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.

Bergen

Bergen is Norway’s second-largest city. Its population of more than 290,000 lives along the shores of a scenic fjord, called Byfjorden, a 16km waterway carved into the country’s rugged North Sea coast. It served as the nation’s capital in the 13th Century, before becoming a flagship city of the Hanseatic League, a medieval commercial and defensive European network of merchant guilds, ports and market towns. These days, it’s home to Norway’s offshore petroleum industry and subsea technological giants.

Dean Keiller and I visited Bergen in August 1990 while backpacking in Europe. We added it to our itinerary after meeting one of its residents, a woman named Olga, while travelling in Eastern Europe. Olga insisted we visit her while regaling us with stories of Bergen’s natural beauty.

In hindsight, the city proved rather underwhelming. Knowing what I know now, I’d have skipped it and spent our time visiting more dramatic fjords further north, or touring sights elsewhere in Europe. In fact, the most memorable aspect of Bergen was the journey there.

Unbeknownst to us, the Bergensbanen railway from Oslo to Bergen passes through one of the most breathtakingly scenic alpine landscapes in all of Europe - and that’s saying something! As you travel towards Bergen, the train steadily rises from the coast towards Hardangervidda, an expansive alpine plateau 1,237 metres above sea level. Apparently, the polar explorers Nansen, Amundsen and Shackleton once used the region as training grounds, due to its extreme conditions.

On 16 August Dean and I caught an early morning train from Oslo. As we journeyed west, the landscape transformed from sun-speckled conifer forests to one characterised by barren, treeless moorland interrupted by numerous pools, lakes, rivers and streams. Dean and I were totally captivated by the experience. We ran from side to side in our carriage, trying to soak in as much of its grandeur as we could before the train eventually entered a series of claustrophobic single-track tunnels. 

The photo above, pulled from the web, offers a glimpse of the spectacular Hardangervidda scenery. Sadly, I have no photos of my own to share. However, I made the following entry in my travel diary, which summed it up nicely. "Spectacular scenery - snow drifts, lakes, green and rocky valleys, waterfalls, tunnels and snowsheds."

Olga met us at the station and offered to take us to our accommodation. We explained that we had nothing booked. We asked if we could stop with her for a few days? She apologised that the tenancy by-laws in her building prevented her from hosting us. Apparently, habitation in her one-bedroom property was limited to a single person, and, as I recall, overnight guests were strictly prohibited. Instead, she invited us to join her for supper.

Olga lived on the top floor of a typical Norwegian weatherboard-clad apartment building. It had the cheapest rent because tenants had to climb three floors of stairs to reach the apartment. After enjoying a meal, she took pity on us and agreed to let us spend a night in her attic, accessible via a trapdoor. I must admit, Olga was quite stressed about us staying overnight.

The following night, to avoid further inconvenience, Dean and I trekked up the slopes of Fløyen, a hillside woodland overlooking the city, and surreptitiously pitched our tent in a discrete glade. However, it rained overnight, so Olga took pity on us once again. She kindly let us sleep a final night on her apartment floor, although she warned us more than once to be as quiet as possible. I must admit Olga’s paranoia about flouting her guest ban was a fascinating insight into the collegiate and law-abiding nature of Scandinavian people. 

Our time in Bergen was spent exploring the city’s classic tourist attractions and socialising with Olga and her friends. Highlights included a wander through the local fish market in Torget, before venturing around the inner harbour to Bryggen, the city’s iconic waterfront district. It’s a protected, UNESCO World Heritage site, dominated by a dramatic row of colourfully restored timber warehouses and office buildings. These once housed wealthy members of the Hellenistic League and their commercial ventures. At its height, this seafaring league, consisting of around 200 cities and towns, dominated maritime trade in the North and Baltic Seas. The photo above was pulled from UNESCO’s website. 

 

We also walked up Fløyen to soak in the city's stunning harbour from popular viewpoints along its gladed paths. The view very much reminded me of Wellington in New Zealand. After completing our outdoor trek, we ventured indoors with a visit to the Natural History Museum. The museum is renowned for its massive ceiling-mounted whale skeletons (the image below was pulled from the web). We finished the day with a night on the town, dining out with Olga and her friends.

