Trufflepig: The Sounder

Water Cooler Watering Holes

Tue, 09 Mar 2010 05:00:00 GMT

In our continuing effort to bring you safe passage, let us highlight one of the greatest safari specials we've seen, set to expire on May 31st. If you've any inclination to head out on safari this coming year, you'll want to take five minutes and read this. Our favourite camps in Tanzania are all 25% off if you book them in the next few months.

Previously we've rambled on at length about Tanzania, and why you would want to plan your safari here. If you need a quick reminder, check out our previous articles on East vs South, Days on Safari, and Yurt Living in the Serengeti. Interestingly enough, one of the most compelling reasons is Nomad Tanzania, quite possibly the coolest safari company in the game.

Nomad is a collection of quirky and playful luxury camps that specialize in private guiding, lighthearted design and remote wilderness locations. The camps pair beautifully with one another, whether you're planning a 5-night safari in their Serengeti camps or heading further afield to the Mahale Mountains or the Selous. Don't forget Tanzania is also home to the Ngorongoro Crater, Mount Kilimanjaro and the Zanzibar coast.

25% off all 2010 Nomad Tanzania bookings confirmed by May 31st. That oughta put a fire under your tuchus.

Greg Sacks' tuchus is now parked firmly in our Toronto office waiting for your email. Check out our trip planning site for more information on how we can put together your perfect safari.

Not Such Bird Brains After All

Mon, 08 Mar 2010 05:00:00 GMT

Okay... so these 'visitors' aren’t actual people, they’re water birds all the way from the Northern Hemisphere which flock to the Langebaan Lagoon for some defrosting in the sunshine. Coming from the dead of winter in Russia, you'd do the same, wouldn’t you?

Spring on the West Coast is the best time to visit as it is wild flower season. No one can pinpoint exactly which weeks in September or October the flowers will bloom so you just have to be lucky. But if you come at any other time of the year you’ll find a kind of savage beauty—untamed landscapes of bushy fynbos stretching out to windswept beaches buffering the tempestuous Atlantic Ocean.

Driving into the West Coast National Park (about an hour from Cape Town) you’ll need to watch out for the tortoises. They’re a feisty bunch who like to share the road with motorcars. You might also catch the twitching ears of a caracal, the flight of a black harrier and every now and then the pink flash of a flamingo shrimping in the turquoise shallows of the lagoon.

If you book in advance you can stay in the park in an area closed to the general public called Churchhaven—my favourite sort of place as there’s no-one else there (so be careful who you tell). The tiny hamlet has only a few private homes, a church and simple, stylish beach cottages which overlook the lagoon. As there’s no shop or restaurant you have to bring everything in with you—but once there it’s all yours.

If you’re crying out for company, a short drive from Churchhaven is Geelbek, which has a Visitors’ Centre, bird hides, hiking trails, cycling routes and a notable restaurant of the same name which is really rather good. Kraalbaai is another great place to visit within the park for the more active traveller. Kite boarding, kayaking and other water sports can be booked and there are houseboats moored in the lagoon for an overnight with a difference.

Robyn Hodson enjoys a little hermit time every now and then on her travels. You can see more of her work at justtheplanet.com, where she is the Travel Editor. If you're looking to escape urbanization, have a look at our trip planning site to see what we can put together for you.

The Parador Paradigm

Fri, 05 Mar 2010 05:00:00 GMT

King Alfonso XIII may have been the proud owner of the last proper Hapsburg royal underbite, but he was also the man we have to thank for Spain’s Parador Hotels, having founded the group in 1928.

Since then, they seem to have made blissfully little change to their operational guiding principles. If you like throw-back service, amazing historical monuments, and free plastic bottles of 1950’s aftershave in your room, this is the hotel chain for you.

History buffs among you will point out that Alfonso wasn’t Hapsburg at all, he was a Bourbon (i.e. French) monarch, but I’ll forgive myself the error because it’s almost impossible to talk about the Parador hotels without making some sort of historical bloomer. Why? Because the Paradors aren’t steeped in history or even soaked in history—they practically are Spanish history. State-owned and state run (since Alfonso got deposed), they inhabit many of the finest buildings in the country, the pièce de résistance being the Granáda Parador which is actually located inside the famous Alhambra site. It was in this building that the Catholic Kings were buried. I.e., it’s like slinging a hammock up in St Peter’s and kipping down for the night.

