“Ladies and gentlemen…the weather situation in Srinagar is very bad…flights are being diverted to Delhi…four flights just before us…we will try and see.” I’d absorbed only fragments of the pilot’s announcement as my head was buried in a book. We’d come from Mumbai and rivers of monsoon to escape to Kashmir in northern India, apparently only to find more storms.

Then we began our descent.

What? Flights are being diverted, but we’re going anyway?

Immediately, we could feel an updraft, the sensation of the plane being gently lifted by an unknown hand from underneath then pounded incessantly with large rubber mallets.

I’ve felt this before. I can handle this, I think.

As I peered out the window, I noticed we were clearly on top of – or perhaps even inside of — a storm. Bits of thick white cotton framed foreboding swirls of gray in the shapes of swans and distended unfurled breakfast rolls; ominous layers and puffs roiled into a twist. (If my deftly constructed metaphor feels tortured, imagine what it was like on that plane!)

Then our plane began to bank. I’m familiar with banking. For example, I notice that flights to London Heathrow usually do it about 16 times before landing.

But why on earth would we make a banking turn at this altitude, just above the clouds?

We descended a bit and struck some light resistance, a jolt. The pilot pulled out and turned again, this time banking at an even steeper angle, as if he were deliberately aiming to spin directly into the grayness. It felt almost like a pitched descent, the sort I’m told is employed by service flights taking contractors into “green zones” in places like Kabul and Baghdad – in order to avoid anti-aircraft fire like rocket-propelled grenades and Stinger missiles.

We were not headed into a green zone. I heard no anti-aircraft fire.

A cloud swallowed us. We vanished into complete blackness. The plane leveled. And that’s pretty much when all hell broke loose. The plane rocked, shook and seemed to vibrate from without and from within. A huge drop, we lost altitude.

The entire plane – full up with Indian families and honeymoon couples on vacation — erupted in screams, then quieted again.

My stomach was in my throat, right next to my heart and a handful of other vital organs. I gripped Audrey’s hand, or she gripped mine. We’d begun to sweat. We looked at one another, grabbed tight.

Usually, I feel good enough about these things that I joke. No jokes this time. I was scared. I’ve been on a lot of flights that rocked and rolled, but something about this said, “This just might be your last.”

If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen. And I just hope it happens quickly. These are moments in a flash where I snap and drift into thinking “What will it look like if this plane disintegrates in mid-air?” If an engine falls off, how long will it take for us to drop? What would it feel like if the plane broke in two? If an engine breaks off, would the whole wing go with it? Or would the wing remain attached yet limp? I imagined myself in a Magritte-like surrealist scene where the sky is filled with passengers and a handful of airplane toilets.

I was uncomforted.

Meanwhile the twin girls across the aisle joined in by projectile vomiting and turning their seating area into a Jackson Pollock painting. I give them an A for effort in trying to be tidy though, unknowingly bypassing the barf bags and grasping with their father’s help for the plastic Ziploc bag that held the safety information card. Meanwhile, their mom sat next to us terrified, occasionally glancing at us as if to say, “Are we going to make it?”

“I don’t know.”

It felt as though we’d committed and there was no going back, no going up.

The only way out it seemed was down.

The only question was how.

The pilot attempted another descent, driving the plane deeper into the clouds. The plane dropped again. Clearly, he was forcing it, likely because his position offered him no choice. I could hear him fire the engines; I could feel the air resist around the plane.

Then the engines made a sound so god awful, I was certain they’d fall off. (If you’ve ever taken a fully loaded jet like a 747, the engines make that grinding whirl upon initial ascent, a slightly unsettling noise that one easily comes to terms with after it disappears. The sound we heard: absolutely nothing like this. In a word: wrong.)

There’s no onomatopoeia to do it justice: thwap, thwap, thwap, maybe. Quick in succession like an overzealous spatula beating a mountain of wet cookie dough. But there was no cookie dough and the magnitude of the tremor shook the plane to something apocalyptic.

Had a bird gotten caught in the engine turbine? Really, it felt more like an emperor penguin.

The shuddering sensation was hellish, of the sort that makes you wonder whether something is really happening or whether it’s over and you are only dreaming in the embers of what’s left of your brain function.

The circumstances felt torturous. We were in a tiny little metal tube 10s of 1000s of feet in the sky and Mother Nature would have her way. She always does.

Screams reached blood curdling. Their sound became part of the horror. In a moment of awareness, I was struck by the fact that most screams sounded of terror (understandable) while many others sounded of exhilaration, like the collective cry at the peak of a roller coaster (curious).

Regardless of how thrilling this was, we were all pretty much confused, terrified of dying — dying a death of flying toilets and penguins.

I could not imagine enduring 10 or 15 more minutes of this, nor would I expect any commercial aircraft to emerge from this intact.

“Ladies and gentlemen. We can’t penetrate this weather. I’m afraid we must divert to Delhi…” I’m glad the pilot was still alive.

Relief, except for the small matter of the penguins in the engine. Jokes aside, I’d wondered how a plane so battered could remain mechanically sound enough to continue flying.

Eventually, our plane returned to cruising, with a few bumps of the sort that I would previously have ignored. Not anymore. I was a scarred. Or was that scared?

[We landed in Delhi. What ensued was so entirely Indian, it me made thankful for all things big and small. “This is an unintentional welcome to Delhi,” the pilot announced deadpan, fully composed. Since he was uncertain how long we’d have to wait to take off again, he invited people to get up, move around and even enter the cockpit. Next thing we know, the aisles are packed, the cockpit has 10 people in it, the co-pilot is on Facebook on her smart phone while the instrument panel reads, “ NO DEVICES, PLANE REFUELING” and there’s a guy who’s hitting his head on the ceiling where all sorts of buttons are located. I’m sure that at some point he’s going to inadvertently shut down the entire electrical system. I will that the pilots be absolutely thorough in their pre-flight check.]

After the pilot received clearance to return to Srinagar, we set off again. I closed my window shade.

As our wheels approached the Srinagar airport runway, the plane erupted in cheers. I thought to myself, “People, we aren’t on the ground yet!” I winced, thinking that irony delivers a blow just when you think you are safe.

Our wheels touched ground. We made it. There was a breath deep inside of me that had waited four hours to find freedom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Srinagar.” (And yes, the flight attendant really addressed us just like this multiple times. And you’d have to imagine it said with an inimitable Indian accent where she pronounces it “gu-uls” rather than “girls.”)

And as the plane rolled to a stop, we were greeted by men with assault rifles. They were friendly men, I think. But I didn’t care. We were on terra firma.

And we were in Kashmir.

—–

Epilogue:

Hats off to the pilot. These guys and gals have extremely difficult jobs that require them to prioritize safety while keeping vacation-hungry passengers on track.

After landing in Delhi, the pilot emerged from the cockpit and addressed the passengers (180+) from the aisle. I can’t imagine anyone demanded an explanation, but he gave one, indicating that only one of the recent flights to Srinagar made it because its pilot was more experienced in the mountains and had chosen an approach from the opposite direction.

Regardless, I am supremely grateful for his attempts, but more importantly for his wisdom in knowing when to quit.