Unfortunately, I don’t recall anything more from our time in Bergen, beyond its rather inclement weather. The photo opening this post, of Dean enjoying lunch by the harbour, kind of says it all really. The city was rather damp and generally lacked appeal for tourists passing through. Apparently, Norway is one of Europe’s wettest countries, and Bergen gets 200 days of rain annually.

After three nights in Bergen, Dean and I took an overnight train back to Oslo on 19 August. We then transferred onto a train bound for Trondheim, arriving back on the North Sea Coast mid-afternoon. However, Trondheim was merely an intermediary stop on our way north to experience life above the Arctic Circle. You can read more about this backpacking adventure here.

Dean and I spent two nights in Trondheim on 20 and 21 August. We pitched our pup tent at the local campground overlooking Trondheim Fjord, a wide, fully enclosed harbour surrounded by verdant slopes. After settling into our campsite, we caught a bus into town. However, rather than exploring the city, we ended up spending our first afternoon at a table in Burger King planning the remainder of our Eurail itinerary.

Our second day in town involved more travel planning. We spent the morning booking tickets for the coastal ferry between Harstad and Bodo.  Dean had heard positive stories about the Loften Islands, which could be reached by sea from Harstad. We decided it would also be an opportunity to experience some of Norway's majestic fjords. 

Once our ferry tickets were sorted, the rest of the day was spent wandering through Trondheim's old town and along its waterfront lined with heritage buildings. Our time in Trondheim ended in spectacular style.  As our bus returned to the campground, we witnessed a breathtaking sunset over the fjord. It was a truly memorable end to what had largely been a utilitarian stopover on our Eurail adventure.

Oslo by train

My first taste of the Nordics came in August 1990. I spent three days in Oslo during a three-month backpacking odyssey through Europe. At the time, my travel companion, Dean Keiller, and I had just spent four days in Berlin. We stopped in Oslo from 13 to 16 August, while en route to Bergen, Norway’s largest coastal city.

After travelling for almost 24 hours from Hanover, we finally pulled into Oslo Central Station on the afternoon of Monday, 13 August. Getting there was half the fun. Along the way our train had been loaded onto several ferries, including one between Germany and Denmark, and another between Denmark and Sweden. 

While in Oslo, we based ourselves in a popular campground in the hillside suburb of Ekebergsletta. It was well maintained seasonal venue overlooking the city and its harbour. By day, the view was quaint enough. However, by night, the view was transformed by the city’s lights stretching into the distance. The image below, sourced from the web, provides an excellent feel for its location.

We walked into town each day via Ekeberg Park, a gentle hillside green space, filled with walking tracks and pathways. It took less than half an hour to reach the centre of town, although the city bus stopped directly outside the campground. Incredibly, the campground is still operating today, more than 35 years later. Dean and I had bought ourselves a compact pup tent a few weeks earlier in Eastern Europe. However, we discovered it wasn’t waterproof when overnight rain soaked us and our gear on our final night in town.

I loved Oslo. It was full of history, including relics from the Viking era, a civilisation that always captivated me as a child. None more so than the spectacular Viking ships on display in the Vikingskipshuset. Dean and I visited the museum on 15 August. This rather compact building is home to three meticulously restored 9th-century wooden boats, including the iconic Oseberg ship, the world’s best preserved Viking longship. It's the image that opens this blog post.

The boat was discovered buried in a grassy mound by a farmer in 1904. It features all the classic hallmarks of a Viking ship, including the high sweeping prow capped by a carved dragon’s head, and the wide shallow berth that vaguely resembles a fat bathtub. As a child, I recall being enthralled by the controversial Vinland Map, which depicts the coast of Newfoundland, and stories of Eric the Red,  discovering North America more than 500 years before Christopher Columbus. Seeing this magnificent vessel up close really brought these heroic feats to life. 

However, we started our busy schedule with a train up to Holmenkollen, home to the city’s iconic Olympic Ski Jumping facilities. It hosted events for the 1952 Winter Olympics. The site is dominated by the regulation-compliant run-in tower, a 56-metre ramp rising above the surrounding hillside. Its dramatic profile is visible from downtown Oslo, more than five kilometres away.

