traditional medicine. Like rhino horn, it's just keratin, same as fingernails, and just as inert and useless; but so convinced are the Chinese, and so eager to acquire it, that the poor pangolin is the most poached animal in the entire world.

One ranger interviewed reckoned that the weight of the annual haul of rhino horn, elephant tusk and lion bone, horrific though it is, would have to be multiplied hundreds of times to equal the tonnage of pangolin scales. Incredible, and so sad. I'm guessing it helps that they're so much easier to catch than the other animals. I'm also pretty certain that, with tourism currently so diminished, there are a lot of unemployed people out there busily poaching for an alternative income.

Rescued pangolins, which survive, are released to safety in places like &Beyond's Phinda, a private game reserve where they are very energetic about protecting endangered species. It's a lovely place, with a choice of six environmentally different lodges (mountain, grassland, forest, rock), all of them gorgeous, luxurious and staffed by real enthusiasts. I had such a wonderful time there, and got so close to the animals - bumping along behind cheetah running down a nyala, being looked at by a lion walking right past the open Landcruiser where I was sitting, rushing in reverse away from a black rhino that was pawing the dust before it launched into a charge. 

I didn't see any pangolins though. Sounds like that's getting even more unlikely, now.

Waiheke whining

Seven! Even I'm impressed. Seven times on a Segway, now - in Sausalito, DC, Durban, Perth, Queenstown, Kaikoura and today Waiheke, with the cleverly-named SegWai. Andrew's been in operation here for two years, but I only noticed him last month, parked with his punters at the gelato stand in Oneroa. So this morning I tagged along, joining two others (who, by what is by now for me a ho-hum sort of coincidence, have also done the DC thing) on a 2-hour, 20km ride around the western tip of Waiheke.

Since we were all veterans, after signing the single-sentence waiver (two PAGES in the US, plus a video) and helmeting up, Andrew checked that we were able to handle the machines, and we set off - off-road. I'd already noted the knobbly tyres, fitted because we would spend over half the time on tracks and the beach. The first bit was up through the bush and along the edge of some of Cable Bay's vineyards, to stop outside their restaurant with its views over the water to the city; and then we popped along to Mudbrick.

It was a bit unnerving, to be bumping along past hazards like potholes and logs, around trees and signs; but it was fun too, much better than gliding meekly along the road. Where it got really good, though, was after Andrew released our inner tortoises by disabling the speed limiter (not everyone gets this: but we weren't beginners, remember) which allowed us to reach the heady speed of 20 km/h. That was pretty exciting, when we were trundling along a stony beach and over rocks, as far as we could go.

It was a bit testing, ducking down to fit underneath a leaning pohutukawa tree, but we all managed it, and even got confident enough afterwards to go no-handed - not just along smooth road, but even over a speed bump. That deserved a reward, so we popped up into the town for a treat from Island Gelato, no doubt (I'm sure!) arousing envy in the breasts of all the boring pedestrians who saw us arrive and then leave again, whining away in single file down the road to return back through the bush to our start at the beach. Good fun!

PS: Just thought I'd mention - these photos, those horizons? No straightening necessary, despite being taken with one hand while in motion on an electronically balanced machine fitted with 5 gyroscopes. On uneven ground. At 20km/h.

Back to work

Once was brilliant. But twice within a couple of months? Super-lucky, and I know it. Opening the shutters at the Oyster Box hotel in Durban to a blurry red sunrise behind a striped lighthouse and a blue sea edged by white breakers was, I said in September, a gift. But today it happened again: a late arrival at a hotel, morning, opening the curtains – and there it was again: another perfect view.

This time, at Le Meridien in Tahiti, it was over a third-floor ornamental pond full of purple waterlilies and orange fish, over another pond ditto down in the gardens, and a white-sand edged turquoise swimming pool surrounded by lawns and coconut palms, to the lagoon and the reef beyond, and Moorea’s always surprisingly steep peaks on the close horizon. And all of this under a clear blue sky. Magic.

You make allowances, in Pacific countries: it’s too hot for the locals to be anal about details. Things are always just a little ramshackle, even in a top hotel, timings are approximate, mistakes are made. So when it turned out that today is a public holiday – All Saints Day – in French Polynesia, I wasn’t surprised that the Tahiti Tourism people had forgotten to factor that into the itinerary (though I was sorry, at the end of the day, to learn there’d been big canoe races on that it would have been fun to watch). Instead, I spent the day pretending to be an ordinary tourist, and it was a pleasant novelty.