“Are you afraid of flying now?” Not any more than usual. I have my share of flights ahead of me. And they carry with them the risk they always have, which is to say less than that of getting into a car.

“Are you afraid of Srinagar?” Nope. Chances are we’ll be back someday soon.

Originally posted on the Uncornered Market travel blog. Find beautiful travel photos from around the world. | One comment

That’s where Dharavi, Mumbai’s most populated slum, might surprise you.

Recycling — or perhaps it should be called extreme recycling — is one of Dharavi’s biggest industries. Akshay, our guide from Reality Tours & Travel, an organization invested in the community, explained the process: “Every type of plastic, aluminum and metal is collected from all over the city and brought to Dharavi. Then it is sorted for quality, crushed down or melted, cleaned and resold. Nothing is wasted. Absolutely nothing.”

While industry is growing in Dharavi, space is scarce. So rooftops become makeshift storage areas for many of these raw recyclables before they are broken down. Open up the panorama below to get a feel for what it’s like to stand on a rooftop of a recycling business in the middle of Dharavi and appreciate Mumbai’s skyline in the distance.

What you find on the streets below might surprise you, too. But that, my friends, is for another post.

Panorama: Rooftop View of Mumbai from Dharavi Slum

For best panorama viewing results, press fullscreen (four arrows) and navigate around with your mouse.

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Originally posted on the Uncornered Market travel blog. Find beautiful travel photos from around the world. | 3 comments

Long, long ago in the late 1990s, I lived in San Francisco. And next door to me lived a man who would one day become a swami. And he told me of a land called Ladakh.

But before I get to that, a photo.

Last June, Audrey and I attended a party celebrating the launch of the ANA (All Nippon Airways, a Japanese carrier) Dreamliner route from Seattle to Tokyo, thanks to a very last minute invitation from a fellow blogger. On our way into the party, Audrey dropped her business card into one of those big fishbowls.

“Don’t know what they’re giving away…”

Fast-forward a few hours and there’s one final prize: two business class tickets from Seattle to anywhere ANA flies in Asia. I’ve never – and I mean never — seen Audrey move so fast in my life as she did that night to take the stage when her name was announced. Think of the running start that gymnasts take before they do they do the vault.

Me? I won nothing, other than the right to beg to be the companion she’d take on the trip.

LESSON 1: Put your card in the bowl. Caveat emptor: It’s likely you’ll end up on a newsletter list or two (or three), but you might also win a free ticket to go halfway around the world in style.

We got to planning straight away.

“Where should we go?” Talk about a phrase of almost unequaled beauty.

We could return to Japan, but we’d already been there. Maybe countries we’d yet to visit like The Philippines or South Korea?

But then a thought crept into my head: If it’s business class, let’s go as far as it can take us. We looked at the list of possible cities. Mumbai was about the furthest. Problem was: we’d each been to India twice. (Notice that I’d hijacked Audrey’s free tickets almost instantly.)

Then, the answer. Ladakh, a remote mountainous region in northern India. And why Ladakh? Because of a faded photo I once saw on a neighbor’s wall in San Francisco over 15 years ago.

LESSON 2: When you win something, take it as far as you can.

San Francisco to Ladakh: A Connection

For this story, we have to go back a ways, to the pre-Audrey days (As difficult as it sometimes is for me to believe, I did exist before her).

In the late 1990s, I lived among leftover beatniks and hippies in San Francisco’s North Beach neighborhood. Amidst the crowd, our neighbors Nikki and William, a separated hippie-type couple – fascinating, difficult to figure out, full of life experience, early day Burning Man burners, Indiaphiles. William would eventually become a swami in India and take an oath to only wear orange for the rest of his days.

Among the various bits of eclectic strewn about their living room was a photo, slightly rippled and faded, featuring a landscape like nothing I’d ever seen in my life.

“What’s that?!” I asked

“Ladakh. You should go there.”

You know, I don’t even remember what for exactly. Deserts, barrenness, lakes of unparalleled blueness.

Why do we go anywhere? To go. To explore. To satiate our curiosity. To learn.

William painted a canvas of an exceptional place in India – one that was cool in the summer, one where Buddhists hang out in the hills. It was a faraway place whose name ended with a hard consonant and a soft consonant, aspirated and spoken in the tone of mystical faraway lands.

Ladakh. Mountainous. Tibetan. Buddhist. Remote.

To add to its forbidden-ness, the roads to Ladakh are usually only open two months out of the year.

Ladakh was there, in my head firmly. And it would remain.

LESSON 3: Ask questions. Always. Even of the seemingly mundane. Your curiosity will be rewarded by answers that will seed your dreams.

Dreamliner Nightmares

After the fragments of our 2012 and early 2013 schedule began to fall into place, we realized that the only time we’d really be able to take advantage of the tickets was June 2013 (as in now).

A vision. Ladakh. Now is the time. The roads would likely be open. That’s all that mattered. Roads that would get us there. So we were set.

Umm, not really.

The Dreamliner begins to run into operational problems – you know, the issue with the melting batteries, smoke and all — and was eventually grounded. We went back and forth with the ANA representative wondering if we’d even be able to use the tickets.

LESSON 4: Even free stuff can burn a hole…in your brain.

She suggested, “Fly from San Francisco and take the Dreamliner back to Seattle once it comes back online.”

OK, done. We can do that. Any excuse to visit San Francisco is always welcome.

My Many Passports and Visa Kung Fu

Next up: we needed Indian visas. Ah, visas, the big multi-headed hydra. A complicated mating dance with faraway places stacked with bureaucrats.

Get this: India, the outsourcing center of the universe, actually outsources its visa application process. Sounds like lipstick on a bureaucratic pig to me. But do I love the luscious irony of how the Indian government endeavors to eat its own outsourcing dog food.

In Berlin, we could only get 6 months. For although we were German residents, we were not German citizens. Hugely disappointing.

Then we stepped back. There were other paths, paths around the most apparent option.

We’d always coveted 10-year visas to India, but we’d basically have to make our way back to the U.S., our home country, to get them. The India visa outsourcing process requires that you have residency in the locale at whichever Indian embassy or consul you happen to be applying. The only place in the U.S. where we have provable identity: San Francisco, thanks to our California drivers licenses.

Aside: It strikes me that that the maze of our personal identity is so complicated that one day someone will figure it all out, whereupon Audrey and I will be hauled off to a Turkish prison for the rest of our lives. Cue scenes from the Midnight Express, please.

How do two Americans living in Berlin with only two days planned in the United States before a flight to India obtain 10-year India visas from an Indian consulate in the U.S.?

Enter some visa kung fu, young jedi. (Holy mixed cultural references, Batman!)

It goes something like this:
1. Pull your hair out trying to fill out online visa application. (I was already thin on top, but after this, bah!) I completed and submitted 10 draft applications before I finally got it exactly right. The India visa outsourcing center warned ominous things were in store if we submitted our applications incorrectly.
2. Mail your application and passport to sympathetic family member (moms are great) in the United States. Have them purchase money orders for visa and outsource company fees.
3. Sympathetic family member FedExes everything to the India visa outsource center in San Francisco.
4. Visa outsource center does the rest and sends our passports with India visa stamps inside and to a fabulous friend in San Francisco.
5. Fabulous friend in San Francisco hand carries passports to Toronto where we meet for TBEX.
6. Open up passports in Toronto, see the 10-year visa and do a happy dance.