We viewed this impressive structure from the base of the hill and climbed its run-in tower to check out the stomach churning view from the starting blocks. The view from the top is truly terrifying! In Summer, the bowl-like landing zone is filled to create a temporary lake and a sound shell is installed on the lake’s far shore for hosting outdoor concerts. Fifteen years later, I rode the elevator again up to the starting blocks for another look with my parents. 

We then returned to town to visit Vikingskipshuset, and on to the Kon Tiki Museum, a purpose-built complex on the waterfront. Dean and I loved how each experience made history come alive. We then took a ferry back into downtown Oslo and walked more than 4 km back along the harbour to our campground. 

The previous day, our first full day in town was informally designated as a rest day after 1.5 days of continuous travel from Berlin. However, we did venture into town for a few hours mid afternoon to visit the grounds of the Royal Palace and explore the quirky Vigeland Sculpture Park. 

The park was something else. It contains more than 200 sculptures in granite, bronze, and wrought iron, including a massive carved stone pillar called The Monolith. This aptly named sculpture depicts 121 human figures clinging and writhing together in 17 metre tall column. The image above was pulled from the web says it all really.

My travel diary makes multiple references to the cost of living in Norway. The first of many price shocks occurred during our first afternoon in Oslo. We went to the Supermarket to stock up on some basic supplies, including breakfast and lunch essentials. The final tally at checkout stunned us both. For years afterwards, I’d tell people that Norway’s scenery frequently reminded me of New Zealand. As a result, while impressive, it wasn’t a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Instead, I spent two weeks paying top dollar to enjoy something I could have done back home for half the price.

The Berlin Wall

I’ve visited Berlin on four occasions, beginning with a visit in August 1990, nine months after the city’s infamous wall came down. This first visit also kicked off a three-month backpacking odyssey through Western Europe. At the time, I was travelling with Dean, an Australian sheep farmer from Portland, Victoria.

Dean and I began our travels in Einigen, a small lakeside town in Switzerland, on 8 August. We’d ended up here, in a turreted lodge on the shores of Thunersee, after dropping off a minivan our group had borrowed while touring Eastern Europe three months prior. I’ll share more about our extraordinary adventures behind the recently liberated Iron Curtain in another post.

Having just witnessed life after communism in Hungary, Yugoslavia, Romania and Bulgaria, we considered Berlin and its deadly wall as the holy grail of Cold War destinations. To get there, we activated our Eurail train pass and travelled via Frankfurt to the former West German border town of Helmstedt. This was as close as we could get to Berlin using our train pass. 

During the Cold War, Helmstedt was the site of the Helmstedt–Marienborn border crossing, the most important checkpoint on the Iron Curtain frontier. At the time, it was the starting point for the shortest land route between West Germany and West Berlin. According to Wikipedia, 34.6 million travellers passed through between 1985 and 1989. As a result, Dean and I decided it was the best place to hitch a ride to Berlin.

It took more than eight hours to reach Helmstedt by train, arriving shortly before nightfall. To save money, we decided to find a discreet spot on the edge of town and camp for the night. We’d then try our luck at hitchhiking across the border the following day. I use the word "border" loosely. Technically, it existed until reunification on 3 October. However, in practice, all border checkpoints had been officially abandoned five weeks before our arrival.

Dean and I pitched our newly purchased pup tent in a quiet forest, only to discover the following morning that we’d camped on the edge of a railway cutting. We later learned that Helmstedt, thanks to its strategic location, had train lines coming into town from all points of the compass. We’d arrived from the west, then inadvertently intersected another track heading south.

Hitchhiking to Berlin proved relatively easy once we knew what to do. Initially, we struggled to find a ride. Unbeknownst to us, we’d camped on a quiet rural road on the southern edge of town while the main highway to Berlin traversed its northern boundary. A passing German family eventually took pity on us. They drove us to a large roadside service centre about 7km away. It sat next to the recently abandoned border checkpoint, where the boom gates, security lanes and passport booths had been left permanently opened. The eastern checkpoint was eventually preserved as a museum, while the western complex has long since disappeared.

