A whale of a time

Every year humpback whales migrate from the Southern Ocean to warmer waters around the islands of the South Pacific. For four months, between July and October, they breed and give birth. Tonga is one of the best locations to see them up close in all their glory. In other words, Garry and I couldn’t have chosen a better time to visit the islands of Ha’apai in Tonga.

Yesterday, we ventured out to swim with the whales. Months ago, we booked a half-day tour that promised us the experience of a lifetime. We weren’t disappointed! Over a period of five hours, we swam with the whales on three separate occasions. Each encounter was truly spectacular.

Our first encounter involved a mother and her calf serenely swimming past us in a series of leisurely arcs. The water was crystal clear. I couldn’t believe how close we were to these majestic creatures. The image that opens this post was pulled from a video taken by another guest on the boat. You can watch an extract from the video above. Garry and I were about ten metres to the left of the cameraman. We later, came upon a small pod slapping the water with their fins and flicking their tails into the air. You can see some of this behaviour in the final image above. 

Our second swimming encounter was the day’s highlight. Much to our astonishment we watched a mother and calf playfully engaging with one another underwater. The enormous mother then pivoted onto her tail underwater and slowly pirouetted in front of us. The video footage taken by other tour guests barely does justice to the incredible encounter. Sadly, I had an issue with my mask and missed most of the ballet while trying to fix it.

Our final encounter was almost as memorable. We initially came upon a young whale breaching and flipping in the distance. Our boat approached and quietly followed it and three adults before being given permission to enter the water. Suddenly, without warning, the young calf breached just metres from those already swimming. 

Garry and I were still on the boat as the drama unfolded. However, I can assure you the experience was just as enthralling from our vantage point. Check out the video above, taken by one of the swimmers, plus a brief video extract filmed from the boat. The still images were taken by me.

Garry and I then entered the water in time to witness the mother passing less than ten metres in front of us before returning to the depths. The video above captures this moment. I’m visible initially on right-hand side in yellow flippers. Garry also appears briefly in yellow flippers a little further on.

Without a doubt, today’s whale encounters rank up there with the best of our excursions in Antarctica and the turtle nesting expedition Mum and I enjoyed in South Africa. Enjoy the videos I’ve posted here.

PS. We’ve already booked a second whale swimming tour before we leave Matafonua Lodge. Conditions are forecast to be perfect for this next excursion. Stay tuned for more breathtaking footage.

Tongatapu stopover

Our first few days in Tonga have passed quickly. We departed Sydney on Saturday morning, but thanks to the magic of time changes, didn’t land on Tongatapu until shortly before 5:30pm. The flight took 4.5 hours, and Tonga is currently three hours ahead of Sydney. Our flight’s departure was also delayed an hour by heavy winds that saw the airport restricted to using a single runway.

We’ve spent three nights based at the Seaview Lodge in Nuku'alofa. It was a cosy hotel overlooking the reef and Pacific ocean beyond. Like many of the Pacific Islands, everything shuts down on Sunday, so we pre-booked a lunch buffet at the Katea Retreat, a modest venue on the southern coast of Tongatapu. We enjoyed a relaxing afternoon overlooking the reef and neighbouring Eau Island from a window table. The buffet was a little disappointing. In particular, the traditional umu pork carvery proved woefully stingy.

On Monday we filled our time with a leisurely walking tour of Downtown Nuku'alofa. By the time we were done we’d walked more than 8 km. Our route took us past the immaculate white timber Royal Palace and the Royal Tombs before stopping to view a limited selection of exhibits in the National Museum. Unfortunately, the palace isn’t open to the public so we had to satisfy ourselves with a view through its bolted gates.

The tombs were also off limits. However, we’d unexpectedly timed our holiday well. The tombs have been undergoing extensive restoration and until a week ago had then totally obscured by hoardings as new fencing and footpaths were being constructed around its perimeter. Interestingly, the works have been funded by Chinese Government grant. Just as we’d seen in Samoa last year, the Chinese really are actively pursuing soft power influence throughout the Pacific.