But wait, how did you go from Berlin to Toronto without your passports?

Ah, good question. We each have two passports. Two American passports. And shockingly, this is actually legal for U.S. citizens if you can offer a good reason. Our good reason when we applied for ours last fall: “We are planning to travel to Israel and we hear that the Israeli authorities might not look kindly on passports mobbed with stamps from the Middle East, Iran included.

Boom. Second passports. We still haven’t made it to Israel, but these skinny 2-year validity passports came in handy – they went to San Francisco for processing while our primary 10-year valid passports went with us from Berlin to Toronto.

Complicated, yes. Doable, absolutely.

LESSON 5: Exploiting permutations and combinations, that’s resourcefulness. That’s also the secret to life.

LESSON 6: If you are a traveler from the United States, don’t let your U.S. driver’s license expire. You never know when you might need it to apply for a 10-year visa to India, or elsewhere.

Final Destination: Mumbai & Ladakh

So what are you actually going to do when you get to India?

Although we have a general route in mind, the actual details are fuzzy. (Translation: we really have no idea). We’re taking a plan-as-we-go and adjust-as-we–talk-to-people approach. This gets back to our travel roots, this is the way we roll.

We’ll be in Mumbai for a couple of days, where among other things, we’ll follow a dabba-walla (alternatively tiffin-wallah) for a day. Tiffin wallahs are the guys (and there’s a vast network of them) that deliver home made meals in stackable tins to family members working across the city.

Stay tuned for some cool dispatches from a luggage compartment of a local train.

We’ll also spend a morning and “community day” at Dharavi, Mumbai’s biggest slums, with Reality Tours & Travel, an NGO invested in the community. Our visit to townships in South Africa was enlightening and broke down many stereotypes; we expect the same at Dharavi.

From Mumbai we fly to Srinagar in Kashmir for a night or two in a houseboat. This marks the starting point for the overland journey by bus to get to Leh, the capital of Ladakh. The route usually takes two days but we may stop off at villages along the way to trek into the Himalayas and visit Buddhist monasteries. We’ll also use Leh as a hub for planning other hikes in the area.

As for how we’re getting back from Ladakh to Mumbai to catch the return flight to Tokyo and then to Seattle on the Dreamliner, that’s TBD. We have a few options in mind, including a land route through Manali, but quite honestly, we just don’t know.

While we’d love for you to follow along in real-time with our Ladakh adventures, we’ve been told that connectivity and mobile data is rather limited in the mountains. It’s likely we’ll be checking out.

But for when we do have connectivity please follow along with our Mumbai and Ladakh adventure with the hashtag #dna2india on our Instagram, Twitter & Facebook streams.

So Dan, is this just a long way of saying you’re going to India tomorrow?

Yes.

Disclosure: This article and trip is entirely unsponsored. That’s to say we officially owe nothing to no one. Unofficially, don’t get me started. Om.

Originally posted on the Uncornered Market travel blog. Find beautiful travel photos from around the world. | 19 comments

We looked at them much the same way.

They were missing out.

Townships in Context

Up until our recent visit to South Africa, the word “township” for us always carried a negative connotation. Townships were the places where the then South African apartheid government dictated black South Africans should live segregated from the white community. Ghettos, basically. When townships made their way into the news — if memory serves — it was for protest and unrest.

What is life like in townships today, in the context of modern-day South Africa? And who lives there?

This is a glimpse of what we found in one of them, Cape Town’s Masiphumelele Township. It’s a taste of not only what the visit taught us about South Africa, but also a little bit of what it taught us about life.

Old Dutch Bikes on Township Streets

We met Zwai, our guide, in a yard of converted cargo ship containers. Each housed a workshop-meets-training center for local residents. The container he was affiliated with, one called Bicycle Empowerment Network (BEN), focused on repairing bicycles donated from all over the world and offering them for rent. Two of the fleet, a couple of old Amsterdam throwbacks, would be ours for the afternoon.

Zwai takes to the streets with his wheels.

Through roads paved and unpaved, we cycled. Some people shook our hands, gave us high fives. Many were just as curious about us as we were about them. I personally love the South African hand-shake of pressing thumbs to a snap!

The idea: use the bicycles to cover some ground, but take it in slowly.

Our first stop? Anything but slow. As we approached a local preschool, kids poured out and began chanting “Teach-ah! Teach-ah! Teach-ah!”

I don’t know if I am a teacher, but I’m apparently fun to climb on.

As we performed the service of human jungle gyms, we learned that because the center does not meet government requirements, it receives no public funding. A small group of women have their hands full with over 65 children. Parents, many of whom work far from the township in order to support their families, pay what they can.

The bicycle tour makes a stop here not only to give travelers an opportunity to goof off with crazy little kids, but also to provide some funding to help the center.

The Official and Not-So-Official Parts of Town

We rode through the established part of the township, past clinics, community centers and libraries. Impressive. Much a function of aid money, no doubt. I just hope that those in the community would remain vested, regardless of funding.

Zwai explained the ethnic contours of the township. Over eight languages are spoken (Zwai speaks around seven, not unusual in South Africa) and the community is made up of people from across the country and the rest of the continent. Somalis rent buildings from the South Africans and run the shops (“Somalis keep prices low, good shop keepers.”) while Nigerians are the hairdressers (“The Nigerians, they just do hair better than the rest of us.”).

Little details, they make our fascinating world tick.

Towards the edge of the “official” or registered part of the township, we put our bikes away and proceeded on foot through streets, alleys and backyards.

Houses shifted quickly from brick to corrugated tin. Services vanished. There was no sewerage service, no water system, only shared bathrooms and wells. No official electricity hook up either, though some “share” with those a few meters away who are fortunate enough to have it.

The stream running between these outer settlements was putrid, strewn with garbage. The distinct smell of waste, human and otherwise, battled with the runoff of laundry soap and blended just enough to penetrate the inner channels of one’s nostrils with remarkable precision.

We crossed a small footbridge to an enclave of tin shacks. As the odor of the channel fell behind us, what began to strike me: kids in school uniforms, people walking by and saying hello.

Back streets, sweet kids in sweaters.

Walkways were swept clean, homes were numbered, often colorfully painted – and stereotypes of poverty and life at the edge of a township faded into something simply human.

Beyond that, I witnessed something of surprising order, something that I can only imagine and hope that people are proud of. I peered into a couple of homes whose doorways were open, and I amazed by what I saw: tidy little existences in those shacks, everything in its right place. Pictures of family, makeshift music systems, maybe a TV, pillows, furniture, dishes, curios and memories. Residents here had carved out a dignified existence from which many of us could learn the lessons of limitation.

Sangoma: The Girl Haunted By Dreams

We reached the house of a local sangoma (the Zulu word for a traditional healer) named Maria.

“Ask me anything,” she said.

Not having the faintest idea what a sangoma really was, we took her up on the invitation.

“How does someone decide she’s going to be sangoma?” I asked

After all, she was so young. Aren’t healers supposed to be old and wizened? She certainly didn’t appear to have the marks of wisdom. She didn’t quite look the role.

