Despite all this, the Cook Islands often gets pigeonholed as a wedding and honeymoon hotspot. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but this too-simple stereotype has the effect of flattening a culturally, historically and naturally rich country—whose 15 lush, atoll-ringed islands sprawl across nearly 700,000 square miles of tropical open ocean—into a white-sand-beach backdrop for destination nuptials.

But that wedding stereotype wavers as soon as I touch down in the capital seat of Rarotonga. What I find instead are infinitely inviting islands that embody all the classic South Pacific tropes—the Gauguinesque vistas, the placid lagoons, and the smells of hibiscus and wild guava heavy in the sea air. Even better, the landscape is unmarred by ostentatious development. Handmade signs mark local landmarks, chickens join my morning forays up rainforest hiking trails, and there’s not a chain hotel in sight.

Cook Islanders, like most Polynesians, straddle the line between the modern world and their traditional past as warriors, tribal groups and accomplished navigators. Ancient seafarers from the Cook Islands contributed to New Zealand’s native culture—both groups are called Maori—and that kinship continues to shape the islands today.

A New Zealand protectorate until 1965, the Cooks retains many artifacts of its colony status: Cook Islanders share the Kiwi accent, New Zealand’s currency is used interchangeably with the local tender, and most arriving visitors will do so on board an Air New Zealand flight, which operates direct from Los Angeles to Rarotonga before continuing on to Auckland, just a few hours away.

Minutes after disembarking this flight myself, I drop my bags in an impeccable beach bungalow flanked by brilliant white sand. Truth be told, however, I harbor an innate impatience for basking on beaches, no matter their snow-whiteness. And so, I grab my gear and burn out the door to hitch a boat ride beyond the fringing lagoon with Steve Lyon, of Pacific Divers.

The atoll lagoons that surround the islands are a core feature both to local life and to visiting vacationers in the forms of food, protection and recreation. Ancient geologic forces created coralline rings around each island that protect shallow interior lagoons perfect for flats fishing, snorkeling and paddling. But outside these rings, the reefs drop quickly like exposed cliff faces into thousands of feet of open ocean—something I see first hand when Lyon moors his dive boat near the edge of the drop, and I roll backwards off the boat.

As I descend into a playground of submarine volcanic rock formations coated with thick blankets of stony corals, I kick alongside boulders big as two-story houses that lean precariously over the abyss. And I let myself sink slowly into the blue water while jacks stalk baitfish along the ocean’s edge.

For inside-the lagoon exploring, it’s hard to find a place more idyllic than the island of Aitutaki. Situated about 160 miles north of Rarotonga, and accessible via its U.S. military-installed, WWII-era airstrip, little Aitutaki is renowned for its otherworldly, triangular atoll lagoon, laced with shifting sandbars and pockmarked by 15 palm-fringed islets (called motus). These meandering spits of sand have made this one of the most sought-after spots in the chain—especially among the aforementioned wedding crowds, who flock to these desert-island backdrops.

A full day floats away in a flash when I tour the lagoon with a long-standing local company, Bishop’s Cruises. I snorkel shallow coral heads, where giant clams the size of briefcases filter feed in the sun-drenched water, and take a walk around Honeymoon Island, whose sparse scrub interior harbors dozens of nesting frigate birds with fluffy, gray chicks peeping out from beneath their mothers’ protective bodies.

The main attraction, however, is Tapuaetai, aka One Foot Island. Despite being a tourist-typical island lunch stop—complete with the “world’s smallest post office,” where visitors can get a souvenir stamp in their passports—this tiny motu is the epitome of a South Pacific paradise. After a picnic of fresh fruit, fish and cold beer, I take a walk up the beach and a long float back down the channel separating it from the sandy tailings of nearby Tekopua Island. The incoming tidal current funnels into the deep passage, creating a natural lazy river that flows peacefully alongside swaying coconut palms.

Back on Rarotonga, I settle in along Muri Beach. This area on the eastern coast is the island’s main beach activity center, with oceanside hotels, restaurants and watersports operators, though even on busy days the atmosphere is lazy and decidedly uncrowded. The lagoon here offers a perfect place for windsurfing, kayaking and stand-up paddleboarding among four nearshore islets.

It’s also the ideal base for exploring Rarotonga’s formidable interior. Looking inward from the coast, the island seems almost impenetrable, a wall of sheer cliffs and toothy spires interwoven by a lattice of green jungle. Solo-hiking on the Cross-Island Track, I pass under laden wild guava trees, push through shoulder-high ferns wet with morning rain and navigate ground cover so thick it seems entirely possible—if I were to stand still for more than moment—encroaching vines could overgrow my limbs, absorbing me into the spongy forest floor like a downed log.

For a rowdier ride than my peaceful walk in the woods can provide, I turn to Coconut Tours, which offers jungle-track ATV treks. Since the vast majority of land in the Cook Islands is family owned and passed down over generations, access to these interior regions requires a local guide who has prearranged passage with local landowners. Along the way, I pass small villages, pens of prized pigs, and stop to sample wild fruits and medicinal plants—not to mention fish-tailing through deep valleys, skirting steep ridges, and powering waist deep through a dozen river crossings and mud holes before rinsing off at a local swimming hole.