Opposite the Royal Tombs we came across the dramatic, ruined Centennial Church of the Free Church of Tonga. It was built in 1885 to commemorate the arrival of Christianity in Tonga by King George Tupou I. The building is an architectural masterpiece, blending traditional Tongan design and materials with European elements. This includes prominent red conical spires reminiscent of medieval churches, walls clad in local coral stone and traditional Tongan-style thatched roof.

It was badly damaged by Cyclone Gita in 2018. Its roof was torn off, and windows were blown out including its stained glass rose window. The structure is currently undergoing repairs, albeit at a slow pace, as funds allow. Its interior was filled with scaffolding as we passed by.

We walked back to the coast via the Main Street, stopping to check out the National Parliament, the National War Memorial, and the town’s working wharves. Two highlights stood out along the waterfront. The first was a local cemetery filled with billboards memorialising the dead. We since seen similar billboards everywhere we’ve gone in Tonga. 

The second highlight was an unexpected encounter at the War Memorial after lunch. We’d had the elegant white memorial entirely to ourselves that morning. However, by mid afternoon it had been overtaken by uniformed military personnel rehearsing a ceremony for the 80th anniversary of the end of the Second World War scheduled for the following day. This included a somber honour guard silently holding vigil in each of the memorial’s four corners.

On Tuesday we caught a flight to Ha’apai with Lulutai Airlines, Tonga’s domestic airline. I was a little nervous about the flight. Barely six weeks ago, two of the airline’s three planes were grounded for several days after their airworthiness certification was revoked. This included the plane we were scheduled to fly on. However, I needn’t have worried. Our flight passed without incident.

The flight itself was a spectacular. Our route traced a trail of atolls encircled by white sand beaches and aquamarine reefs between Tongatapu and Ha’apai. In the distance we could see the perfectly symmetrical cone of Koa Island, an active volcano, rising 1030 metres from the sea. Incredibly, we could even see the occasional whale breaching in the ocean below.

For the next eight days we’re based at Matafunoa Lodge, a rustic resort on the northern tip of Foa Island. Our fale, as cabins are called in Tongan, sits right on the beach, separated from the surf by a modest row of sandhill shrubs. The accommodation is basic to say the least. It’s really little more than a cabin based campground with slightly shabby shower block. However, with few distractions beyond the iridescent blue sea, we’re bound to unwind a little in the days ahead.

Tongan countdown

We’re counting down the days until we fly to Tonga for this year’s annual spring vacation. We fly out on Saturday morning for two weeks of leisurely island hopping. We’re spending our first three nights in Nuku'alofa, the national capital located on the main island of Tongatapu.

The following Tuesday we fly to Ha’apai, an island atoll 170km to the north. Here we’ll spend nine days living off the grid in a simple beachside fale (hut) at Matafonua Lodge. We’ve been warned that electricity and internet access are only available in the lodge’s central services building. We’ll also be sharing a central bathroom and amenities block with other guests along the beach.

While on Ha’apai we’re taking a day trip to swim with humpback whales. These magnificent creatures migrate to Tonga’s warmer waters to mate and calve between July and October every year. I hope our experience reflects what we’ve seen online. Check out the image above.

On 10 September we’ll catch a flight back to Tongatapu to lie by the pool at the capital’s largest hotel for a final three days. I’ve also booked us a private tour of the island on our penultimate day in Tonga. My grandfather served in Tonga during the Second World War so I’m hoping we’ll visit a few wartime locations along the way.

Meknes for a day

Here's another retrospective post about my first time in Morocco. I visited this ancient North African city in October 1990, while backpacking in Europe with a friend called Dean. Our Moroccan adventure kicked off on 7 October when we crossed the Strait of Gibraltar by ferry, then made our way to Fez, travelling with two English couples, Cathy and Tony and Linda and Craig, whom we'd met on board the boat. You read about our adventures in Fez here.

After 2.5 days in Fez, Dean and I were keen to head for a new destination. We had UK Working Holiday Visas that had to be endorsed within six months of being issued. As a result, we had to arrive in the UK by 25 October. We’d arrived in Morocco on 7 October and thus had two weeks remaining. Before time ran out, we wanted to see more of Morocco, visit Paris and explore the Netherlands.

