ESTONIA

My original plan was to start further south in Belarus, until their – pro-war, Putin-lapdog – leader turned the state more into Bellicose.

Estonia is the most northerly of the three Baltic states that lie on the eastern shore of the Baltic Sea. Among the planet’s inland seas, it is second in size only to the Mediterranean. All three countries are part of the EU and NATO (and have the world’s greatest proportion of supermodels).

Estonia looks, sounds and eats more Finnish than Slavic. Beautifully dotted with castles, domed churches and over 2,000 islands, it is far more temperate than its big bear neighbour, Russia. 

Starting with the Vikings, it was dominated by foreign powers throughout much of its history. The originator of Skype, Estonia became the first country in the world to offer online voting. It now has one of the most liberal economies in Europe with a flat income tax, free public transport and balanced budget. Standout achievements for a region with democracy and a market economy since only 1991. Send Marx a memo.

 It produces substantial thermal power for the entire Baltic region and northwest Russia. The Russian oil industry makes heavy use of Baltic ports. Perhaps not unrelated, military service is compulsory for young men.

Listen to the superbly spacious modern composer, Arvo Part, while enjoying specialties such as crayfish; marinated eel; potato and barley or buckwheat porridge; brawn (headcheese); herbal liqueurs; semolina, rhubarb and marzipan desserts. For breakfast I love their thin, rolled pancakes filled with soft cheese, apple and honey.

Capital Tallinn’s inner medieval core has 700 year old cobblestones, classy crafts, quirky jewellery, art galleries and vegan restaurants. 

LATVIA

One of the last parts of Europe to join Christendom, pagan rituals remain honoured, and many of its citizens are named after birds, animals and trees.

 They are tall people with the average height for women at 170 cm. The old port of Liepaja offers a night in a military jail with Soviet-style treatment. I stroll through the capital Riga, its 800-plus brightly ornamented Art Nouveau buildings, and Europe’s largest market with many food tastings. This is the arty, innovative part of the Baltics.

There are 500 kilometres of wide, white sand beaches. Each spring day of this trip is warm and sunny. Foraging is popular for birch sap juice, blueberries and chanterelle mushrooms.

In 1871 America, Latvian-born tailor, Jacob Davis, invented riveted denim work pants (later known as blue jeans). He made a fortune in partnership with fabric merchant Levi Strauss. 

About a quarter of the population speaks Russian. However, since the invasion of Ukraine, Latvia has banned all Russian broadcast channels. Latvia and Estonia both claim the world’s first decorated Christmas tree in 1510.

Favourite foods are pelmeni (dumplings with meat or mushrooms); pink, cold beet soup, tart with kefir; meatballs in sorrel broth; cranberry mousse; kvass (fermented grain alcohol); balls with lard, peas, bacon and onion (unexpectedly delicious); blood sausage with barley. 

Maizes zupa (bread soup) is a dessert that looks like a chocolate parfait: rye bread is boiled until smooth and sweetened with spices, brown sugar, apricots, prunes and served topped with whipped cream. 

Even more impressive throughout the Baltics is the absence of rubbish in cities, roads and countryside. A small, significant statement of pride and community. 

LITHUANIA

The coastline is a rich source of amber showcased in elegant jewellery. Keeping with the colour theme, beehives and honey production are extensive. Many fields are bright yellow with rapeseed/canola.

Lithuania has the oldest surviving Indo-European language (similar to Sanskrit) and once had a vast empire. During the Holocaust, over 90% of the Jewish population died. Lithuania was the first country to declare independence from the Soviet Union.

Before escaping purges and moving to Britain, my father’s paternal Jewish relatives were from the fluctuating borderlands of Lithuania and Poland. I have a lot of regional bloodlines here from both parents. Each side fled regularly scheduled pogroms. Thankfully, these gene pools were marked more by resourceful determination than victimhood. 

Forests and five spectacular national parks – home to wild boar, lynx, fox, wolves and deer – take up a third of the land. The capital, Vilnius, is a World Heritage site, resplendent with ornate churches.