Maria told a story of how she began having dreams from about the time she was seven years old. The dreams seemed to foretell of events – good and bad – that would happen to people in the community. At the time, though, she had no idea what was going on. She put it out of her mind and never shared with her family what she was experiencing.

The dreams and visions continued — for nine years — until, as she describes, her body told her no more and she became really sick. Her family had no idea. Neither did the hospital; they couldn’t find anything wrong with her. Only after some family probing did she think to tell what was really going on.

Maria’s mother, also a sangoma, explained the burdens and blessings of those dreams and Maria decided to pursue “the calling.” Seven years under her belt, she has a lifetime yet of learning ahead of her.

A taste of a sangoma ceremony with her back up band of neighborhood women and children.

She also suspects her three-year old daughter of being a sangoma. “She just knows things about people she’s never met, but she isn’t old enough to understand what she should say and what she shouldn’t, especially if it’s something bad.”

Imagine your ESP-enabled three year-old neighbor, no social filter, sharing the visions she’s having about you. Awkward. Funny. Kinda’ creepy.

The Lesson of Emmanuel

As school let out, kids poured forth into the streets. Children, particularly ones in their school uniforms, will always give me hope. They are bright-eyed, purposeful. As I offered hellos, a few looked down shyly, but most looked me in the eye and offered greetings right back.

I like that.

As I rounded a corner reflecting on all this youth, all of what could be, I came across a man sitting on a stoop, a raised bit of sidewalk. Our eyes met, I nodded and said hello. To me, he looked like he belonged in a movie or a maybe even a band.

But there was something more, something deep in his eyes.

“Don’t worry about yesterday, be happy for today,” he offered.

I acknowledged his wisdom and rode past, thinking not to interrupt his day. Half a minute later, I said to Audrey, “Hold on. I have to go back.”

So I did, and I engaged the man, exchanging a few more pleasantries.

Eventually, he offered some context for what he’d said: his sister-in-law died the day before. Although he and his family grieved, he was thankful for what he had. He didn’t know when he might go either. So he aimed to be happy for every day that remained.

Reflections and Broken Stereotypes

Over lunch at a local restaurant – grilled chicken and pap (a puffy polenta-like white paste of ground maize/corn), we reflected on our experience.

What surprised us most?

How “ordinary” it all seemed, township life. People went about their days much as they would anywhere else – kids went to school, laundry was hung, people shopped, women went to the hairdresser, men to the barber. People lived, people died.

Historically, townships were places where black Africans were ordered to live segregated. Today, a township is a community — with local governance, schools, clinics, libraries, community centers and a range of socio-economies encompassing the poor and the better off.

Sure, there are still problems and challenges. No tour, bicycle or otherwise, will single-handedly fix that. After all, that’s life anywhere. With the legacy of apartheid, townships are still almost exclusively composed of black South Africans and employment-anxious immigrants from further up the continent. Under those circumstances, it’s difficult to fashion yourself into a beacon of racial integration.

But step back after just a couple of hours and a landscape of interactions and observations and you just might realize you’ve learned something.

As the big white van drove past us at the end of our half-day journey, Zwai noted: “This is how some of the other tour companies run township tours.”

“They make it seem like it is dangerous here. But you’ve seen how it is. How can you experience a place unless you are on the streets? This is why we are on bikes. Local people like it when they can talk with you.”

“We’re all humans here,” he said.

Indeed, we are all humans here.

—–

Township Tours: What to Ask For, What to Look For

We understand there’s some controversy surrounding township tours. Based on our own experiences in Cape Town and Soweto, they can be carried out respectfully. Township tours can also benefit the community financially and interpersonally by enabling human encounters and connections with people from all over the world.

Before you book a township tour, here’s what we suggest you ask the tour company:

1. Does the organization have a local partner from the township? Is the guide from the township?
2. How is the money from the tour distributed in the community? Who benefits from the tours?
3. What are the goals of the tour, both for the community and for the tourist?
4. Does the tour involve lunch at a local restaurant or home? This isn’t essential, but we find that sharing a meal is one of the effective ways to connect with people.
5. How many people will be on the tour? We find that the larger the group, the more intimidating it is for locals to interact. Seek out a private tour or a small group.

Practical Details for Our Township Bicycle Tour of Masiphumelele

We booked our township experience with AWOL Tours based on a personal recommendation. All tours are private, so you don’t have to worry about being lumped in a large group. They partner with BEN (Bicycle Empowerment Network). Approximately 80% of the money we paid stays in the community of Masiphumelele – proceeds going to the guide, sangoma, preschool, and restaurant. Cost: Prices start at R550-R650 per person. Our tour cost R760 ($80) per person, including lunch. This excludes transport to Masiphumelele. We had a rental car so we drove ourselves.

Disclosure: We received an educational/media discount of 50%.

—

Even more disclosure: The experience above took place when we visited Cape Town independently just prior to the #MeetSouthAfrica campaign. This campaign was brought to you by the South Africa Tourism Board and supported and managed by iambassador. As always, the opinions expressed here are entirely our own.

Originally posted on the Uncornered Market travel blog. Find beautiful travel photos from around the world. | 20 comments

Some say our story is written for us when in fact it is ours to write. What is your “What if?” that will lead you to write your next chapter?

This was the message we recently brought to TEDxWarsaw, the 4th largest TEDx in the world. It was both an honor and a thrill to be on stage in front of 800 people.

Although our talk may appear to be about travel and wanderlust on the surface, it’s more about an approach to life. We hope you enjoy it!

We Need Your Help

If you enjoyed the video and its message, please help it reach more people. In order for our talk to be selected for and highlighted on the TEDx (or TED) website we need loads of people to watch it on YouTube. And for this, we ask for your help.

Please:
1) Share the YouTube video of our talk with others — on Facebook, Twitter, email or your favorite channel of choice.
2) Write your thoughts on the video in the YouTube comments.
3) If you enjoyed the video, give it a thumbs up on YouTube.

As always, we’re interested to hear your thoughts and forever grateful for your support.

Thank you!

Originally posted on the Uncornered Market travel blog. Find beautiful travel photos from around the world. | No comment

As our chow-master drizzled the final layer spoonful of gram dal atop an already generous mountain, each of our senses aligned themselves in appreciation of something approaching culinary perfection.

The aroma of fresh spices, the tinkling of ladles, the din of restoration, the scene of satisfaction, and the heaviness of kitchen air that lands just so on the surface of the skin. This is masala, literally a mix.

Pent up hunger and a longer journey than expected conspired to place us at the precipice of something so good we’d bet our lives on it.

But how did we deliver ourselves to something so satisfying after so many wrong turns?

Timely Trains and Bustling Markets That Weren’t

Public transport and markets: two contexts we often use to orient ourselves, to interact with and appreciate ordinary people, and to find something about a place that the brochures surely missed. So when we eyed the Durban city map and realized that we could take Metrorail, the public train, to get from Moses Mahbida Stadium to Victoria Street Market, we figured: perfect combination.

But it was Sunday, sleepy. The train station was dusty and desolate, ticket offices were closed. After clearing the automated gates, we were just late for a departing train. We found ourselves the only ones on the platform, save the cleaning lady. We asked her about the train.