However, we soon discovered our English friends were operating on a different timetable. They weren’t in a hurry to go anywhere. We decided to leave them at a campground in Fez and travel by train to Meknes, one of Morocco's four Imperial cities, before returning to Spain.

We reached Meknes mid-morning on Wednesday, 10 October, and spent the day exploring its popular tourist sites, including el-Hedim Square, a vast plaza at the southern end of the old city, and Bab Mansur al-'Alj, an ornate ceremonial grand entrance to the Kasbah of Moulay Isma'il. You can see this gate in the image above, along with a couple of entrepreneurial locals dressed as Guerrabine, or traditional Berber water sellers.

Water sellers once provided fresh water for local residents before the advent of modern plumbing. You’d find them in public squares and markets loaded with goatskin water bags and brass containers, dishing out a measure of water using brass cups. The brass implements, accompanied by bells, were often hung in a fashion that caused them to jangle as they walked, thus announcing their presence. These days, they’re simply a tourist attraction.

The Kasbah is a vast palace complex built in the medina by the Moroccan sultan Moulay Isma'il ibn Sharif between 1672 and 1727. It's said to be the world's largest palace. We explored the complex for much of the day, including the ruins of Dar el-Kebira, the oldest of several palaces inside. Dar el-Kebira was abandoned after Moulay Isma'il's death and replaced by another, even grander series of buildings. These were replaced in turn by successive sultans.

The three images above were pulled from the web. They give you an excellent sense of the size and scale of the old city walls surrounding the medina, and the spectacular Mausoleum of Moulay Isma’il within the palace complex. To be honest,  I can't recall much about our time in Meknes beyond a general consensus that we were glad we'd made the effort to stop here on our way back to the Mediterranean coast.  It offered an interesting contrast to the chaos, crowds and clutter we'd encountered in Fez.

Our final night in Morocco was spent sleeping (sort of) on an overnight train to Tangiers. The train was crowded, and the seats (if you could get one) were little more than rows of timber benches. Most of us sat on our luggage or on the floor, resting against the carriage walls. In many respects, this noisy and chaotic carriage was the closest we ever got to experiencing real daily life in Morocco.

The following morning, 11 October, we caught the ferry back to Spain.  Yes, that's my actual ferry ticket above. As we backpacked through Europe, instead of buying bulky and impractical souvenirs, I kept some of the tickets and receipts we collected along the way. While researching this post, I discovered that the ferry no longer docks in Tangier. These days, its final destination is a massive new international port built approximately 40km along the coast.

Upon arrival in Algeciras, we successfully retrieved our confiscated backpacks after paying a modest fine for failing to collect them before our locker time expired. You can learn about our cheeky storage solution in my retrospective post about Fez. From here, we made our way north by train to Seville, our final stop in Spain. More about this next adventure in another post.

Upon reflection, I’m astounded by how bold we were travelling in North Africa. Even more so, given the stories we’d heard of backpackers mugged by ruthless youths. Likewise, seemingly harmless encounters sometimes morphed into situations that often made us feel decidedly unsafe.

For example, we’d jokingly decided early on that the first English words every Moroccan child learns are “Hello, my friend”. However, we soon discovered that their language skills morphed dramatically when we refused to buy their trinkets. Smiles were rapidly replaced by anger and a string of graphic profanities in English and Moroccan, which quickly drew a crowd. This often included older boys who'd harass and intimidate us as we walked along the street. It was another valuable lesson about the situational lack of power experienced by cultural minorities.

Cultural encounters

Visiting Morocco for the first time was a transformative experience. It was my first immersive contact with a Muslim culture, my first true exposure to life as a racial minority, and my first encounter with genuine poverty.

I spent five days in Morocco while backpacking in Europe in October 1990. At the time, I was travelling with Dean, a sheep farmer from Victoria. The excursion was an eleventh-hour addition to our itinerary while touring Andalusia and Gibraltar. We arrived by train in Algeciras, a port city overlooking the Mediterranean, on Saturday, 6 October. The remainder of the day was spent exploring the Rock before setting down for the night at a local hostel. I’ll share more about Gibraltar in a separate post.