Commonly available are wild mushrooms; beetroot dishes even at breakfast; local beer; mead; fruit wine; curd cheese doughnuts; poppy seed cookies; smoked sausage; and sweet, silky herring. 

I also try bulviniai blynai – potato pancakes with sour cream and dill; kepta duona – chip-like fried, rye bread strips with garlic; kibinai – crescent-shaped lamb pies; and cepelinai – fist-sized dumplings made from potato dough, heavy with pork. These are designed to feed workers during freezing, snowy weather, which can start in September and last until May. 

 Respectively, these three Baltic nations have just one, two and three million people. Yet humanely each has taken in over 50,000 Ukrainian refugees. More keep coming. 

Surrounded by 200 lakes, is the medieval Trakai Castle. I visit the dungeon which houses only one symbolic prisoner: a life-size, cardboard replica of Putin. 

FINLAND

There are many claims to being the first democracy.

The Greeks gave us the term (translating as citizen power). America too asserts early primacy, yet both states ignored the sizeable population of women and slaves. 

New Zealand was the first country to give women the vote, but had a racially divided system. Astonishingly, it was 1952 before Chinese people could vote and work in our state sector. In contrast, Finland in 1906, stands out as the first country to abolish racial and gender requirements for voting and serving in government.

The population is about 5.5 million and almost half of them have saunas. Often ranked as the world’s happiest country and with the best air quality, it is also the biggest consumer of coffee. Decaf isn’t even listed on menus and requests achieve stunned incomprehension. It’s like asking to spit on their flag. Also absent is a size approaching small.

75% of Finland is forest with almost 200,000 lakes, the untamed wilderness of Lapland and the magical northern lights. Long a part of Sweden and then the Russian empire, the nation gained independence in 1917. Their Uralic language is less Scandinavian and more like Hungarian. Tolkien’s Elvish in Lord of the Rings was based on Finnish.

The food is as fresh and clean as the landscape. Everywhere there ; muikku – tiny fish fried until crisp; cured salmon; bilberry pie; and reindeer with lingonberries. For a traditional breakfast try karjalanpiirakka – rye pastries filled with creamed barley, butter and chopped egg. Geography on a plate. 

I explore by ferry, tram and walking tour. Towns showcase sleek contemporary architecture, ancient log buildings and tributes to composer, Sibelius. Listen to the passionate opening bars of Finlandia for unstoppable patriotism. 

POLAND

Whatever their heritage, Canadians are fans of eating pan-Slavic pierogi. There is a national meme which declares, “I’m so Polish, I can spell pierogi”. These ravioli-like dough parcels are filled with cheese and potato; mushroom and cabbage; or with sauerkraut. Half-moon shaped with edges crimped, they are served boiled, or later fried.

I was named after my Polish grandmother, Baba Mary. She would be thrilled that for many months before my trip, I studied Polish. She smothered pierogi with diced fatty pork and onions – cooked slowly in butter until caramelised, and then topped further with generous amounts of sour cream. This is not a Heart Foundation recipe. 

When my mother died, we split her ashes into three. One part is buried under my daughter’s lemon tree. Eventually she will take another portion to Canada.

Baba Mary’s parents were from eastern Poland. Mum always wanted to visit the region. So I brought a third of her remains to spread there. Authorities were not advised. The ashes travelled discreetly in a vitamin C powder container with a plastic spoon inside for authenticity. Mum would laugh! 

Poland was once the largest state in Europe. It disappeared from the world map for over 100 years – carved into portions by hungry neighbours, Prussia, Russia and Austria. It finally regained nationhood in 1918, only to become a satellite state under Soviet control when World War II ended. 

Warsaw is the largest Polish city (by population, second is Chicago) and is termed the phoenix. In retribution for the ghetto uprising and later resistance, Hitler put dynamite in every major inner city building. All that history and beauty became rubble. 