On a recent trip in Andalucia I visited six or seven Paradors, and came to love the slightly musty smell of gilt curtains and varnished four-poster beds. I’ve had some mixed experience with state-run hotels in the former Soviet Republics, but the comparison stops there; quite surprisingly, Spanish state hotels all seem to be run by smiling, friendly staff who are geniunely helpful. I suppose that makes sense: they are all living in palaces.

It’s not entirely true that the Paradors are stuck in time. In fact, special offers for both older and younger travellers mean that unless you’re exactly 33.3 years old, chances are they have a very good deal for you. It’s quite possible to travel around Spain overnighting entirely in Parador hotels, making their ‘recorridos por España’ the ultimate retro trip.

Here’s how to do Andalucia in old-school style:
Parador de Ubeda
Parador de Granada
Parador de Ronda
Parador de Arcos de la Frontera
Parador de Carmona

Jack Dancy now has a small stockpile of tiny aftershave bottles, which he will send you as a free gift with your purchase of a Trufflepig trip. Contact him if you share his passion for wine, ham, and perilous cliffs.

Fire Dancer

Thu, 04 Mar 2010 05:00:00 GMT

At Jao Camp, it starts when your hosts, the towering, shaggy-haired Chris and his charming girlfriend Tara, meet you off the safari car and greet you like long lost family.

Jao is a little odd to me; the architecture is imposing for a safari camp, but for some reason also entirely welcoming. I’m sure a great deal of it is due to the amazing staff. The split level Mali style main building is huge, but as soon as you sit down a quick smile and an introduction by Waziba—one of the waiters—make you feel instantly at ease.

The rooms just add to the effect. Expansive is the word I would use, and from any part of the room (the bed, the lounge, your private deck, the tub and yes, even the toilet) you have a commanding view of the Delta beyond.

This litany of unadulterated praise wouldn’t be complete without an account of the nightlife at Jao. A common feature at many safari camps is the boma dinner; a huge bonfire is built and you and your fellow safari-ists dine al fresco under the stars. Usually some of the staff come and sing. The more jaded among you might be forgiven for thinking that that sounds rather contrived. More often than not it is, though thankfully not at Jao.

When the singing began in the distance I did my best to smile politely and not feel the dread of enduring a forced ‘cultural experience’. Very quickly I realized that this was anything but a dog and pony show. The staff actually ask to come and sing, and truly genuinely enjoy doing it. Like most of us, the Motswana like to show off, and do so though singing in a spectacular fashion. After just a few songs my cynicism had been drained and I was up dancing around the fire, the power of the harmony evident by the goose bumps it raised on my skin. This, without question, is how a sublime evening in the bush is supposed to end.

Today we will be asking Dan Achber to perform a reenactment of his fire dance at Jao Camp. Anyone is welcome to attend this event at our offices, though we would appreciate it if you contact Dan in advance, so we can arrange for the appropriate seating around our rooftop fire pit.

The Other Baywatch

Wed, 03 Mar 2010 05:00:00 GMT

Despite the impressive Mother Goddess temple, after two weeks travelling in rural India I was there for the water slide. Sure—I've always been fascinated by the geographical fringes of our world, where curiosity leads the curious and margins attract the marginalized. Here in India, I wanted to stand with the Bay of Bengal, The Indian Ocean and the Arabian Sea all swirling about my ankles, while looking north at the entirety of this crazy country stretching out before me. As sublime as that moment was, it was eclipsed by my visit to Baywatch.

Less than two kilometers away from the the ancient temple, the sacred cows and the dusty streets, Baywatch beckoned. Even in his most intoxicated state, "The Hoff" could never have dreamed this place up. I paid the admission fee and was ushered first into the wax museum. The curtains parted, and I found myself face to face with Michael Jackson and his Bollywood buddy Shah Rukh Khan. In the next room Mahatma Ghandi was holding court with the likes of Sadam Hussein & Jackie Chan. The security guard grinned and gave me his bestest, proudest head wobble. This was weird and wonderful India at its finest.