Early the following morning, we crossed back over the Spanish border and made our way to port in Algeciras. On the advice of fellow backpackers, we repacked a couple of day packs with enough clothing and essentials to last a week, before storing our primary backpacks in coin lockers at the ferry terminal. I must confess that we blithely ignored signs warning that the lockers would be emptied after 48 hours if their contents weren’t collected.

It seems we weren’t the first itinerant travellers seeking to store luggage for extended periods at the port. However, other backpackers reassured Dean and me that the port authorities would simply move uncollected luggage to a nearby storage room. Although I must admit that some experiences shared by returning travellers were less reassuring.

For example, we met an English backpacker coming off the ferry who told us he’d been robbed in Morocco, driven to the port, given money for a ferry ticket and told never to return. As I recall, he’d met a group of young men one evening who’d offered him hashish and a good time. However, a good time soon morphed into a robbery and pseudo-kidnapping. Dean and I decided hashish wouldn’t be added to our bucket list of travel experiences.

The ferry to Tangier took less than two hours to cross the Strait. However, during that time, we also crossed an unanticipated cultural divide. I distinctly recall feeling uneasy on board. At first, I couldn’t work out why until the realisation struck home. Dean and I were an ethnic minority. Except for two English couples we ran into, we were the only Caucasians on board, and among the only English-speaking passengers. Everyone else was a dark-haired, tanned Arab, or appeared to be of that origin.

Until that moment, at the age of 25, I’d never found myself in a situation where I was an ethnic minority. For the first time in my life, I suddenly understood, in some small way, what it felt like to be part of a minority group. I’ll never forget the sense of vulnerability and the perceived loss of situational power I felt on that boat. It was one of those life-defining moments that only travel can deliver.

Dean and I understandably gravitated towards the English couples on board. We ended up drinking beer and swapping travel stories with Craig and Linda (on the left in the image above), and their friends Tony and Cath (on the right above). The two couples were friends from England travelling together in a campervan they’d driven through France and Spain. They were now headed to North Africa. They invited us to travel with them to Fez, their first destination. Free transport through Morocco was an opportunity simply too good to pass up.

Upon disembarking in Tangier, we drove south through the dry and dusty Moroccan landscape with our newfound English friends. It took us more than five hours to reach the ancient city of Fez, nestled in the northern foothills of the Atlas Mountains. We knew nothing of the city before our arrival. Our dog-eared travel guide didn’t have any chapters on North Africa. We were literally travelling “off the page” in the pre-Internet era.

Fez is a truly remarkable place. It’s been called the "Mecca of the West" and the "Athens of Africa". It is also considered the spiritual and cultural capital of Morocco. It has the world’s largest intact medieval city, with a pedestrian-only medina (old city) covering 2.2 square km. 

For the next three nights, our group based itself at a campground on the edge of the modern city. One couple slept in the van, the other in a tent, while Dean and I slept in the open air under the stars. Much to our surprise, the entire campground was shaded by Australian Eucalyptus trees. Never in a million years could we have anticipated camping in Africa under the shade of Australian native trees.

The next two days were a blur of cultural and sensory overload. We all chipped in and hired a local guide to take us through the best of Fes. We’d all heard horror stories of tourists getting lost in the medina’s sprawling labyrinth of laneways and enclosed cul-de-sacs. Our first day was spent exploring the modern city and Fes el-Jdid, its “new medina”. New, of course, is a relative term. Fes el-Jdid was founded in 1276. Our second day was spent in Fes el-Bali, the oldest and original ancient city, founded between 789 and 808.

 

We begged our guide not to take us to a selection of cliché tourist traps. We also made it clear that we didn’t want to spend our time visiting an endless stream of handicraft workshops. By and large, our guide delivered. We got to explore and see the best of Fes and its mind-blowing medina, visiting only one Persian rug showroom during our two days with our guide.

The sights, sounds and smells of Fes are hard to describe. This was also my first encounter with truly non-European culture, making the contrast uniquely memorable. Until then, my travels had been limited to the USA, Canada, Australia and New Zealand, plus my recent adventures in Western and Eastern Europe. Take the image above. We encountered these three children in the medina, carefully chiselling ceramic tiles into an array of mosaic shapes. 