I took photos there of gorgeous, meticulously reconstructed cathedrals, palaces, museums along broad, busy, flower and cafe lined avenues. Now it is the Reich that is rubble. Take that, Adolf. 

During the war, all the grand buildings’ inner doors were used as stretchers to transport precious art and furniture into hiding. These were eventually reinstated – including the doors. With a nod to dark humour, Poland is now similarly storing Ukrainian treasures. The effects of war and communism are never far from the stories of these lands. 

Poland is the originator of the bagel, home of vodka (I tried my first shots), Chopin, Copernicus (boundary shattering astronomer and symbol of their renaissance), Oscar Schindler’s Factory, Pope John Paul II (85% of the country remains Catholic), Lech Walesa (workers’ rights activist and eventually the first democratically elected president). 

Local girl, Marie Curie, became the first woman to win one, then two Nobel prizes. It has the world’s biggest castle, Malbork, Europe’s last primeval forest and one of its oldest restaurants since 1273.

And it is the home of Auschwitz. The exhibitions are quietly harrowing. Discarded family suitcases, a mountain of shoes, lopped off human hair, and empty gas cannisters tell the story by association, as much as the ovens and showers do. Before the Nazi invasion there were 3.3 million Jews resident in Poland. By the end of the war, 3 million had died.

More spectacular than grim are the revered and profitable, salt mines of Wieliczka (if in doubt when spelling in Polish, sprinkle in at least three Zs; some words have no vowels at all). Seven hundred years old and deep enough to easily house the Eifel Tower. Some chambers have chandeliers and host weddings. Deep within, over centuries, grand religious icons and mythological statues have been skilfully carved out of salt by reverential miners.

 I revel in the poetic, innovative music of Chopin at a concert in a suitably Romantic era venue, almost equally as magnificent. Dance the polka and mazurka. Admire Krakow with architecture miraculously unscathed since the 7^th century. Watching locals, I see my face and figure mirrored in our shared roots.

Courtesy of visits to my grandparents’ Saskatchewan farm, I know the food specialties well: Kielbasa (spicy, garlicky sausage, which my Ukrainian grandfather, Paul Bazowski, used to make); Golabki (fragrant, meat and mushroom stuffed cabbage rolls); Babka (soft, buttery bread, braided with poppy seeds). There are hearty soups, potato pancakes; pickles, beetroot and fish dishes with dill; and dumplings filled with buckwheat. 

Mum’s ashes now lie in the spiritual capital, Czestochowa, famed for its views, art and cathedral. This has been a poignant visit. Ancestrally, it is good to go home. 

HUNGARY

Although the country has slimmed to one third of its empire size, this is not a dieter’s destination. 

If you are suffering from insufficient body fat, try fried, breaded cheese dipped in mayonnaise. Or choose the more delicate classic starter of chilled sour cherry soup. I had cabbage leaves stuffed with sauerkraut; crepes filled with veal in paprika sauce; wild mushroom soup and of course, goulash, fiery with chilli. 

While listening to local achiever, Franz Liszt, I enjoyed small chestnut noodles sweetened with rum and vanilla, covered with whipped cream. Also the challenging, seven layered Dobos Torte. It alternates biscuity lemon cake and chocolate, adorned with shimmering caramel triangles. Knowing how to make it, got me a pastry chef job in the ‘70s at Konditorei Telle in Mt Eden. For street food try langos: a circle of puffy, pastry-like bread topped with cheese, garlic and the ever-present garnish of sour cream.

Waddle forth to soak in mineral spas, courtesy of Turkish and Roman influences. There are mountains, caves, quaint villages. The wide, gracious curves of the Danube meander through ten countries and bisects the capital into Buda and Pest. I recommend an evening dinner cruise passing glorious architecture and monuments, elegant bridges, compelling lights, sights and flavours. 

Their alphabet has a mere 44 letters. The country has universal healthcare and tuition-free education, yet people struggle.  Especially the elderly, who along with Roma, beg on the street. Compared to other countries on this trip, Hungary has more grubby grandeur, homelessness and tales of corruption. Edgy ‘ruin bars’ are situated in ancient, crumbling buildings where hipsters come to drink cocktails. Visit the former secret police headquarters and a sculpture park of Communist era heroes. 