“It comes,” she reassured us.

A few minutes later another hopeful passenger emerged: “The train comes.”

Then, a security guard arrived: “It comes.”

The train never came.

Victoria Street Market, In Search of Lunch
Should you find yourself in Durban and possess an even faint interest in food and spice markets, Victoria Street Market is supposed to be the place. Images of heaping piles of brightly colored Indian spices danced in our heads. Dreams of cheap, delicious food stalls wafting with curries, too.

The reality? By the time we arrived, closing time for all, except an occasional souvenir store. A few hours late, we found ourselves defeated. Starving, too.

On our way out, we passed a convenience store whose entrance featured a few square metal tins filled with spices. I smiled at the Indian man presiding over his small empire as I passed.

A few meters on, I turned around. An instinct told me he held the keys to changing the course of our day. I gave into what felt like a stereotype: “He’s Indian. He’s selling spices. He must know where to find good Indian food in the area.”

“Could you recommend a place to eat nearby? Where do you eat lunch?” I asked.

“Do you like Indian food?” he shot back, excited.

I couldn’t nod energetically enough.

“It’s a simple place, vegetarian food. Very good, where I go for lunch. And it should still be open. It’s called Little Gujarat. I have lunch there often.”

Sold.

A few minutes and several wrong turns later, we arrived. The aroma of popped Indian spice wafted into the street.

This was it.

Inside, simple tables and chairs took up one side, as the kitchen counter and dozens of cafeteria vats loaded with curries and masalas – from greens to beans – took up the other. Two Indian women moved quickly, customers bustled, too. Homemade menus from a family printer listing options and specials — from rotis to dosai — adorned the walls. Prices? Sub $2.00. The feel: family and restorative, cafeteria yet caring.

This was our kind of place.

At this point, you might be asking: Indian food in South Africa? And what the heck is bunny chow?

Gandhi, Durban Indians and Bunny Chow

Durban, South Africa’s third largest city, also happens to be the biggest “Indian” city outside of India.

Why is this?

In the late 19th century, the British brought thousands of indentured servants from India to work the sugar cane plantations of KwaZulu-Natal and to build the Trans-Natal Railway. A wave of immigration followed as traders sought business opportunities and a better life. Mahatma Gandhi even arrived in Durban in 1893 as a young lawyer and spent a surprising 20 years in South Africa. Today, Indian-South Africans make up about 30% of Durban’s population.

But what of this bunny chow you refer to?

Bunny chow is essentially a hollowed out piece of plain, white sandwich bread stuffed with curry (or masala, if you like). There are many legends as to how the dish came to be, but the one we heard most often from Durbanites goes something like this:
Mr. Bunny, an indentured servant working the sugar cane plantations, was challenged by how to bring his lunch with him into the fields. Curry can be unwieldy, messy, overwhelming. To mitigate all these, Mr. Bunny’s clever wife nipped it all the bud by burying curry into a loaf of bread so that his lunch was self-contained and field-ready to eat.

Today, bunny chow is a legend in Durban.

The Ultimate 5-Layer Bunny Chow

Back at Little Gujurat, we were overwhelmed by choice. “Which curry do you want?” the woman behind the counter asked.

This was a critical moment. We almost choked. Instead, Dan asked her, “Which are your favorites?”

A bizarre question judging by her initial reaction – a sort of “Who are these crazy folks who can’t make a simple decision?” She quickly eased into a smile, pointing to the curry vats below.

Then, you could see a click in their eyes. They both broke in the same direction. “Can we have a bit of each? Is that OK?” Dan asked hopefully.

Win.

She nodded and put her expertise to work. Each of the five layers were imprecise yet somehow perfect: sugar bean curry, moong dal, gram dal, broad bean curry, and mixed veg curry. This was a culinary tour de force.

Would it all work together?

It certainly smelled outstanding. Dan began to pant. I think I saw tears.

The man of the house came out from the back and witnessed our excitement. (He smiled. There’s nothing like the beauty of subtle, restrained pride.) As we photographed our tower of bunny chow from every angle, he added a finishing touch: a little bread “hat” and a topper of dal gravy for dramatic effect.

Painfully beautiful at $1.50.

We’re embarrassed to say that we didn’t stop with bunny chow. We ordered a bowl of pumpkin curry, dal and two fresh rotis. Then I insisted on a plate of pani puri, the Indian chaat food combination of sweet (tamarind sauce) with savoury (spicy cilantro, chili and black salt sauce) I adore.

Although the pani puri and roti and masalas were all good, the five-layer bunny chow was something transcendent. It stole the show and qualified as the best Indian food we’d eaten in years, at least as far back as our last visit to the subcontinent in 2008.

Human Connection, Ultimate Beauty
As we waddled up to the counter in our fullness to settle our bill, the owner asked us what we were doing in Durban. We explained, and he decided it was his duty to show where and how to truly enjoy his city.

He disappeared for a moment, and proceeded to rifle through every piece of paper in his desk drawers and cabinet. We waited, unaware of what was going on. Finally, his wife pulled a paper from her purse and the man’s smile grew big.

The magic paper: a discount coupon for the aquarium. He went over everything on the paper, from what we would see there to how much the coupon saved us. The likelihood that we would have time to actually use the coupon was slim to none, but at the foot of kindness, you graciously accept what’s given you. Good will, whatever the circumstances, ought to be preserved.

We took it, thanked him and his family profusely, and paid. The grand total for our Indian feast gorge? Roughly $5.00.

Even though things don’t always work out as we’ve planned, they do work out somehow as they were meant to be, and even in our favor.

These are the times that you want to throw your arms around the world.

We walked out. Then walked back in, asked to take a photo – if only to remember the moment, because the moment itself was enough to carry us away.

Practical Details for Little Gujarat Vegetarian Restaurant:
Address: 107 Prince Edward Street (or 106 Dr. Goonam Street), just a few blocks from Victoria Street Market.

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Disclosure: This campaign is brought to you by the South Africa Tourism Board and is supported and managed by iambassador. As always, the opinions expressed here — including our love for this bunny chow — are entirely our own.

Originally posted on the Uncornered Market travel blog. Find beautiful travel photos from around the world. | 24 comments

The whole thing sounds cliché, perhaps, but maybe that’s just because that’s the way it really is. There are a few drives in this world that deliver on all of this. And Chapman’s Peak Drive in Cape Town happens to be one of them.

So, grab a spot that catches the rays of the sun, turn on a fan and direct the breeze to your face, open the panorama below to full screen and take a spin around. Then you’ll get a taste of cruising Chapman’s Peak Drive with the window down. Enjoy!

Panorama: Chapman’s Peak Drive – Cape Town, South Africa

For best panorama viewing results, press fullscreen (four arrows) and navigate around with your mouse.

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Disclosure: This campaign is brought to you by the South Africa Tourism Board and is supported and managed by iambassador. As always, the opinions expressed here are entirely our own.

Originally posted on the Uncornered Market travel blog. Find beautiful travel photos from around the world. | 2 comments

In 2000, just after Audrey and I married, her stepfather gave to me for Christmas a copy of Archbishop Desmond Tutu’s then newly published book No Future Without Forgiveness. (It was her stepfather’s Christmas tradition to give everyone in the family a book, the same book, a book that touched him deeply the previous year.)