Granted, the Cook Islands certainly has earned its reputation as one of the Pacific’s premier destination-wedding spots. The desert-island beach backdrops are tough to beat. But this affordable, accessible island encompasses so much more. Just below the surface, the islands’ genuinely friendly atmosphere and homegrown adventure-travel streak simmers like a volcano, threatening to erupt into the South Pacific’s newest must-visit. Get in on the ground floor before it blows up—and anyway, why should the honeymooners have all the fun?




To see more pictures from this trip, check out the Classic Cook Islands slideshow

From incredible island hiking to world-class windsurfing, Bonaire is an all-around outdoor paradise. Better yet, unlike neighboring Aruba and Curacao, there’s not a chain hotel in sight and its easy roads and well-marked attractions make it eminently explorable with or without a tour guide. Throw in super-friendly, Dutch-infused locals with an infectious love for their natural landscape, and you’ve got the DIY traveler’s trifecta.

Explore Bonaire for yourself with this lineup of the island’s top five outdoor adventures—no scuba tanks required.

1. Washington Slaagbai National Park

With rolling desert hills and towering cactuses dominating the landscape, the rugged Washington Slaagbai National Park feels more like the American southwest than the Caribbean, except for one thing: You can’t turn the bend of a dusty West Texas trail to find a deserted white-sand beach where rolling waves beg you to body surf. From hiking and mountain biking to bird watching, kayaking and cliff jumping, this park has adventures to top any visitor’s must-do list. Car- and bike-friendly roads run alongside hiking trails that include a flat walk through the prickly pears out to Chikita Beach and a not-so-flat climb to the top of Branderis, the island’s highest point. Aside from the visitor center at the entrance, the only facilities are found at Slaagbai, a white sand beach on the west side with a food vendor and picnic area among historic harbor buildings.

2. Cave snorkeling

You could be forgiven for thinking the only place to get wet on Bonaire is the ocean. That’s because its most secret snorkel spot isn’t at the beach, but rather beneath a blanket of desert scrub brush. Like many Caribbean islands, subterranean springs have eroded parts of Bonaire’s coral limestone substrate, leaving the island pockmarked by caves. Protected as natural and cultural resources (they were used by native Bonaireans), these caves require local guides. Clay Davalaar—of Jentis Tours—will bring the lights and ropes needed to reach the heart of a particularly impressive, spring-filled chamber just a short drive from Kralendik. Heat up during the climb down, then you can slip on a face mask and cool off in the crystal-clear water swimming among a maze of rock formations.

3. Harley Tours

While they might seem mutually exclusive, the Venn diagram of scuba divers and Harley riders has a big intersection, and true to form, a passionate group of dive-crew-turned-motorcycle-junkies recently launched both a booming local motorcycle club and laid-back custom tour company from the iconic Captain Don’s Habitat dive resort. With its wide open spaces and relatively long stretches of empty road, Bonaire seems built for motorcycle riding—just watch for goats—and there’s little that compares with saddling up a rumbling Harley to sightsee along the salt pans and old slave huts on the island’s south end. Custom rides can range from a couple hours to a full day, and a favorite route passes through the Sorobon area at Lac Bay, with a stop for some fork-tender kabritu stoba (goat stew) at the Maiky Snack local-food shack.

4. Windsurfing

While Bonaire’s west side supports the bulk of the island’s hotels, shops and watersports, the eastern side is all about the wind. Buffeted by tradewinds year round, Lac Bay is the everyday surf turf of local pros that tear up windsurfing competitions throughout the Caribbean. But it’s not just for experts—aquamarine Lac Bay stays shallow and flat calm far offshore, which makes it the perfect spot to get your sea legs. And situated right on lively Sorobon Beach, Bonaire Windsurf Place has board rentals and lessons taught by championship-winning windsurfers that’ll have you standing and sailing in no time.

5. Mangrove Kayaking

The reefs of Bonaire boast unprecedented numbers of marine life, and they owe their diversity to the robust nearshore mangroves that act as protected nurseries for young sea creatures. To see this delicate and vital ecosystem, take a kayak trip into the winding channels of mangrove trees and sea grass beds from the Mangrove Center, a dual-purpose research facility/paddling operation on the outer edge of Lac Bay. After weaving from the mangrove tunnels to the ocean and back again, you can tie up in a protected cove. Slip gently into the water to swim among juvenile reef fish and look for the flower-like Cassiopeia, aka upside-down jellyfish, that plant themselves headfirst in the silty seabeds.

For divers looking to put to sea at Alotau and crisscross the heart of Milne Bay’s most fruitful diving grounds, a day boat just won’t do. It takes a big ship—one with the range and the room to run hard-core diving expeditions through deep-water channels pockmarked with oceanic seamounts, and into far-off protected coves where volcanic, black-sand beaches plunge beneath placid waters, sporting weird, wild marine life on some of the best muck dives in the Coral Triangle.

Only a handful of dive boats ply these waters—period—so the choices are few. But the newest option, offering a vast 10-day diving itinerary, is the Dancer Fleet’s Star Dancer. The spacious, 110-foot, 16-passenger motor yacht previously operated out of Kimbe Bay further to the north, but moved in March 2011 to launch a wide-ranging itinerary in Milne Bay. “The other liveaboards in this area focus primarily on critter diving,” says Star Dancer captain Chris Guglielmo. “We’re trying to offer a mix of muck sites, pinnacles, and reef dives.”