Next stop was the bumper cars, followed by the spinning tea cups and the flying elephants. Each ride was abandoned, and we more or less had the run of the place until we arrived at the water park, where we found quite a scene going on. For the money shot, click here.

Magical India. There is simply nowhere like it in the world.

Greg Sacks just returned from a magical Indian honeymoon, to an inbox almost as confounding as the country itself. Give him a day to recover before you flood his email here. If you're seeking a wormhole to call your own, check out our trip planning site.

The Vervet Underground

Tue, 02 Mar 2010 05:00:00 GMT

Well, obviously it made a pig-tastic impression when I first saw the sign at the entrance. Leaving your car in a parking lot and being chaffeur-driven up a steep driveway deep into the forest, defines the holiday boundary between the ordinary and what’s beyond the looking-glass. I loved that we were solemnly asked to respect the vervet monkeys and their habitual thieving; “you’re in a forest, after all”.

The staff are all a little ditzy in a nice way... like they’ve been up in the trees too long. Our host got lost en route to our tree-suite—unsurprising as it was at the end of a very long maze of wooden walkways (you do get a map). But it all ended well when she pushed open the double-doors to reveal a stunning Moroccan boudoir filled with colourful silks, gleaming mosaics, luxurious linens and a dreamy four-poster bed draped in mosquito nets. Spot on for a romantic night in the woods.

And then there is the tub that will forever stand out in my memory as one of the top five bathtimes of my life. Surrounded by glass on all sides (even the roof), it extended out into the forest and the trees. Later on as I soaked by candelight, there was rain, the requisite scratch scratch of dark branches against the glass and the loud hoot of an owl; no doubt enviously eyeballing the bubbles both in my tub and my champagne flute.

Locals and travellers have been coming to the Phantom Forest for the food for years. Both restaurants are table d’hôte which helps when you’re so holiday doolally that you’re beyond decision-making. The Moroccan restaurant has deep cushions, shisha pipes, a pool, a view to the famous Knysna Heads, and delicious meze, tagine and trays of colourful sweets to tempt and tantalise. The forest restaurant is a little more sophisticated with a more local South African flavour, but changes on the chef’s whim. She’s good. Very good.

Robyn Hodson is a writer and travel editor for justtheplanet.com. She discovered that Morocco was a lot closer to South Africa than she previously thought, on a recent drive along the Garden Route. Keep checking back for more of her digs from the region. And if you're interested in planning a trip of your own, click here.

The Good Old World

Mon, 01 Mar 2010 05:00:00 GMT

The Old World wasn't always the Old World. In the 15C, Europe and Africa was less modestly referred to as ‘The World’. It was the seat of all wealth and power in, well, pretty much the entire known universe. And it always had been. The New World—nova orbis—stood in direct comparison: it was an untapped wilderness, savage, new and unknown, and there to be plundered.

Things have changed. ‘Old World’ now tends to imply small-scale, hand-made, traditional, (or if you're talking about hotels it means dusty, dark and dank). It can mean craftsmanship, character, uniqueness. But there’s an implied sense that it doesn’t hold up against efficiency and scale. In other words, it’s quaint and we kinda like it, but it’s no proper way to run things.

Old World charm, however, is what brings curious travelers flocking to Europe on holiday—not so much for the titanium buildings, CERN and the Eurostar, but to see crumbling palazzos, buy hand-woven baskets, and eat slow food. So at Trufflepig we spend a lot of our time talking to potters, farmers, cheese-makers, and, yes, even donkeys.

But it often seems like a sort of deliberate act of denial and over-editing to travel around Europe and ignore anything that’s not mediaeval and handmade. After all, they have Ikeas and McDonalds here, too. So why do we do it? Are we looking for these places just because they’re charming and quaint and picturesque?

Actually, no. We have a somewhat more hoity-toity approach. We’re loca-whores. We like to plan trips involving the most interesting local people doing the most interesting local things, and we like it most when things are different and olde worlde as can be. Why?