Once at the centre, we scored a ride within 15 minutes. A friendly, middle-aged man in a sporty German car offered us a ride. He gave us our first taste of the unrestricted speed limit on a German autobahn. He tore down the highway at speeds approaching 150kmph, but safely got us to Berlin. He also used his fancy car phone to locate a recently opened temporary youth hostel in the city's outskirts. At the time, Berlin had repurposed several former army barracks to accommodate a sudden surge in visitors. 

We spent four memorable days in Berlin, from 9-12 August, exploring both eastern and western zones, before hitching back to Hanover in West Germany. It was an extraordinary time to visit. Just five weeks earlier, on 1 July, the two Germanys had entered into a monetary, economic, and social union. Then, two months later, were formally unified. As a result, Dean and I experienced much of the communist era’s socialist culture, infrastructure and institutions before they disappeared. 

For example, we passed through the city’s U-Bahn ghost stations, which had been off-limits during the Cold War, received loose change in Ostmarks, the former communist currency and saw most of the Berlin Wall still standing in its original form. I will never forget our first encounter with the wall. 

On Thursday, August 9, exactly nine months after the wall fell, Dean and I caught the U-Bahn to Unter den Linden, near the city’s iconic Brandenburg Gate. For decades, the gate could only be reached from East Berlin, and even then, could only be viewed at a distance. As we approached it from the east, the white noise of city traffic gave way to the relentless sound of hammering and chiselling. 

As we passed through the gate’s majestic columns, a most remarkable sight greeted us. In front of us stood the wall, constructed from 3.6 metre high concrete panels capped by smooth cylindrical pipes. A barren 50-metre deep "death strip" ran along its eastern flank. The strip's bare, rubble-strewn, earth stood in stark contrast to neatly paved streets nearby. 

Directly in front of the gate, a sizeable gap had been opened up for pedestrians to pass freely. However, the wall's remaining panels had become an impromptu treasure trove for souvenir hunters. Everywhere we looked people were hammering away, trying to extract their own small concrete piece of history. Didn’t bring a hammer? Not a problem. Entrepreneurial touts were renting crowbars and chisels by the hour.

Dean and I walked south along the wall until we came upon a couple of abandoned rebar poles. We decided to join the crowd and spent an hour carving out our own piece of history. I still have a nondescript hunk of concrete squirrelled away in a tub of childhood papers and relics. Sadly, a selection of colourfully painted fragments we’d salvaged was lost when Dean's day pack was stolen months later.

We eventually followed the wall as far as Checkpoint Charlie, the divided city’s busiest border crossing, before turning toward Alexanderplatz in the heart of East Berlin. Decades later, it's the starkly divergent cityscape that I still recall most vividly. East Berlin’s buildings were drab, dated and monolithic, while those in the West were modern, colourful and stylish. Much of East Berlin felt like a surreal, faded time capsule from the sixties and seventies. The austere concrete-scape of Alexanderplatz in the east stood in stark contrast to the bright lights and designer labels of Kurfürstendamm in the west.

I remember walking down a laneway in no man’s land near Potsdamer Plaza and marvelling at rusty tram tracks abruptly abandoned when the wall went up. Likewise, the windows of buildings along the street's East Berlin boundary were filled with rendered brickwork. It was hard to comprehend that walking in this same location just nine months earlier would have had me shot and killed. 

Likewise, we explored the vacant pillboxes and checkpoint barriers that once controlled entry through Checkpoint Charlie. The immediate area, recently stripped of its security infrastructure, was stark and rather depressing. These days, a spotless, neatly finished reconstruction of a single pillbox has taken its place. Tourists now pose for cliché Instagram photos. I saw the real deal.

Perhaps our most poignant communist era encounter occurred at a supermarket in East Berlin. At the time, western consumer goods were pouring into the city’s east following economic reunification. East Germans were going crazy for these coveted products. Even more so, given that Ostmarks could now be exchanged one for one, making quality Western goods suddenly affordable.

While shopping for lunch, we encountered a queue outside a supermarket. Security guards were controlling the crowd inside by limiting access to individuals in possession of a shopping trolley. As a result, every time someone exited the building, the first person in the queue grabbed their abandoned trolley to gain entry. Dean and I tried explaining that we only wanted to buy a few bread rolls and thus didn’t need a trolley. It soon became clear that we weren’t getting in without one!