In it, Archbishop Tutu tells the story of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission, a mechanism that sought closure and healing for the victims of apartheid while rejecting the temptation of reprisal and the endless cycle of violence it can set off. No Future without Forgiveness was the sort of book whose story was framed in a broader lesson. It reminds you of the human condition – all the struggles and hopes, the triumphs and cycles. It tells the story of the recent evolution of South Africa, of conscious choices to do something different this time – all wrapped in the broader appeal to each of us and our better angels.

As we unwrapped our books that Christmas morning, Audrey’s stepfather reflected on reading the book, remarking on what was inside it and the era it chronicled. He cried.

After reading the book myself, I understood why.

Years later, another book relevant to South Africa called Playing the Enemy found its way to us by the same Christmastime path. (If you haven’t read the book, you may be more familiar with the film adaptation, Invictus). The story is a brilliant and accessible one regarding how Nelson Mandela enabled reconciliation of a nation through sport. In 1995, one year after South Africa’s first democratic elections, it was scheduled to host the Rugby World Cup.

What comes next is a story that’s almost too good to be true. Mandela used the context of the event and South Africa’s appearance in the final (no spoilers…read the book) to continue to pull the country together.

It’s a book that will leave you sailing and choking up, in turns. (Even if you’ve seen the film, read the book. The film can’t hold a candle to it.)

Finally, only three days before our flight and in light of our pending departure to South Africa, a friend suggested we watch the documentary film Searching for Sugar Man, suggesting somewhat obliquely to draw us in, “…it gives some interesting background about South Africa.”

Indeed it did, rather indirectly and through a better-late-than-never story of redemption.

The film tells a story about an American musician named Sixto Rodriguez who, while drifting into musical obscurity in the United States in the 1970s, had unknowingly become one of the most popular musicians to a generation of South African protesters. Poetic, working class, down-to-earth, and ethereal, his lyrics and style were sometimes compared to that of Bob Dylan. While Rodriguez’ message didn’t quite make it in the U.S., it clearly resonated with South African youth who thought their country and its government could do better.

Rodriguez’ story demonstrates that we are all much more connected than perhaps we’ll ever know.

These stories helped us develop a relationship with South Africa before we’d ever even stepped foot in the country. They planted the seed of interest and fascination to begin to know the beauty on the surface as well as that which lies underneath, the stuff that exists between the folds of pages, between frames, between all the top line tourist destinations.

And now we’re finally here in South Africa to check it out, to catch a little glimpse, to grab a little taste through the lens of travel.

Our Itinerary: Cape Town to the Northern Cape

At this point you might be thinking, “Please Dan, get on with it. What are you doing in South Africa and where are you going?”

We are currently guests of South Africa Tourism on the #MeetSouthAfrica campaign whereby a group of international travel bloggers were invited to experience different provinces in South Africa. We chose a slightly unusual itinerary that begins in Cape Town and ends in the Northern Cape, a place we were told offers a great deal in the natural beauty department yet doesn’t garner much tourist attention. Sounded great to us.

From Cape Town (more on this city later!) we follow a route that takes us through the Western Cape, stopping to learn about San (Bushmen) languages and culture at !Kwattu San Culture Centre, take an afternoon game drive at Buffelsfontein Game Park, cruise down the Berg River at dusk to enjoy a few of the 200+ species of birds lurking in the area and sleep behind the dunes at Draaihoek Lodge.

Then comes the Northern Cape, South Africa’s largest province with its smallest population (1 million). A land of vastness, we ride out to the border with Namibia, canoe down the Orange River (South Africa’s longest river at over 2000+ km), ogle at the gorges and waterfalls of Augrabies National Park and catch the edge of the “green Kalahari” on horseback.

After the Northern Cape we are in Durban for INDABA, Africa’s biggest travel conference. At INDABA 2013, we’ll share experiences from this trip as well as other experiences from around the world that fall under the general category of responsible travel. Our session will tie together how organizations can employ storytelling and engage bloggers to effectively market responsible tourism. If you are interested in tuning in, you can do so at 3:15 PM South Africa time (9:15 AM EST) on Friday, May 10 with this Google Hangout.

On our return to Berlin, we requested an extra day in Johannesburg to get a wee taste of this giant city we have heard so much about over the years. If you have suggestions for either Durban or Johannesburg, we’d love to hear them!

We understand this visit doesn’t offer nearly enough time to do South Africa justice. We’ll engage, perhaps we’ll have only scratched the surface. We’ll consider this a down payment journey on understanding a country, which to this point lived for us in someone else’s stories.

A Virtual Journey through South Africa

If you are interested in learning more about this South African journey check out our usual social media channels – Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest.

Disclosure: This campaign is brought to you by the South Africa Tourism Board and is supported and managed by iambassador. As always, the opinions expressed here are entirely our own.

Originally posted on the Uncornered Market travel blog. Find beautiful travel photos from around the world. | 15 comments

As night fell, winds began to subside and the rain slowed, but it still didn’t look good. We prepared ourselves for the worst.

The next morning, however, a shift. Timed for our late start, winds died further, clouds burned off and blue skies emerged. This was our Tongariro Crossing. Open up the panorama to full screen to see what we found: the Emerald Lakes, the Red Crater and hints of Mordor.

And in case you’re wondering, none of these colors are Photoshopped or enhanced. They are just as Mother Nature (and New Zealand) designed.

Panorama: Emerald Lakes at Tongariro Crossing, New Zealand

For best panorama viewing results, press fullscreen (four arrows) and navigate around with your mouse.

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Trekking Tongariro Crossing

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Disclosure: Our New Zealand Encompassed Tour is provided by G Adventures in cooperation with its Wanderers in Residence program. Our flights were kindly sponsored by Air New Zealand. As always, the opinions expressed here are entirely our own.

Originally posted on the Uncornered Market travel blog. Find beautiful travel photos from around the world. | 11 comments

Can you spot the vineyards in the distance?

As we motored down the Gibbston Highway outside of Queenstown, I reached for my turn signal to point our way towards a dirt road for Chard Farm. For the tenth time in as many tries, I fired up the windshield wipers instead.

“The cleanest windshield in all of New Zealand,” our friend Andrew quipped. His joke would never lose its luster, as I could never really conquer the control panel of a left-side drive car in New Zealand.

Old dogs, new tricks. But we were on our way to taste wine. Things were about to look up.

Then the driveway-cum-access road began to narrow. The gravel softened. Guard rails vanished. Were there ever any? The mood, precarious. Vertical drops into the canyon were beyond the crane of the neck.

I white knuckled the steering wheel. The irony: I’ve been bungee jumping, cave diving, and hang gliding all over New Zealand and here I am, examining my own mortality on the way to a wine tasting. For passengers and driver alike, navigating this wine road was quite possibly more frightening than bungee jumping the bridge just across the way.

“I see dead people.”

Instead, we found a few glasses of exceptional Pinot Noir. Much nicer. And this was just the beginning of our dive into New Zealand wine — the aromatic usual suspects Riesling and Pinot Gris, surprising unoaked and restrained Chardonnays, inimitable Sauvignon Blanc, and even well-executed Syrah. But where did we find it all? And how? This is the full story.