So, no haring about squeezing as many sights and experiences into the day as possible – instead, long hours with a book on a lounger by the pool under an umbrella, periodically taking a dip in the warm water, and then back to reading and snoozing. I didn’t even join Denis in the pool for his morning aquarobics session – “Allez, allez, allez! Un, deux, trois – stop! Voilà!” – but instead watched small children chattering cleverly away in French, confident old ladies disporting themselves in bikinis, couples playing boules under the palm trees, assorted other bodies similarly sprawling in the shade.

The day passed, shadows lengthened, there was food, and Tabu beer in frosted glasses, the pool and sea turned silver, the trees became silhouettes, the sun sank in a cliché blaze of red and orange and the garden turned black. We ate good food by the sea with the reef a line of white out in the darkness, a crescent moon dropped into the sea, lizards chirped, brown noddies grunted above in the coconut palms and the temperature became perfect. Finally, it was time for bed and a sleep not earned, but enjoyed anyway.

Traveller, beware! Or not.

You would think that, in a city of just 1.5 million, it wouldn't be hugely unusual to see a photo of someone I know in our local newspaper - but I can't actually remember it ever happening before. Now it has, though. And you know who it turned out to be? Only a man I met on the Amazon River in Peru. How bizarre is that?

Somewhat belatedly, the NZ Herald has published a story about a pirate invasion of a riverboat in which a couple of Kiwis were amongst the guests threatened with violence back in July. It all ended well - if you can call losing all your money, valuables and electronica, and the abortion of the cruise, ending well. Nobody died; though Denis, I'm sorry to say, got whacked a few times.

What makes this an especially fascinating connection for me is that the riverboat was one owned by Delfin, the company I cruised with, on the same route that I did, out of Iquitos. This attack absolutely could have happened on my cruise, which is a possibility I never gave a moment's thought to (despite one of New Zealand's great modern heroes, Sir Peter Blake, being killed by pirates on the same river near Manaus). I did know, of course, that Iquitos is a dodgy city, and was happy to be under escort all the time I was there; but once I was on board the Delfin II, this sort of danger didn't occur to me once. I was much more concerned about piranhas and tarantulas, quite honestly.

Ignorance is such bliss. I did actually know, before we arrived recently at the lovely Fugitives' Drift lodge in South Africa for what was assuredly one of the highlights of the whole visit, that David Rattray, the original owner and founder of the operation, had been murdered there by intruders armed with guns. That was more than 9 years ago, though; and when we arrived, it was to razor wire fencing around the grounds, and a 24-hour guard on the gate so, as far as I thought about it, which was fleetingly, I felt perfectly safe. 

What I didn't know, until I got back home, was that another esteemed guide, Robert Gerrard, who had worked there for 20 years, had been horribly attacked by armed invaders in his home nearby in February this year. He never recovered from his injuries, and died in hospital the day after we arrived at the lodge. Of course, nobody mentioned it, although the staff must all have been shocked and sad.

So, what conclusions are to be drawn here? Nothing new. Risky places have that reputation for a reason. Most of the time you're lucky, sometimes you're not. Bad stuff can happen anywhere. Not going to these places means missing out on things you'll remember forever, for all the right reasons. Keep your fingers crossed - but keep travelling,

DC doing the decent thing, finally

I see the Smithsonian is opening its new branch on the National Mall in DC: the - you might well think - long overdue National Museum of African-American Culture and History. Never mind, they've done it now; and it's not as though it's a subject the city has completely ignored, as I discovered in 2014 at the Library of Congress. That Civil Rights exhibition (which displayed the above arrest warrant for Rosa Parks) has now ended, though, so it's good to see the subject properly addressed with what looks like typical Smithsonian thoroughness and respect. I'm already planning to give it plenty of time when I'm back there next year.

Having just been in South Africa, and earlier this year in Louisiana, it's a topic that feels very relevant - the photo above was taken in the fascinatingly eclectic Village Museum in Matjiesfontein ('bracelet', though?) - and I'm already prepared for a different take on the concept of museum guilt, which I felt, if only by proxy, in the Apartheid Museum in Johannesburg. Certainly, it seems that the struggle for universal civil rights and equality is as current and urgent as it has ever been, all around the world, even here in relatively inoffensive New Zealand. Rosa and Nelson would be so disappointed in us.

Africa, à la Adventure World

                      With thanks to Adventure World for this tailor-made holiday.