On an exploratory expedition at the beginning of April—Star Dancer’s second Milne Bay charter ever—the trip kicked off with a bang at the first dive site, Manta Ray Cleaning Station. The rubble bottom didn’t elicit many cries of joy at first. But by the second dive, one of the ship’s divemasters, a local who grew up in the village on the adjacent beach, had scouted the reef with a knowing eye.

“Would you care to see the mantas?” he said in his soft, Aussie-tinged island brogue. And within minutes of cranking up the chase boat, he deftly dropped the first group down the center of a swirling pack of ten footers. At the peak of an encounter that lasted to early afternoon, four of the winged behemoths flew in formation around a small coral head, back-rolling and dive-bombing just feet from the divers’ face masks, perpetually accompanied by swarms of eager remoras and cleaner fish.

With the group’s big-animal fix sated, the next day started with world-class muck diving off Samurai Island. The historic Samurai Wharf was once the province’s most prosperous port—now long moved to Alotau—but the pilings and the stacks of clam nets and other detritus scattered beneath the old piers still see unprecedented marine-life traffic.

At the end of the crumbling pier where local women and children jigged hand lines tied to Coke bottles, the group back-rolled into a dense cloud of their silver-sided quarry. And on the bottom, choose-your-own-adventure was the name of the game—whether hunting for wobbygong sharks beneath the lava rocks on the fringe of the pier, playing peekaboo with a pair of harlequin shrimp directly under the Star Dancer’s swim step, or gingerly tipping up bottles, boots and old coconut shells among the pilings in search of pipefish, stonefish, and octopuses.

From there, the charter alternated between open-ocean pinnacles and black-sand slopes off isolated villages where warm islanders greeted the Star Dancer in hand-carved outriggers loaded with homegrown fruits and vegetables. The savvy galley crew kept the guests well fed with hearty, impeccably fresh meals by bartering bags of rice and packaged noodles for everything from mangos and passion fruit to sweet potatoes, pumpkin greens, and fresh tuna.

The pinnacles—boasting names like Doubilet’s Reef, Crinoid City, and Calypso—rise from the inky blue depths and feature innumerable examples of the region’s unprecedented coral varieties. And while fishing has clearly taken its toll—schools of large pelagic fishes and sharks are virtually non-existent, with the exception of the occasional black-tip or tawny nurse shark—critters steal the show on these dives. The eagle-eyed dive guides make quick work of revealing pygmy seahorses clinging desperately to tiny gorgonian branches, lacy scorpionfish nestled among the rocks, and crocodile fish flattened against the seafloor.

And on the black-sand muck dives, the divemasters proved their worth even more clearly, seeming to conjure exotic creatures like imperator shrimps, cockatoo waspfish and stargazers from the backs of grazing sea cucumbers, piles of leaves, or the silty substrate itself.

In a nod to the WWII remains that still occupy many parts of Papua New Guinea’s forests and coastlines, the exploratory expedition climaxed with a single deep dive on an intact B17 “Blackjack” bomber plane, sitting in 155 feet of water at the foot of a serenely beautiful coral wall. “Unfortunately, this will probably never be part of the normal itinerary,” Gulglielmo said after motoring through the night to isolated Cape Vogel. “Even for Milne Bay, it’s just too remote.”

Need to Know

When to go: Weather and dive conditions remain good, but predictably unpredictable, year round. In general May to November can bring strong winds and rain, while January to March can bring calm, warm weather, but squalls and rain happen unexpectedly throughout the year.
Dive Conditions: Water temperatures range from the high 70s to the mid 80s. Muck sites are generally in protected coves with modest visibility. Expect unpredictable currents and surface conditions on the pinnacles, where visibility can top 150 feet.
Operator/Price Tag: Star Dancer runs 8- to 10-night charters year round, with 6 1/2 to 8 1/2 days of diving. Prices range from $2369 to $2995.

As afternoon turned into early evening, the trail gradually narrowed to a meandering capillary. We wound through thick scrub congested by fallen logs, and ducked grasping branches that rained spiders at the slightest provocation.

“Has anyone seen a signpost since we left Floyd’s Prairie?” I yelled behind me. “No,” came the reply through moist air. And after a pause, “Can you see anything up there?” Only the trees, I thought. “We’re heading in the right direction,” I answered optimistically, looking at my compass. “And I haven’t seen any forks in the trail.”

Ultimately my uncertainty was misplaced, and it transformed into a mixture of relief and pride of accomplishment as the bank of the low-lying island came into view a little before sundown. “Piece of cake,” I announced as I hauled my boat out of the water. The group gave a tired, half-hearted laugh and started hauling supplies up the trail to the small cabin where we would pitch camp for our first night in the swamp.

Despite its theme-park-sounding name, the Okefenokee is a pretty serious place. The name itself means “land of the trembling earth” in the language of once indigenous Native American groups, referring to the swamp’s many floating islands of peat that shake when walked upon. Located on the Georgia/Florida border, this Deep South idyll covers roughly 400,000 acres of primal, tannin-stained wetlands, making it the largest “blackwater” swamp in North America.

We had launched our boats earlier that morning from Stephen C. Foster State Park, the only access point on the western edge of the refuge, and initially paddled upstream along the Suwannee River, one of two slow-flowing rivers that originate here (the St. Mary’s River is the other). After a couple miles of easy paddling, a well-marked crossroads pointed us into the 120-mile-long network of boat trails maintained by the National Wildlife Refuge.