Our guide had taken us into the back streets to learn how mosaics covering monumental gates and buildings were made. In a tiny workshop, we were introduced to children tracing mosaic shapes onto glazed ceramic tiles while others chiselled out the final shape. Our guide explained that these children worked for a living, helping their families earn enough to survive. The poverty we witnessed was a shock to say the least. It would be another decade before I’d see worse in India. 

Perhaps the most mind-blowing sensory experience was the Chouwara Tannery. This ancient open-air complex was extraordinary. You could smell it long before you could see it. Here, animal skins are cured with quicklime, cow urine and pigeon poop by men pounding with their feet, then are dyed in a series of tiered, round vats of vivid yellow, red, green or blue.

In the words of one travel writer, “the process is medieval and will challenge both your olfactory nerves and attitude to voyeuristic tourism.” I couldn’t agree more. For example, in the foreground of the image above is a pungent pile of rotting hides. These were the rejects from earlier batches, casually discarded and simply left to decay. It’s hard to fathom that animal hides have been cured and prepared this manner, in this location, for almost a thousand years.

Other highlights included Bab Boujloud, a monumental gateway leading into the old city. Through its ornate Moorish horseshoe arch, you get your first spectacular glimpse of the medina inside. The locked entrance doors to the Dar al-Makhzen, the King of Morocco’s Royal Palace, in Fes el-Jdid were equally impressive (that’s us above standing in front of them).

One of our travelling couples decided to shop for a rug. As a result, Dean and I were entertained by locals wielding oodles of hot, sickly sweet mint tea. The craftsmanship was impressive to say the least. It’d be another decade or so before I’d explore similar showrooms in India and the Middle East. However, nothing will ever compare to this first encounter with a non-European culture. The novelty of this incredibly exotic experience is neatly captured by the image above.

Likewise, Dean and I were fascinated by the local women dressed in their traditional burqas. Most also had their faces fully veiled. We'd never seen anything like it and wanted to capture this cultural experience in a photo. However, it quickly became clear these women didn’t want to be photographed. In the end, we resorted to a rather culturally insensitive solution. We took photos of each other in the medina’s laneways, timing the photo to include a passing woman. This post opens with one of these images.

We also visited the elegantly white-washed Jewish cemetery in the city’s old Jewish quarter. Once again, my naivety was made manifest. Until this moment, I’d never known that something as fundamental as burying the dead could differ between cultures. Likewise, the cemetery tells a troubling story of European persecution. We learned that large Jewish communities developed in Morocco and elsewhere in Northern Africa after the Jews were expelled by royal decree from Spain in 1492 and Portugal in 1497. 

By the mid-16th century, the Jewish quarter in Fes had an estimated population of 4000, and by the end of the 19th century, it had some 15 active synagogues. However, these days the cemetery is little more than a memorial to a community that has long since vanished. By 1997, there were reportedly only 150 Jews living in all of Fez, and no functioning synagogues remained. Travel really does broaden the mind.

A few kilometres further on, by the ruins of the Merenid Tombs, we stopped to enjoy a stunning view of the medina. These picturesque 14th-century mausoleums were built by the Merenid dynasty that once ruled Morocco. Below us, a carpet of goat skins was scattered across the hillside, drying in the sun. In the distance, the chaos of the media unfolded across the valley. 

It was easy to see why tourists were warned not to tackle its sprawling expanse without a local guide. Of course, these days, the magic of GPS and Google Maps has transformed the experience as Garry and I aptly demonstrated while tackling the laneways of Marrakesh earlier this year.

On 10 October, we left Fez and began retracing our steps back towards Spain. We farewelled our new English friends and headed for the nearby city of Meknes. Follow this link to learn more about our brief stop in this equally ancient city.

Weeks later, we caught up for a drink with Tony and Cath in London. They told us that the campground subsequently charged them an additional “tent fee” because Dean and I had strung up a plastic sheet to shade our sleeping bags. At the time, we’d paid for an entry-level “open-air” camping fee and slept under the stars. None of us thought that a sheet draped over a string would be deemed a tent.