This morning began with another yummy (French toast today) sociable breakfast – conversation topics included rank v platoon firing in battle, and how to do the two-handed finger snap used so effectively yesterday by Mphiwa – and then we said goodbye to the cheerful staff at Fugitives’ Drift. We drove our (freshly-washed) rental car the four hours back to Durban, past traditional villages and gradually bigger towns like Babanango, Melmoth and Ballito, finishing up back at the King Shaka Airport to begin our long journey home.

Most of this trip was organised for us by Adventure World: partly as a prize I won, and partly as a demonstration of what they do, for me to write about. What do they do? Well, as much or as little as you want, right up to "Everything, please". They have a wide range of group tours that they run throughout the year to many countries all around the world. Or you can go bespoke, as we did. Having decided it was Africa we wanted to go to, we made an appointment with their African specialist at their office in Auckland (you can also work with them through a travel agent), and had a chat about the sort of things we wanted to do and see. It was pretty vague: Cape Town, glamping, a train, and wildlife, especially plenty of elephants, all to be fitted into about a couple of weeks. We could, of course, have been much more specific.

We were emailed gradually more definite itineraries for our feedback, and when it was all finalised, we went in again to pick up the hard copy with its booklet of vouchers, and to ask any last questions. Everything had been organised: flights, accommodation, activities, transfers, and we even had some help putting together our personal travel at the end. And then we were away.

It all worked beautifully, almost. There was one hiccup with a missing transfer, which was handled very efficiently by the company Adventure World was working with in South Africa, with prompt action and reassurance from Marlene back in New Zealand. All the rest of the flights, pick-ups, hotels and so on went perfectly, which is very reassuring in a place like Africa: it's a bit of an edgy destination and not somewhere I’m brave enough now to tackle completely on my own. I certainly noticed a big increase in nervousness when we were finding our own way around, driving ourselves and feeling much more vulnerable.

And the places we went! Hotels that weren’t just fancy, but full of personality; private city tours; the fabulous other world of the Rovos Rail experience; the foray into Zambia to fly in our own little plane to Royal Zambezi Lodge for truly unforgettable wildlife encounters including a surfeit of elephants… it was all brilliant. And so, so easy. Don’t believe those stupid TV ads that sneer at travel agents and tell you to do it all yourself much more efficiently, and cheaply, on the internet. I’ve done that too, recently, and it’s been a nightmare, honestly. Do yourself a favour and leave it to the professionals, like Adventure World: you’ll be glad you did.

PS: All this, and responsible tourism too!

"I came up here to build a bridge"

Rain overnight washed away the hyaena spoor. We woke to a fresh new day, the liquid notes of the well-named gorgeous bush shrike, repeated pleas of "Good Lord deliver us" from the fiery-necked nightjar, a gentle tapping from a woodpecker and, as always, the soothing murmuring of doves. 

We packed up, carefully pulling the lift-type gate across the kitchen doorway, then closing the wire mesh door, pushing the bolt across and finally fixing the metal clip onto the bolt - there are vervet monkeys and baboons here, nimble, quick, opportunistic and dextrous, and never to be trusted. They were sitting in the trees all around, watching us, just waiting for their chance. They'd already been into Shelley's tent yesterday, slipping through a gap in the zip and going through her bag, helping themselves to a box of macarons I'd given her. There were only tiny crumbs left.

There was more wildlife on the way back out of the reserve: elephants, of course, impala, kudu, zebra, giraffes... And then we were back in civilisation again, on the road. There was litter everywhere, traffic, people walking along the edge of the motorway, eucalyptus plantations, rivers, smaller roads mostly good but with random huge potholes, big open country of dry, bare hillsides. 

It looked empty, but closer to the increasingly traditional villages of compounds with round, thatched huts, there were herders watching over sheep, goats, and Brangus cattle (Brahman and Angus cross). Schoolkids in uniform got out of class to go and fill water containers at the bore pump, people were digging, washing clothes, chatting, sitting. We saw distinctive mesas, and then, happily, encountered a Landrover with a familiar name on it, and followed it to our destination: Fugitives' Drift Lodge.

We came here for one reason: the movie 'Zulu'. During my time in the UK (and since, I believe) this 1964 film ("Introducing Michael Caine" the opening credits announce) was played on TV on Christmas Day year after year. It was a ritual. And so it felt meant, since we were in the general area, to come and visit the location of the movie's central action: the Battle of Rorke's Drift. It's no accident that 80% of the area's visitors are Brits - including, during our stay, a sizeable contingent of Welsh people. In fact, of the dozen or so staying along with us, only one, an American, had never seen the movie. So, after a pleasant lunch in the Guest Lodge dining room hosted by Doug Rattray, one of the sons of the lamented David whose intense interest in the Anglo-Zulu War led to this operation, we were driven to the actual site of this 1879 battle and shown around by his older brother Andrew. 