Visitors can arrange self-guided trips along these trails with the refuge office, which provides permits for 12 designated overnight trips of varying difficulty, from one to four nights long. The permits allow exclusive access to the trails and the overnight spots along them, making it entirely possible to venture into the wilderness for days without encountering significant signs of civilization, or even another person, along the way.

Paddling alone through this wilderness, the place has an ethereal rainforest feel to it, dense and steamy, packed to the fern fronds with some of the region’s most exotic plants—like micro-forests of predatory pitcher plants—and more than 200 species of birds, including endangered species like wood storks and sandhill cranes, not to mention lurking alligators, venomous water moccasins and an endless barrage of orbiting mosquitoes and biting flies. One can easily imagine that, when the Devil came down to Georgia—presumably for the weather and the company—he holed up here.

—

Once we settled on Floyd’s Island, night came quickly. There are eight campsites scattered throughout the swamp, but Floyd’s Island is the only one on dry land—the others feature stilted, corrugated-roofed wooden platforms built over the water or above peaty hummocks—and the breezeless, tree-covered island harbors significantly more biting insects than the open-air platforms. So, thanks to the flies and mosquitoes, we retired early, with their fitful buzzing, and the humidity, lulling us into a shallow, malarial sleep.

The next day, after portaging our canoes across the island, our time spent slogging into the heart of this vast wetland seemed pulled from the pages of A Journey to the Center of the Earth. Like Jules Verne’s explorers, we had delved into meandering tunnels, battled exotic creatures and emerged through the backdoor of the swamp to find a prehistoric paradise where the canoe path skirted the heavily wooded fringes of shimmering lakes, wide-open wetland prairies bloomed with blankets of fragrant water lilies and the trees and clear blue sky reflected off the water’s famously mirror-like surface.

Each stroke of our paddles set off a cascade of action alongside the boats: Frogs croaked with alarm before belly flopping into the water, dragonflies the size of small birds alighted from their perches to buzz around our airspace, and the protruding yellow eyes of log-like, and otherwise submerged, alligators tracked us cautiously before slipping below the surface.
Occasionally, we’d steer into shady grottoes buffeted by the breeze flowing over the canals and nose the boats into the reeds to sit motionless and watch a crane fishing in the distance or an owl swiveling its head 180 degrees in its treetop perch.

After about four miles, we passed under a canopy of interlocking cypress branches and turned onto a modest river with trees tall enough on either side to block the mid-afternoon sun. And nestled into the underbrush, we found the spacious wooden platform of the Canal Run Shelter boasting an irresistible waterfront view. With plenty of daylight left, we unloaded the boats, set up camp and spent the afternoon exploring smaller side trails unencumbered by the ballast weight of our gear.

After a peaceful night sleeping alongside the dark water with frogs and insects volleying their choruses across the canal, the next and final leg of our three-day expedition pointed back to the start, and like the inbound trail to Floyd’s Island, returning from the center of the swamp proved challenging. The eight-mile path included six miles of the notorious “Orange Trail,” which at times appeared indistinguishable from the surrounding scrub brush and frustrated our forward momentum with a mixture of downed logs and thick peat quagmires that slowed paddling to a crawl.

At one point, caught in one of these dense patches of vegetation, I inched alongside a wide lily pad piled with a handful of chirping newborn alligators about the size of my forearm. The encounter was briefly exhilarating, but in the back of my mind, I knew babies must have a mother nearby. So, I dug my paddle in deep and pushed forward with newfound gusto.

After a full day of paddling and the persistent uncertainty about our direction that one gets when bushwhacking through a particularly dense jungle, an opening appeared in the underbrush like the mouth of a cave, and the trail spit us back onto the wide course of the Suwannee River like walking out the front door. Almost immediately, signposts pointed downstream to Billy’s Island and onward to Stephen C. Foster State Park, bringing the trip full circle, and reminding us we were never all that far from civilization.

It’s a special thing to escape, even for day or two, and explore unhindered through one of the country’s last true wildernesses, and that sense of isolation is realtively comfortable and accessible when it’s supported and maintained by the National Wildlife Refuge like it is here. In a way, we came to the land of the trembling earth hoping to get a little lost. But of course, I never admitted it.

Away.com, Dec. 2009

Calling Papua New Guinea a diverse country doesn’t even begin to describe the variations on culture, language, landscape, and wildlife that perpetually bombard the senses when traveling here. This island nation, which sits just north of Australia in the South Pacific, is comprised of more than 1,000 distinct cultures and 860 native languages, packed into an area the size of California. The histories, beliefs, and traditions of the people fluctuate so wildly from one group to the next that in some places even neighboring villages remain notably disparate.

Despite the presence of modern cities like Port Moresby and Lae, nearly 80 percent of PNG’s population lives in rural areas where many villages and clans still have one foot in the Stone Age. PNG’s interior jungle is, in fact, one of the world’s few regions—second only to the Amazon Rainforest—where native tribes still exist with no contact or knowledge of the outside world.

Not to be outdone, the land, the landscape, and the adventure-travel potential of this practically untapped experiential resource boasts an equally diverse range. For travelers who make the journey, with aid from our PNG Travel Guide, expect introductions to storybook cultures, tours of smoldering volcanoes and geothermal hot springs, artifact hunting expeditions into swampy lowlands populated with brutally friendly (former) cannibals, history-laded treks that follow in the footsteps of the Australians and Japanese who fought desperately here during World War II, scuba diving among the most biologically diverse coral reefs in the world, and so much more.