Because these activities are precisely what keeps the landscape looking the way it does, what keeps people in the towns and villages, and what keeps the places that we like to visit lively and interesting, with kids in the schools and with locals in the bars and restaurants. The acorn forests in Extremadura, the kid playing in the street, the man throwing pots, the guitar maker, the bull farm, even the hand-made carpets of the Ritz in Madrid—all these things require and create a economic and cultural setup that, put very simply, we really dig.

So when we do our trip research we set out very deliberately to find these sorts of people. They run restaurants and they own hotels, they farm and they make things. We stay in their hotels and eat the food they make, and we drive all over the countryside looking for people doing strange things with cheese. We consider it our bounden duty to drink barrels and barrels of sherry and eat plate after plate of jamón. It's not the normal activity of a travel agent, but it is the proper activity of a Trip Planner trying to get to the heart of what is most exciting and unique about Europe.

Jack Dancy runs our European Trip Planning desk from Paris, and is trying to save the world, one 4-hour lunch after another. If you’d like to join his quest, email him here, or read his other rants and rambles here.

A Lunar Landing

Fri, 26 Feb 2010 05:00:00 GMT

Fortunately, here at Trufflepig, our network of spy-pigs have infiltrated this amazing area and report back to Farm HQ from time to time. What follows is the scoop on the latest jewel to be discovered by Robyn Hodson, our pig in the other hemisphere:

Emily Moon is run by Simon—a retired sixty-something who knows the area like the back of his hand and is often around to give solid local advice about where to go and what to do on the Garden Route. His son (a leading collector of African and international art and décor) owns the place, so you can see where it gets its quirky and original style.

The views from all sides are straight over the Bitou River—a gentle, meandering snake of water beset by tall waving reeds and grasses on a liquid landscape filled with water birds. Walk through the Indian gates sign-posted “Emily Moon”, past the inviting blue of the swimming pool, past the laughing group of locals sitting outside in the sunshine getting tipsy on excellent local chardonnay, and step into the restaurant. It’s a large, open-plan space leading out onto a wooden deck with views to the hills and beyond.

The restaurant is the hub for guests and locals alike who come to spend breakfasts, long lunches, early evening drinks and dinners at Emily’s. The food is unpretentious and plays with local flavours (there’s always line-fish and a good steak—either beef or game) as well as combining more exotic tastes from North Africa, Europe and the Far East.

From Emily Moon you can take kayaks down the river or go on bird-watching walks in the area with a guide. And the surrounding area from Plettenberg Bay down to Knysna is host to any number of activities. Emily Moon is intimate and romantic—and known to all those who have visited to be one of those special places where you can relax completely, eat enormously, exercise wildly or simply sit quietly.

www.emilymoon.co.za

Robyn Hodson is a writer and travel editor for justtheplanet.com. She recently visited the Garden Route on a (very successful) quest for Sounder truffles. Keep checking back for more of her digs from the region. And if you're interested in planning a trip of your own, click here.

Fanning the Flame

Wed, 24 Feb 2010 05:00:00 GMT

I landed in Vancouver last Saturday. If you own a television, you may have noticed that the rest of the world descended upon this coastal city with me. The roads look congested (they are), the Olympic flame seems caged and guarded by tourist sentinels (it is), and of course the games are not without their struggles and politics. Listening to a conversation on the street I heard: “So wait, if you’re smashing windows downtown, does that mean you’re for or against the Olympics? I can’t even tell anymore.”

But despite the hassles and contentious issues, there is something compelling and electric in the air there. It’s a feeling that can’t be reproduced at any other time. When cars are locked out of major intersections so that the masses can cheer in the middle of the streets. When every customer and the entire waitstaff of a busy pub all stop to cheer together at the same moment. When the colours you’re wearing on your shirt instantly identify that every other person on the train is your new best friend.

For me, the pinnacle of all this was going to a team Canada hockey game. I’m not even a regular hockey fan, but walking into that arena I could feel my heart swelling faster than the Grinch’s on Christmas day. There is a spirit there, in that sea of red jerseys (and faces), that any foreign visitor can experience immediately. Our pride in our game is a part of Canadian culture, ready to pull any willing participant into the fold, much like a bouzoukia in Greece, or a Sangoma ritual in South Africa.