'Shown around' is a feeble way to describe the experience. Really, it was a performance: 90 minutes of narration, quotation, description, opinion. Pretty much a tour de force, and irresistibly emotional, especially for the Welsh contingent (there's a strong Welsh connection). Perhaps finishing with the famous quote from Laurence Binyon's poem was a shade manipulative - but that's just me being cynical. There's no doubt that, despite having told the story what must be hundreds of times, the Rattrays are sincere in their recounting of this impressive battle. If you're not familiar with it, the bare facts are these: 139 British soldiers, many of them sick, held off an attack by 4,000 Zulu warriors, earning 11 Victoria Crosses in the process. Even without all the dramatic licence indulged in by the movie, it was a fantastic achievement.

Standing on the very spot where it all happened, lines of stones in the grass marking out the barricades built of biscuit boxes and mealie bags, walking around the (rebuilt - the original was burnt down in the battle) hospital and the commissary store, now a church, listening to the impassioned account of the story as the sun began to set... I'm so glad we made the effort to go.

Add in gorgeous accommodation, excellent service, delicious food and interesting over-dinner chat with the other guests and lodge hosts, and you have a brilliant package.

Elephant jam

We're used to it now - being inconvenienced by elephants literally in the road. It happened all the time during our three days in Zambia, and it was a feature today. The first was such a big bull, that would be unnerving enough, but he was also in musth, dripping a testosterone-rich oily secretion from ducts near his eyes. When this happens, they're very unpredictable and dangerous, so we backed up and warned other drivers who approached. Eventually, he moved off enough for people to dart nervously past, and we continued our drive through the reserve.

Thankfully, still, there were rhinos, since this is where they were rescued from near-oblivion back in the 1960s thanks, in large part, to the late but eternally respected Dr Ian Player. From here they were transported to establish herds all over Africa. It was a hugely successful effort - but now, of course, poaching to supply the ever-growing Chinese and Vietnamese demand for their (useless) horn has got their numbers plummeting. This particular park is now being targeted by poachers who are finding their previous main hunting-ground, Kruger, too well guarded these days. Poachers get their intel from wherever they can, even Facebook, so I'm not posting any photos or saying any more about them. It's sadly absolutely no exaggeration to say that their extinction is looming.

We were heading for Hilltop across the road in adjoining Hluhluwe National Park, but we didn't get there - there was too much happening. A lion hunt, for a start. Alerted by other vehicles parked along the road, we stopped and grabbed the binocs, and spotted three lionesses in the scrubby bush, creeping so slowly and cautiously up on three giraffes feeding beyond. It was a bold choice, especially since there was a herd of impala and some zebras near them, which are excellent look-outs, as well as a few hefty buffalo, which aren't shy about standing up for themselves. The lions, without appearing to communicate, were the essence of patience, easing themselves closer to the giraffes, which were so blissfully unaware of the danger that one of them actually sat down.

Of course I'd now like to go on and describe the horribly gripping drama of the kill - but we didn't have as much patience as the big cats and, after watching for about an hour, drove on to find more action elsewhere, leaving them to it (when we passed the site again, much later, all giraffes were still present and correct, the lions still, presumably, hungry). 

We found zebras, cute and Mohicaned, if not quite as striking as the Cape mountain variety that stole our hearts a week ago. And birds, and warthogs, and then more elephants, a big bunch of them on the road, drinking from a drain that ran under it, feeding on trees.They eat the bark, as well as the leaves, said Shelley (who knows everything about African wildlife and is the most excellent guide). They roll bits of branch around in their mouths and then spit out the wood. They were indulging in a bit of in-herd argy-bargy and were in no hurry at all to clear the road for all the cars lined up in both directions.

And then, eventually, we got back to the tent again and had another braai, Shelley's powerful torch at hand to keep shining into the surrounding undergrowth as the boerewors cooked. With good reason, it turned out, not one but three hyaenas prowling beneath the deck as we ate, hoping for leftovers. 

They're much more appealing than you would think (no thanks to Disney for that) with furry round ears, big eyes and hairy feet - but "Stick your hand or foot down through that railing, and that would be that," Shelley said. "Their jaws are incredibly powerful." When they'd given up and gone to try their luck at another tent, some prettily spotted genets turned up - much less the stuff of nightmares.