To tempt the palate with a taste of these—and more—of PNG’s most incredible attractions, click to the next page to uncover ten can’t-miss adventures from around the country.

10. Climb an Active Volcano
In September 1994, plumes of hot ash exploded from the Vulcan and Tavurvur volcanoes on the eastern end of New Britain Island, raining hellfire onto the lively island town of Rabaul, which is flanked by PNG’s most explosive peaks. And even now, much of Rabaul remains charred and buried like a tropical-island Pompeii. A new volcano observatory keeps close watch on things today, and volcano watchers can explore the eerie moonscape of the ruins before hiring local guides to lead day hikes up any of the half-dozen active volcanic vents that ring the Rabaul caldera. Along the way, take a dip at one of the geothermal hot springs found around the vents. Since the last eruption, many people and businesses have left Rabaul and relocated to nearby Kokopo. Managers at both Kokopo Beach Bungalows and Rabaul Hotel can arrange personalized volcano tours with local guides.

9. Ride a Secret Surf Break
Imagine swells rolling through clear-blue South Pacific seas, tossing up consistently beautiful barrels as they pass over lush coral reefs on their way to virgin shorelines, the breaks empty of people except for the smiling, sun-bleached local kids riding shoreward on handmade surfboards. That’s the scene off Lido Village, near Vanimo, in the far northwest of the country, and prime surf spots like this can be found in Kavieng, Weewak, and even Port Moresby. The waves are easily on par with other world-class surf spots in the region—like Indonesia, Tahiti, or Fiji—except for one thing: no crowds. And luckily, even when the word does get out, the waves will remain blissfully secluded due to a surf area management plan enacted by the Surfing Association of Papua New Guinea that limits the number of riders allowed into the water on any given day. Head to the north shore from April to October, the south from June to September. And bring a board—equipment is still hard to find on island.

8. Scuba Dive Kimbe Bay’s Undersea Pinnacles
Located on the north side of New Britain Island, Kimbe Bay sits along the southern edge of the Coral Triangle—a swath of Pacific Ocean famous for its unparalleled marine-life diversity. And true to form, Kimbe Bay boasts more than 900 species of fish among its reefs and more than 400 types of coral—nearly half of the known coral species worldwide. The diving here runs the gamut: nearshore coral gardens burst with color, and offer shallow, sun-drenched reefs loaded with macro-critters like harlequin ghost pipefish and pygmy sea horses. Out in the bay, dive sites like Susan’s Reef fringe the edge of the undersea shelf, where divers can explore the steep walls overflowing with waving soft corals and clownfish hiding among the tentacles of their anemones. And just outside the bay, coral bommies and undersea pinnacles—like Inglis Shoal and Kimbe Island Bommie—rise from the open ocean to within 50 or 60 feet of the surface and attract swarms of roving sharks, great schools of Pacific barracuda, and other pelagic predators.The Walindi Resort is the only dive operation on Kimbe Bay. From the resort, which is nestled into an oil-palm plantation overlooking the bay, guests can make day trips out to the diving grounds. For hardcore divers, Walindi also offers itineraries on its liveaboard dive boat Febrina, which explores the farthest reaches of Kimbe Bay and beyond.

7. Hunt for Artifacts in the Sepik River Valley
The people of the Sepik River valley are famous worldwide for their distinctive carved spirit masks, cassowary-bone daggers, and other artwork. Even the design of the PNG government’s Parliament building in Port Moresby is based on the haus Tambaren, or spirit houses, of the Sepik Region. But despite their renown, the incredibly diverse people who populate the banks of the Sepik River and its tributaries live today much as they have for hundreds of years, hand-line fishing from dugout canoes, subsisting off the starchy pulp of the prevalent sago palms and passing down stories of their war ravaged, cannibalistic past through their art, dances, and oral traditions. No roads permeate the thick jungles and grasslands that flank the country’s largest river, so the only access into this remote section of the country is by bush plane or boat. Trans Niugini Tours operates the riverboat Sepik Spirit which visitors can live on-board and make forays by flat-bottom boat on artifact-hunting expeditions to nearby villages.

6. Spend the Night in a Sepik Family House
Go beyond simply visiting the villages and shopping for artifacts in the Sepik River region, get a firsthand look at local life by spending the night with a native tribe. The Karawari Lodge arranges overnight trips at the Kungriambun, Konmei, and Kaiwaria villages along the Karawari River, a tributary of the Sepik. The villagers provide accommodations in one of their stilted, sprawling family houses, and the accompanying guides furnish it temporarily with sleeping pads and mosquito nets. During the day, visitors can take nature walks or go fishing with the village women, and at night join the meals and storytelling around the fire before heading off to bed.

5. Hike the Historic Kokoda Track
World War II buffs shouldn’t miss an opportunity to hike the infamous Kokoda Track. The full length of the track stretches nearly 60 miles across the rugged mountains of the Owen Stanley Range, following the path of a bloody WWII campaign between Australia and Japan from Owen’s Corner to the village of Kokoda. While it’s the most popular trek in PNG, and a veritable rite of passage for many Australians, Kokoda is not for the casual hiker, as it passes through sweltering jungles, up and down impossibly steep ridges, and across fast-flowing rivers. However, along the way it offers the opportunity to explore historic battlefields, hand-dug trenches, and war artifacts, as well as to make overnight stops in local villages to learn the culture from natives and each village’s history along the track. Hiking end-to-end can take anywhere from four to 12 days depending on the pace and fitness of the hikers. Numerous trekking companies like Kokoda Trekking [link to www.kokodatrail.com.au] offer expeditions along the track, arranging logistics like track permits, village visits, and porters to carry gear and supplies.