If you’re looking for recommendations for specific South Island wine regions, skip ahead to:
- Gibbston Valley, Central Otago Wine Tasting
- Marlborough Wine Tasting
- Nelson Wine Tasting
- Waipara Wine Tasting

Wine Tasting in the South Island: Get Amongst It

If you do it right, your wine tasting experience in the South Island will not only encompass drinking good wine, but it will also be about the people you meet, the landscapes you drove through to find them and how everything comes together to produce the wines you are tasting.

Small private tasting rooms are the best. As you enjoy a taste from white to red, chat with the sommelier. There are no stupid questions, only ones that bring you closer to understanding what you are drinking and whether or not it suits your taste. Part of the fun of wine tasting in New Zealand is talking with people and tapping into their passions about the wines they serve, wines in general, and their country.

But how to get started to know which wineries to go to? The first step is to pick up a local wine route map. Then ask locals and sommeliers at the wineries for recommendations. Before you know it, your map will be filled with circled wineries, marginalia, and recommended vintages. That’s how we carved our New Zealand wine experience and found all the wineries listed below.

Note: We had a rental car to get around (details at the end of this post) as this option provided us with our desired level of freedom and flexibility. This is our recommendation. However, if you are concerned about driving, it’s also possible to rent bikes in Marlborough (that come with handy wine bottle panniers or saddlebags) or to take a wine tour.

Wine Tasting in Gibbston Valley, Central Otago

Central Otago, just outside of Queenstown, may just be the epicenter of New Zealand Pinot Noir. Warm days, cool nights. As you make your way, you can imagine ravine-cooled air toughening the skins of Pinot Noir grapes that will someday be pressed into something that you’ll eat with a steak. Yes, Pinot Noir with a steak. New Zealand’s got ‘em.

Chard Farm
The reward for navigating the access road to Chard Farm, outside of the beauty of the scenery itself: a pleasant experience that encourages conversation. A solid go-to tasting room to begin (or end) your Gibbston Valley outing.

Chard Farm whites were eye-opening, particularly the peachy Pinot Gris 2011, the honeysuckle-like Gewürztraminer 2010 and the hint-of-apricot 2010 Riesling. We also tasted a few Pinot Noirs here, including the juicy Mata-Au Pinot Noir and the the top end 2010 Tiger Pinot Noir and 2010 Viper Pinot Noir. Of those two, the Tiger was our favorite — when we return, we’re buying a bottle.

Wine tasting details: Monday-Friday: 10am-5pm, Saturday-Sunday: 11am-5pm. Wine tasting is free, but if you don’t buy a bottle they suggest giving a donation for a local charity the winery supports. Address: 205 Chard Road.

Brennan Wines
Not only is the wine tasting fun and personal, but the Brennan Wines setting — against a backdrop of flinty mountains — is pretty spectacular. It was thanks to a recommendation that we found this small boutique winery tucked away off the main road as it didn’t appear on the wine map. The winemakers are experimenting with varietals like Termpranillo and Pinot Grigio, as well as producing a range of Pinot Noir.

Our suggestion is to spend some time here and enjoy a picnic amongst the vines. At the winery you can buy a plate of local cheeses, sausages and breads (NZ$25) and while away your hours playing pétanque (boules).

Brennan Winery, New Zealand’s most beautiful pétanque pitch?

Although we appreciated the distinction between the Italian style Pinot Grigio and French-style Pinot Gris, the Pinot Noirs ruled the day. The 2009 Brennan Pinot Noir was perhaps our favorite taste (with the warm 2008 a close second), but the 2010 B2 Pinot Noir was perhaps the easiest-drinking value buy, in case you don’t have room in your luggage.

Wine tasting details: Monday-Sunday: 11am-5pm. Tasting fee: NZ$5, waived if you buy a bottle. Address: 86 Gibbston Back Road

Central Otago Wine Tasting, Maps and Additional Wineries of Note

If you’d like to plan a full day or multi-day wine tasting outing on your own, download the Central Otago wine maps. When you are on the ground, you can get all these maps in one nice little free brochure. This is pretty much all you need. Here are the Central Otago sub-regions and a few more recommendations we were given.

• Gibbston — Mt. Rosa – if we’d had a little more time, this would have been our last stop. Peregrine Wines and Amisfield Wines also came recommended.
• Cromwell
• Bannockburn – Felton Road winery also came recommended.
• Alexandra

Wine Tasting in Marlborough

New Zealand’s Marlborough wine region is akin to California’s Napa Valley in the way that small, independent wineries sit proudly next to big wine powerhouses. Vineyards stretch as far as the eye can see. As wine tasting in the region has become more popular, bistros have popped up at wineries or along the main wine routes. So you’ll be able to find something other than meat pies and fish & chips — though those both go well with the right bottle — to compliment your wine of choice.

Although the Marlborough wine region is known best for Sauvignon Blanc, you’ll find a surprisingly wide selection of Riesling, Chardonnay, Viognier, and Pinot Gris — all along with Pinot Noir and even some courageous vintages of Syrah. Outside of wine-tasting, simply driving through the region will take hours, if not days, just to accommodate ogling and pulling over to take photos of stunning scenery.

Hans Herzog Estate Winery
Hans Herzog Estate is where wine, good food and atmosphere all come together. We suggest that you plan a lunch or dinner stop at the Bistro to enjoy dining outside in the garden. The menu changes regularly to reflect what is fresh in the garden or region. Even though the food and garden setting are exceptional, we found that the prices at the Bistro ran about the same as a decent pub in the city. (Note that the menu at the restaurant is more upscale than that of the bistro.)

Herzog Vineyard Cottage – Splurge Suggestion: If you’re looking for one place to splash out during a visit to the South Island, the vineyard cottage at Herzog is it. We don’t easily succumb to accommodation, but this is a special place. The cottage is the epitome of coziness. And then you fall out the front door right onto the vineyards. That is, if you manage to get beyond the decor and vegetation snaking around your own private deck. We had to be escorted from the premises after checkout time had passed. (We kid.)

View from our wine cottage at Hans Herzog.

Wine tasting details: Monday-Friday, 9am – 5pm; Saturday-Sunday, 11am – 4pm (summertime). A tasting of three wines will cost NZ$10. Address:81 Jeffries Road, Blenheim

Seresin Estate
A few turns into the hills and you’ll find Seresin, a tiny boutique winery. For pure vintage quality, particularly given the strictures of organic and biodynamic winemaking in New Zealand, Seresin is hard to beat.

2011 Sauvignon Blanc, one of our favorites in the region, with a bit of toast, honey, wild yeast and not so much of the tomato stem. 2010 Pinot Gris, our favorite of this aromatic, offered a little voluptuousness that would go nicely with pork. The 2010 Chardonnay, another winner with its creamy, yeasty roundness touched with flint.

Wine tasting details: Every day, 10-4:30pm. Cost is NZ$5 per tasting, can be applied to the purchase of a bottle. Address: 85 Bedford Road, Blenheim.