Hungary was staunchly pro-German before and during World War II. The economy, general population and especially the Jewish one were seriously destroyed. The country gained the status of the highest inflation rates ever recorded. By the time a shopper took a wheelbarrow of cash to buy groceries, the barrow was worth more than the money. After becoming a Soviet satellite, there were periods of violent rebellion. Current hardliner Prime Minister, Viktor Orban, is pro-Putin and has limited many democratic freedoms and election rights.

More enjoyable is its wine region, which is older than the French. I remember my parents drinking sweet, golden Tokay. Hungarians designed the Volkswagen Beetle, Rubik’s Cube, and from Laszlo Biro, the ballpoint pen. In Hollywood, others influentially started Paramount Pictures and the Fox Film Corporation. They don’t just eat.

CZECH REPUBLIC and SLOVAKIA

Formerly part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire – which collapsed with dramatic speed after World War One – this landlocked territory south of Poland became democratic Czechoslovakia.

 But not for long. After the Second World War, a coup put them under Soviet rule – a sadly shared regional story. In 1968 the “Prague Spring” tried to liberalise and create “socialism with a human face”. I remember the news coverage as tanks rather than talks, ensued. 

Finally in 1989, the Communists were swept from power during the Velvet Revolution with its massive, peaceful protests. Democracy and a market economy returned. In 1993 an amicable “velvet divorce” split the country into two republics. Each joined the EU and NATO.

In the Slovak Republic the capital is Bratislava. Vienna is but an hour away. Many Slovaks spend the work week there as they can earn two to three times more. I walk the vast High Tatras with alpine mountains, ski resorts, glacial lakes and ice caves. Towns on green, hilly slopes have ominous castles where Dracula movies get filmed, splendid monasteries and thermal pools.

Prague is romantic, literary, Gothic – the original Bohemian. Listen to Smetana and Dvorak as you wind along their muse, the Vltava River. A walking bridge lined with notable statuary and a climbable tower, crosses it. Explore over 1,000 years of history at the Prague Castle. 

Visit the Strahov, other cathedral-like libraries, and the medieval Astronomical clock – the world’s oldest. Ride the funicular to the top of the ancient city, which escaped World War II bombing. Take the tram past futuristic galleries, Art Nouveau and Cubist landmarks. Jewellery stores feature local, semi-precious green moldavite and burgundy garnet.

Stop for bread dumplings with pork knuckles and mustard that make a New Zealand lamb shank meal look like Thumbelina fare; potato and dill soup with quail egg; roast goose with sauerkraut and gingerbread. Throughout Eastern Europe their house wines probably come from the Czech Moravia fields. 

For breakfast I try potato latkes; pastry with cream cheese and apricots; sweet yeasted rolls filled with poppy seeds and plums. A deservedly popular street food is chimney cake: sugary dough shaped and cooked around rods over a grill, cooled, then filled with ice cream. ‘Light fare’ is not in their culinary dictionary.

Time now to head homeward. Soon I will start studying Japanese. Next year, I have a date with cherry blossoms.

Food, Politics and Peril: En Route to Antarctica

In contrast to the stark, white world of Antarctica ahead, I spend a few weeks travelling on my own to four South American countries that are new to me, in a tidy arc from west to east. Months of online tuition helps revive my Spanish.

First, to Chile. The flight follows the long, snowy spine of the Andes. We land in a hot bath of 32 degrees shared with 8 million Santiago-ans.

I book a taxi at the airport and have difficulty finding it. A female police officer comes over to help. She says I am speaking to too many strangers and this is dangerous. Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.

This crazily thin country runs from the waist of the continent to its toes – almost 3 times the length of New Zealand. Home to ancient forests, volcanoes, fjords, ski resorts, sand dunes, an abundance of seafood and wine – and the world’s most extreme 9.6 earthquake ever recorded.