4. Scale Mt. Wilhelm, PNG’s Tallest Peak
At 14,790 feet, Mt. Wilhelm is the tallest mountain in PNG, and while the climb is relatively challenging, it’s not technical and doesn’t require extensive mountaineering gear or experience. The hike to the summit passes through tropical, temperate, and alpine forests—there’s even the possibility of snow at the peak—and from the top it’s possible to see both the north and south coasts of the country. Excursions to the summit with PNG Trekking Adventures start with transport from either Goroka or Mt. Hagen to Betty’s Lodge at Keglsugl on the side of the mountain. The following day involves a leisurely 3-hour hike to the base camp, where climbers can stay for a night or two, taking short walks and acclimatizing to the altitude. For the summit hike, climbers leave the base camp around 1 a.m. in order to reach the peak by sunrise and then make a full descent back to the lodge at Keglsugl before catching a ride to town the following day.

3. Dance with Highland Tribes at the Country’s Largest Sing-Sing
Every August, more than 50 different native tribes converge on the Kagamuga Showgrounds in the Highland city of Mt. Hagen to perform traditional “sing-sing” dance celebrations in full tribal dress for the Mt. Hagen Cultural Show, the largest of its kind in the country. The Highlands of PNG are home to some of the country’s most colorful and impressive displays of native culture—like the ornately plumed Huli Wigmen of Tari who emulate the bird of paradise, and the elaborately sculpted masks of the Asaro Mudmen, which depict malevolent forest spirits—and this cultural show is a can’t-miss for visitors who want to join the festivities. Trans Niugini Tours has been offering Mt. Hagen Show itineraries for nearly three decades with accommodations at the Highlander Hotel in Mt. Hagen.

2. Spot the Elusive Bird of Paradise
All around PNG, bird watching is big business. There are around 700 species of exotic birds to be found across the country’s many ecosystems, but one bird in particular—the bird of paradise—seems to top everybody’s “must-spot” list. The Huli Wigmen have prized the lavish feathers of these birds for hundreds of years, as evidenced by the Huli’s elaborate headdresses featuring bird of paradise feathers and their traditional dances, which mimic those of the birds in their natural habitats. The Tari Gap region is the place to see as many as 13 different species of bird of paradise, as well as visit the Huli in their own villages. The Ambua Lodge offers bird watching and Huli village daytrips from its Tari location, beneath a canopy of mountain rainforest.

1. See the Skull Caves of Milne Bay
It is believed that many years ago, in the pre-missionary days of Milne Bay Province, an important person who died was buried upright in the ground with his head poking out, covered by a clay pot, and over time, once the skull disconnected from the body, it was taken to a special cave to be stored along with the skulls of other important tribespeople. Jump forward to today: These caves are no longer in use, but a number of them have been opened up in the vicinity of Alotau. The Tawali Resort offers day hikes through the jungle to visit these skull caves—some literally loaded with ancient craniums. The day starts with a boat ride to the trailhead, ends with a refreshing dip under a tropical waterfall, and includes bird watching and orchid hunting along the way.

See Original Article at Away.com

Belted into the passenger seat of a four-door pickup — the bed full of dive gear — I’m rolling down a narrow stretch of paved road that cuts through a buzzing swath of Yucatan jungle listening to my dive guide, Nat Wilson, explain the mythology behind the freshwater-filled caverns we’ve been diving for the past couple of days. He’s just finished the part about how the ancient Maya believed the openings of these cenotes served as portals to Xibalba, the Mayan underworld, when he hits the brakes and swerves to the shoulder. “You see that?” he asks, his outstretched finger pointing out my side window. “What?” I ask. “The jungle?”

“Through this hole in the trees. See its tail?” I look harder — fairly impressed that he could spot anything through the dense underbrush — and I see it, a blue bird about the size of a pigeon with a twitchy tail. “That’s the motmot,” he says, adding that the Maya considered mot- mots to be the guardians of the cenotes. “In reality, they hang around the caverns because it’s the only access to fresh water out here,” Wilson says. “And these days, us cave divers watch for the birds to help us find the entrances.”

Of course Wilson — the training director and in-house cave guru for Dressel Divers — doesn’t need a motmot to help him find the cenote we plan to dive. Though there are dozens of cenotes open to divers, one of the most popular is the Dos Ojos system — the name means “two eyes” and refers to the two primary cavern openings, called the “East” and “West” Eyes, which when seen from afar look like two eyes protruding from the jungle floor. And while this area is increasingly subjected to throngs of swimmers who splash around the entrances, Wilson assures me that deep inside the caverns it’s a whole different world.

In order to get underwater before the tour buses crowd us out, Wilson rolled up to my resort bright and early. Luckily I’m staying about midway between Playa del Carmen and Tulum — in the heart of cenote country — and when we show up, we have the place to ourselves.