Fromm Winery
Each time someone circled Fromm Winery on our wine map, they’d say, “Now this is the place for reds in the Marlborough area.” In the land of white wines, Fromm Winery bucks the Marlborough region trend by focusing mainly on its red varietals. And its experimentation with big red wines like Syrah pays off.

Wine tasting details: Every day, 10-5pm in the summer (Oct-Apr). In the winter (May-Sept) the tasting room is open on Fri-Sun, 11am-4pm. Cost is NZ$5 per tasting, waived with a bottle purchase. Address: Godfrey Road, Blenheim.

Giesen Winery
Although Giesen Winery can get busy with cruise passenger traffic, the sommeliers really went out of their way to ensure a personal tasting experience. If you have a bit of time, consider snacking on a cheese and salami plate with a bottle of wine in the garden. Giesen offered some of the least expensive wines along the route, with entry level wines running $16NZ a bottle.

2010 Brothers Viognier to pair with food. Riesling 2012, our favorite. Also a winner of one of the Air New Zealand wine awards. Perhaps what I liked best about this wine, the tasting notes included “a hint of petrichor.” Among our new favorite words.

Wine tasting details: Every day, 10-4:30pm. Address: 26 Rapaura Road, Blenheim.

Marlborough Wine Maps and Other Wineries

Among a pretty tight consistently recommended group of wineries in Marlborough that we missed: Dog Point, Rock Ferry Wines, Framingham, Auntsfield Estate, Yealands Estate (picturesque), and No. 1 Family Estate (particularly if sparkling wines are your thing).

For an overview of your options in the Marlborough wine region, check out the Marlborough Wine Trail map, a copy of which you should be able to pick up from any local tourist office.

Seafood Odyssea: The Seafood Odyssea leaves from Picton on summer afternoons and takes you through the Marlborough Sounds for a detailed look at a green-lipped mussel farm and salmon farm. Honestly, we never imagined learning about local seafood farming methods would actually be so interesting. Or, so beautiful. And we enjoyed a huge bowl of tender, fresh green-lipped mussels, cold-smoked salmon and Tio Point Oysters all finished with a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. Not a bad afternoon.

Seafood Odyssea Details: Book in advance with Marlborough Travel to ensure your spot. The boat leaves at around 1:30pm and the journey takes 3-4 hours. Price: $135/person (includes seafood and wine mentioned above). Hint: If you are a group, are interested in a broader selection of wines to taste, and you haven’t taken the Cook Strait Ferry, contact Marlborough Travel to see what it would take to arrange a custom experience with a sommelier on board.

Wine Tasting in Nelson Region

While Kiwis are friendly in general, we found people in and around Nelson to be notably hospitable and fun. Compared to Marlborough, the Nelson wine region is less well-known, but its popularity for viniculture is growing. After you visit Marlborough, you’ll find that the style of Sauvignon Blanc from this region to be even more distinct, with even more hints of tomato stems and green pepper. Sounds crazy, maybe, but go stick your nose in a glass and experience it for yourself.

Neudorf Vineyards
Every person we spoke to in Nelson steered us to Neudorf Vineyards. It’s easy to see why. Although Neudorf is larger than most in the area, its wines retain a personal, family feel. Across the board from the whites to the reds, Neudorf wines are consistently good. Buy a picnic plate of cheeses, meats and olives to enjoy with a bottle of wine for the afternoon in the garden.

Tasting included a distinct 2012 Sauvingnon Blanc with more than a hint of tomato stem and a 2011 Viognier, the red-drinker’s white wine, with a touch of wood and oil, not quite a Chardonnay. Loved the Pinot Noir, all around. Our pick for taste and value: 2010 Tom’s Block Pinot Noir.

Everything marked with a dot is part of that day’s standard wine tasting.

Wine tasting details: Daily, 10am-5pm in summer. Monday-Friday, 10am-5pm in winter. Address: 138 Neudorf Road, Upper Moutere

Greenhough
Tucked back off the main road amidst fruit orchards is Greenhough Winery. We were fortunate to have our tasting with one of the owners, so we heard the story of how the family has developed the winery over the last twenty years while maintaining an organic approach.

2012 Apple Valley Riesling, liked the crisp with a bit of acidity. Apple Valley 2012 Sauvignon Blanc, less grassy than most, even a little creamy. 2012 Chardonnay, similarly surprising with hints of oak and stone, vanilla and spice. Finally, we picked up a bottle of the 2012 Riesling Noble (botrytised dessert wine) that we will serve with the right fresh cobbler or plate of ripened soft cheese.

Wine tasting details: Daily, 1pm-5pm from Christmas through January. Weekends only, 1pm-5pm from Labour Day to Easter. Address: 411 Paton Road, RD1, Hope

Rimu Grove Winery
This small boutique winery not too far from Mapua is worth visiting just for the views of Tasman Bay, Rabbit Island and Waimea Inlet. The wine tasting experience itself is personal and fun; our sommelier not only knew her stuff about Rimu Grove, but about all the wineries in the region.

Pinot Gris 2010, a bit of oak, a touch of acidity, otherwise soft on the palate. A versatile and surprising Chardonnay, mild oak with hints of nuts and melon.

Wine tasting details: Daily, 11am-5pm in summer. Monday-Friday, 11am-5pm in winter. Tastings are free. Address: Bronte Road East, Upper Moutere

Nelson Wine Map and Guide

For an overview of your options in the Nelson wine region, check out the Nelson Wine Guide and Map, a copy of which you’ll have with you when you are on the ground in Nelson.

Wine Tasting around Christchurch, North Canterbury, Waipara Valley

If you happen to be in Christchurch and are looking for a wine tasting opportunity nearby, consider Waipara Valley. While we don’t consider ourselves authorities on the region, we did aim to check it out on our way back from Hanmer Springs to Christchurch and were glad we did.

Pegasus Bay Winery
After a quick poking around online for wineries on our return route to Christchurch, we happened upon Pegasus Bay Winery, noted in the region for its restaurant.

Penny, the sommelier, took us through a broad range. Of note: 2010 Sauvignon Blanc uncharacteristic of those at the north end of the South Island. 2010 Bel Canto Riesling, perhaps our favorite of the tasting with hints of citrus and even jasmine. 2010 Gewürztraminer fascinating with rose water, jasmine and even other floral notes like hyacinth. 2010 Pinot Noir deep color, plums and cherries, velvet and spice.

For more information on Waipara Valley and North Canterbury wineries, download the North Canterbury Wine Guide and Map.

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A note of thanks and disclosure: Many people came together to make our final week in New Zealand a tasty, romantic and memorable one. In addition to the people and companies we thank below, we also would like to give a shout out to all the Kiwis we met along the way who steered us to many of the wineries you see above. They never seemed to tire of our questions and some even provided us a ride when we needed it.

A big thanks to New Zealand Rent a Car for providing a car to us for our last week in New Zealand. We’d also like to thank the folks at Destination Marlborough for arranging our stay at Hans Herzog Estate Winery and getting us aboard the Seafood Odyssea with Chris and Jo, who shared their decades of knowledge of the seafood and wine industry with us. Our flights to New Zealand were kindly sponsored by Air New Zealand. As always, the opinions expressed here are entirely our own.

Originally posted on the Uncornered Market travel blog. Find beautiful travel photos from around the world. | 21 comments