After spending most of Thursday in East Berlin, we devoted Friday to exploring West Berlin. This included the Europa Centre and a stroll down Kurfürstendamm. This vibrant, tree-lined boulevard was once the commercial, shopping and nightlife hub of West Berlin. 

At the end of Kurfürstendamm, we came upon the jagged ramparts of the Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church. It was bombed during the Second World War but was never repaired. Instead, it was left standing in its partially destroyed state as a lasting memorial to the folly of war and crimes against humanity committed under Nazi rule.

We finished the day with a walk through Tiergarten to the Brandenburg Gate. A block or so from the former Reichstag Parliament building we came across a row of white crosses erected along the footpath. Each cross memorialised an East German citizen killed while attempting to escape East Berlin. It’s a sobering experience standing here, trying to make sense of such a senseless loss of life.

Saturday was designated a museum day. We spent the morning at West Berlin Zoo, then caught a train to the Pergamon Museum on East Berlin's Museum Island. Highlights included the enigmatic Pergamon Altar and the incredibly ornate Ishtar Gate. Decades later I’d visit the Turkish hilltop where the altar once stood. Dean then headed for the city's Olympic Stadium to watch an American Football exhibition match while I returned to our backpacker hostel.

Sunday morning, our final day in Berlin, was spent exploring the palace and gardens of Potsdam. Exactly 55 years earlier, to the day, the town’s imperial buildings had hosted a conference where allied leaders planned the postwar peace in the dying days of the Second World War. This included the temporary demarcation of East and West Berlin. Without a doubt, history comes alive wherever you go in Europe. 

That afternoon, Dean and I took a train to the outskirts of Berlin and walked to Checkpoint Bravo on the former West Berlin border. From here, we hitchhiked to Hanover, where we took an overnight train to Oslo, via Hamburg and Copenhagen. Follow this link for my retrospective post on Oslo.

I returned to Berlin three more times. First, in 1996, with my parents in tow. We were travelling together through Prague and Berlin after attending my brother’s wedding in Austria. I returned again for a long weekend while travelling to London on business in 2002, then a final time with friends from Sydney while living in London in 2008. You can read about my most recent visit here.

Each time I returned, I’d witness another transformation of the city as it progressively erased the scars of its post-war division. I count myself lucky to have seen Berlin in its truly divided state. These days, only small, rather sanitised sections of the wall still stand (including the popular East Side Gallery), the once barren Potsdamer Platz is filled with soaring glass towers, and the soulless unitarian East German Volkskammer Parliament on Spreeinsel Island is long gone. I wonder what else has changed since my last visit?

NOTE:

Sadly, Dean and I didn't take many photos during our first few weeks on the road. As a result, I've illustrated this story with a mix of images from the web and some taken during my last time in Berlin. If I find more archived images from 1990, I'll amend this post. Until then, the border checkpoint images and ghost station have been sourced from the web.

Tradeshow time

I've just returned from a week exhibiting at the annual Reed Gift Fair in Melbourne. It's been exactly ten years since Garry and I first flew south to exhibit at our first tradeshow as Artiwood's new owners. This year's event was the best we've experienced since COVID put a stop to live events. I can't recall being on my feet so much as we were this year. Hopefully, the interest in our brands is reflected by healthy sales in the months ahead.

Weatherwise, it was a good week to be away from Sydney. As of yesterday, the city's experienced its wettest start to August in more than 168 years of records. Meanwhile, in Melbourne, we enjoyed partly sunny skies and dry conditions all week. Once again, Garry didn't attend the event. We decided after experimenting with three staff last August, there was little value in his attending again. I doubt he'll participate in another tradeshow again.

Last Friday, I took the team for dinner to celebrate Rhonda's birthday. Last year, we booked a table at Doju, a Korean Fusion restaurant, for her birthday. This year, we continued the Asian theme by dining at Komeyui, a Japanese fine dining restaurant. I booked the team a seat at the chef's table, where we watched the chef prepare and present each dish in front of us.

The rest of the week was less adventurous. I caught a taxi to St Kilda for cocktails with a business contact at the Village Belle Hotel. I also walked along the riverfront one evening to soak up the neon lights of Melbourne's Lightscape satellite event outside the Melbourne Convention Centre.