We park next to the trailhead that leads to the main entrance at the East Eye, strap on our gear and head down. I notice smoke billowing up from brush fires around the opening, and when I ask, Wilson explains that the locals, modern-day Maya who own the land around the cenote, build the fires as offerings to the gods. “Really?” I ask hesitantly. “Of course not,” he answers with a laugh. “They’re for the bugs.” I slap a handful of mosquitoes slurping from my ankle.

Despite the bonfires, the mosquitoes are drinking their fill from our exposed feet and hands, so we make quick work of a back flop from the dive platform into the crystalline water, do one final gear check and descend to the floor of the pool, where two guidelines are tied off at the mouth of the cavern. The right guideline, called the Barbie Line, follows an easy, well-lit path. On the left, the Bat Cave Line extends 65 feet into the opening of the submerged cavern before hanging a left into a darkened side passage. We take the latter.

Wilson assumes the lead, hovering skillfully a couple of feet above the line to avoid stirring up the bottom, and I frog-kick gently to keep pace as we slip into the dark passageway, flashlight beams bouncing off the stark-white limestone formations — thick floor-to- ceiling columns and hanging stalactites that formed eons ago before these tunnels filled with water.

After swimming a few minutes, we make another left turn into a large chamber, where a narrow beam of light coming through a small hole in the distance provides dim illumination while we follow the contours of the wall. From here, we follow the guideline as it slopes upward, leading us into the dive’s eponymous feature: the bat cave — another large, circular chamber, this one only partially filled with water, leaving an open-air space in the top of the room.

Bearing left, we circumnavigate a jumbled pile of rock slabs, which had fallen from the ceiling to create a mesalike mound in the center of the room. Along the circumference, we explore a fissure beneath the limestone that constitutes the jungle floor 40 feet or so above our heads. And meandering through the tight maze of stalactites and stalagmites, we pass underneath some of the most delicate formations I’ve seen in any of my dives through these cenotes. The ceiling bristles with soda-straw stalactites — pencil-thin protrusions that blanket the surface en masse like a bed of nails.

At the far end of the chamber, Wilson stops and motions me to the surface of the water, tinged green by sunlight from a small opening in the roof. Popping up into the air pocket, I remove my regulator and take a breath of the cool, damp air. True to its name, the ceiling of the cavern boasts clusters of small bats; occasionally one swan dives from its upside-down perch and — wings spread — glides over the electric-green pool only to arc upward and alight once again.

Eventually we drop back down and continue around the other side of the room, following the line back the way we came and emerging along the edge of the West Eye. Here, our line runs into itself at the passageway back to our starting point. We hold our lights to our chests; from this vantage point, the sunlight filtering through the main entrance puts the cavern in silhouette, and “laser beams” of light stream in along the edges.

After we climb up to the dive platform, Wilson starts back up the trail, but just as I’m about to turn and leave, I see it again: the small blue bird, tail bouncing disjointedly, perched on the lip of the cavern as if overseeing our departure.

Need to Know
Getting There: The majority of Riviera Maya’s divable cenotes are off the main highway between Playa del Carmen and Tulum. Most U.S. airlines fly to Cancun. From the airport you can drive, take a taxi or hop a colectivo (shared van) for the 60- to 80-minute drive down the coast.

When to Go: Water temps (75-77°F) and calm dive conditions are constant year- round. The Yucatan’s high season runs from December through April with cooler air temperatures and less rain. The rainy (low) season runs from May to November, but many resorts offer reduced off-season rates, so it’s worth considering.

Operator/Accommodations: The Barcelo Maya Palace (barcelomayapalace.com) is part of the Barcelo Maya complex, which sports five amenity-rich all-inclusive resorts of varying price points stretched along nearly a mile of white-sand beach. Arrange your dives at the on-site PADI IDC center, Dressel Divers (dresseldivers.com), which has a multilingual staff and certified cave/cavern guides.

Price Tag: Rooms at the luxe Barcelo Maya Palace start at $170 per person, per night, all-inclusive. Dressel Divers’ excursion to the cenotes is $70 and includes lunch. Tanks are about $40, but you’ll get discounts for buying multiple fills.

Can’t-Miss Topside Adventures: Tulum is one of the best-preserved coastal Mayan archeological sites and has some of the region’s nicest beaches. (Tip: Go early to beat the crowds.) You can also explore tropical jungles and coastal mangroves at the Sian Ka’an Biosphere Reserve.

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West New Britain Island

Sepik River Basin

Western Highlands

Puerto Rico 10/25/09-10/28/09:

Rio Camuy Caving Expedition, San Juan Marriott Press Trip

I know what’s coming. As I exit through an opening in the lava-rock cavern called First Cathedral — a popular dive off the Hawaiian island of Lanai — I hear the high-pitched din of clicks and squeaks building above the noise of my bubbles. A pod of spinner dolphins is approaching, the volume of chatter signals that more than a few are heading my way.

My gut tells me the dolphins will pass through the sand channel alongside the cavern. So, I make a hard right, swimming fast, before I dump the air from my BC, plant my knees on the seafloor and lock my gaze west down the length of the channel.

For about three minutes, the sound grows. Then, just as the cacophony crescendos, the pack leaders swoop into the mini canyon at the edge of my visibility like an undulating bullet train that’s just jumped the tracks. They move in a tight formation, a seemingly endless line. Individuals occasionally break from the crowd, careening down to skim the seafloor, or bolting for the surface.