I didn’t see much of Vancouver proper this time around. But I had a different kind of travel experience that can only happen in the right place at the right time. Brave the crowds somewhere and do the same.

Amy Smithers may or may not be related to one of the fan(atic)s in these photos. Despite such genetic setbacks, she manages to edit the Sounder and squeeze in some trip planning too. Email her if you'd like to submit an uber-patriotic photo to her collection.

My Sherry Amour

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 05:00:00 GMT

After a dalliance with Córdoba and a brief fling with Úbeda, I didn’t expect to be swept off my feet so completely by Jerez, which by all accounts is a shrinking violet compared to Andalucia’s more brazen and well-known sites. However, if I describe a recent day getting to know the eponymous heartland of sherry, you’ll see why I fell so hard.

10:00 am, heading into town, we realise the stock of fino in the fridge is dangerously low, and pop into a warehouse in a quiet old neighbourhood of Santiago along the way, to fill an empty litre bottle straight from the barrel, for just a few cents. This was not an unpicturesque episode, I might add. As a general rule, I’ll drink anything straight from the barrel, but fino, the lightest of the different varieties of sherry, with its slightly bitter resinous taste, is now my go-to plonk. Score.

11:00 am, after a coffee, we hit the fish market—hands down the best I’ve ever seen anywhere in the world. There are mountains of fresh fish, of a hundred different varieties, with gleaming eyes and a bright sheen to their scales. I’m impressed by the throng of people buying it by the kilo, but I’m bowled over by the knife skills of the fishmongers, who adopt a series of matador poses and sing out in flamenco-esque shrieks as they sell their wares. I wonder if this is just my lively imagination, until my host points to one man selling mussels, and identifies him as one of the town’s leading palmeros—or flamenco clapper. Fishmonger by day; flamenco gypsy by night. Cool.

12:30 pm, after another coffee and a toast scraped with garlic (for breakfast), it’s time to go tasting so we head to Beam’s Bodega de Jerez, to meet Eugenia Herrera García, visit the cellars, and try to learn the difference between Fino, Amontillado, Oloroso, Cream and Pedro Jimenez. I’m amazed to learn about the solera system in which each brew passes through a system of interconnecting barrels (as pictured) over a period of decades, mixing with older wines along the way, and ageing beautifully and uniformly. We taste in Bodega Fundador’s La Mezquita cellar (pictured) which must be the world’s most impressive cellar, built to resemble Córdoba’s La Mezquita mosque, and containing an ocean of sherry. Wow.

2:45 pm By now we’re starving, so we drive to nearby town of Sanlúcar de Barrameda on the coast—a paradise of tapas joints serving the same fish we saw in the market. It’s also where a different kind of sherry—Manzanilla—comes from. Nothing to do with apples or camomile despite the name, Manzanilla is supposed to capture the taste of the sea winds that cool the barrels and blow across the vineyards. Whatever. All I know is that it makes a particularly happy marriage with the local prawns, snails, sea-urchins and other fantastic tapas we ordered. Mmmm.

Sanlúcar is where Magellan sailed from in 1519, never to return. One ship returned from that expedition, with 18 of the original 265 sailors who left—and that ship was the first ever to circumnavigate the world. A plaque on the wall commemorates their names. 22 years earlier, Christopher Columbus had left from here on his third expedition to the New World. It looks like just a small fishing town, but it’s really on the map. I like a nice digestif of history to go with my seafood lunch.

In the afternoon, we wander around. It’s an attractive town, and I buy some locally woven baskets and we visit an old palacio. It’s siesta time and the town is mostly asleep. La Cigarrera is open for drinks though, and a finer collection of hanging jamónes I’ve never seen. We have a slow beer, to while away some time. And because we’ll need all the force we can get to take on the evening’s flamenco hunting in Jerez’s peñas. What a truly great place this is.

Jack Dancy lives in Paris in an apartment that's now full of sherry and ringing to the sound of flamenco music. He runs our Euro Bureau from where we manage all our European Trip Planning. To learn more about Spain click here; to read how our Trip Planning Services work click here; or if you like clicking your fingers click here.