This is Hawaiian big-animal diving at its best. Many divers link Hawaii synonymously with humpback whales, which congregate there every winter. But most will never see these behemoths below the surface. More common — and more exciting when they arrive en masse — are encounters with the resident spinner dolphins that cruise the coastline year-round, sometimes in pods hundreds of acrobatic animals deep. To be graced with this experience requires about 90 percent luck, because interaction is at the dolphins’ discretion. Make no mistake: These animals are clever, rarely approaching divers by accident. What’s the other 10 percent of the encounter? A mix of awareness and attitude. Divers must first recognize the pod’s approach in time to get into position, and second, avoid any action — swimming after or trying to touch the animals — that will scare the pod.

From my vantage point on the seafloor, I watch the pod, which is some 150 to 200 strong, perform the eponymous spins and loop-the-loops unique to this wild species. They disappear above the surface only to dip back in to perform another curling maneuver underwater. The mothers display less bravado as they swim down the middle of the pod, casting protective glances toward their calves in tow. After maybe seven minutes, even the stragglers pass. The chatter fades and the whole impressive display disappears just as quickly as it arrived.

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]]> http://www.travis-marshall.com/2009/09/28/bullet-train/feed/ 0 http://www.travis-marshall.com/2009/09/24/advanced-adventure-s-s-thistlegorm/ http://www.travis-marshall.com/2009/09/24/advanced-adventure-s-s-thistlegorm/#comments Thu, 24 Sep 2009 19:12:30 +0000 Travis Marshall http://www.travis-marshall.com/?p=661 S.S. Thistlegorm.]]> Scuba Diving Magazine, Sept/Oct. 2009

It’s a little after daybreak. The quiet on board breaks without warning, replaced with loud commands delivered in terse Arabic as the agile crew swings into position to man the lines. We have arrived.

My dive boat has been motoring along the coast of Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula for nearly four predaylight hours. I walk out of the main cabin, where I’ve slept most of the bumpy ride huddled on the thin cushions of the bench lining the wall, and see the divemaster disappear over the side, bounce-diving to tie a guide­line from our stern to the wreck. I pour a cup of thick Arabic coffee and groggily prep my gear in the early morning light. In a few minutes, I’ll hop off the stern myself and make my way to the seafloor to penetrate the deepest bowels of what is arguably the most famous and histori­cally rich shipwreck in the Red Sea.

A dive trip to the British supply ship SS Thistlegorm requires no small amount of effort, but it’s unquestionably worth it for an opportunity to slip inside this veritable World War II time capsule, bur­ied by a hailstorm of German bombs in 1941 while en route to deliver her cargo of supplies to Allied troops in Suez. After sinking, the Thistlegorm lay undisturbed for about 14 years, explains John Kean, an experienced Thistlegorm guide and author of the book “SS Thistlegorm: The True Story of the Red Sea’s Greatest Ship­wreck.” At which time a budding explorer named Jacques Cousteau — piloting another soon-to-be-legendary ship, the Calypso — moored up to her and made the first-ever scuba-fueled explorations of her decks. Today, the Thistlegorm draws tens of thousands each year.

I make one final check of the condi­tions. Out here at the mouth of the Gulf of Suez, current and surface chop are common, and today has both. So I giant-stride off the stern with an empty BC and make a beeline down the guide rope to the shelter of the Thistlegorm’s hull. Descending over the blast zone — where German bombs detonated munitions holds near the stern — I can see both sections of the 415-foot-long ship: The front half sits mostly intact, upright at the shallower end of the slop­ing seafloor, while the stern, twisted 90 degrees, rests on its port side in about 95 feet of water. As I approach the opening in the hull, I glide over the tracks of a pair of Mark II Bren Carrier tanks, upside­down in the pile of munitions.

Unlike a passenger ship, with an inte­rior full of winding passageways and cabins, the Thistlegorm features wide-open cargo holds and no shortage of vertical exit points. Slipping inside the wreck at Hold 3 feels a bit like walking into a war museum where shafts of sun­light illuminate the displays through skylights in the roof. I find myself sur­rounded by piles of  hand grenades and anti-tank mines scattered in a state of dis­array pretty much as they fell after the ship touched down on the seafloor. It’s an impressive collection, but I know the most striking is ahead of me in the for­ward compartments.

The Thistlegorm’s first and second holds overflow with a payload of large war material. My gaze extends across row after row of Bedford trucks, intact down to the tires and packed in the belly of the ship like sardines. And each truck bed is loaded to capacity with BSA motorcycles. Stacked along walls sit crates of medical supplies, Enfield rifles and endless boxes of ammuni­tion. The gravity of this cargo hits me like a wave. It’s a drop in the bucket of what was required to keep that massive Allied war machine moving, but peo­ple’s lives depended on this stuff — they never got it, and good people died try­ing to deliver it.

My time is running short, and I make my way shallower by traversing through the upper holds and spend a few brief moments exploring the rail cars, davits and a torpedo on the upper deck before finning to my guideline. My bottom time is maxed out, so I make a slow ascent and take an extra-long safety stop.

When I climb back on board, the boat has fallen quiet once again. It seems like we all need a moment to digest the experience. But before we can think too long, the cook swings up from the galley, cracking jokes through a smile as thick as his accent and ushering us inside for a hearty meal before we move on to drift the walls of Ras Mohammed.

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