I do a day tour of Valparaiso. This foggy, hilly, San Francisco-like city is on the coast and filled with poets and painters, sailors and sex workers. Its street art is considered the best in the continent. There is a maze of steep streets, crumbling mansions and eccentric charm. Stores feature local lapis lazuli and our jolly eleven global travellers share food, sites, D&M conversations, and wine tastings.

Our guide, Diego, is a school teacher who must work two jobs to merely get by. Locals often speak of this and politics too are frequently discussed. Natalie, a smart, young Melbourne lawyer on our tour, comments on the contrast of how apolitical she and most of her peers are. This can be an unquestioned luxury when times are comfortable. Illustratively, on the bus ride back, large trucks start to block the motorway as a government protest. We just manage to squeeze past before gridlock.

In Santiago I stay in the old, cosmopolitan area. Filled with gracious plazas, museums with Mayan columns, innovative art galleries, and a central station designed by Gustave Eiffel. The Museum of Memory and Human Rights is especially poignant. The exhibits tell the story of the abuses and ‘disappearances’ during the military government’s brutal control from the 1970s to the 1990s. Paving stones on some streets have the names of those known to be tortured and executed. Many have their ages inscribed as just 16 or 20. Some Westerners accuse their governments of being totalitarian. Criticise sure, but consider such stories as these to clarify your definitions.

On the street and in cafes there is eel soup; the largest cherries I’ve ever seen; chicken stew with walnut sauce; potato bread fried in pork lard; dried horsemeat; stuffed and braided intestines; desserts and beverages made with corn kernels; corn husks filled with vegetables and basil; shrimp, mullet, crab, oyster, octopus and abalone dishes. Food is history and culture on a plate.

Before any overseas travel, I check out the World’s 50 Best Restaurant list. This year there are two in South America. When visiting Peru in 2017 I went to one, Central, which is currently ranked #2 in the world. Borago is now also on the list. This biodynamic farm is at the foot of one of the country’s highest mountains and achieves zero-kilometre cooking. Many courses are served on hot or cold rocks. One savoury starter looks convincingly like a slice of garnished chocolate cake. The shiny, uniform, dark exterior is actually moulded, aged venison. Inside is a vertical, heavily seeded cracker to provide upright structure and gateau-like crunch. Earthy, yet elegant and deft with surprise.

This year’s MasterChef New Zealand TV show had the local chef, Vaughan Mabee, as a host and judge. He is also the nephew of a yoga friend. I contacted him via Facebook and said how impressed I was to hear that he used to work at Noma in Copenhagen (world’s #1 restaurant for several years). I mentioned being booked for Borago. Vaughan said he is good friends with chef and owner Rudolfo. Small world!

Bolivia has the world’s most dangerous road. Rough, lined with rocks, the narrow passage crumbles toward a dizzying precipice. I leave Santa Cruz airport in a taxi and have a much scarier experience.

It is a mood challenging 41 degrees. Everywhere there is dirt, dust and neglect. Soon comes menace. Milling crowds are angry and despairing. Many are in the middle of the road and wave homemade weapons at us and other cars. My taxi is stopped and an angry man pounds on my window with a machete. At first, there seems to be no logic to this. Their argument is with the government and a proposed two year delay to the census. This might sound perplexingly trivial, but the census results are used to direct social spending. For related, politically fraudulent reasons, almost no one in Bolivia knows what the actual population is. Crazy. Today, passing drivers just happen to be more accessible for wrath than politicians. Also, throughout all these countries, what stirs general turmoil, eventually gets government attention.

I crouch low so I’m not mistaken as some symbol of foreign oppression. The driver manoeuvres like he’s doing Formula One, ploughing through several red lights and makeshift road blockades of rubbish bags and tree stumps. Buildings are set afire. Never before have I landed in a country and seriously considered immediate escape. There is no safe option though but to move forward fast.

My boutique hotel is a sanctuary in the city centre. I am not keen to leave until I am too hungry not to. Downtown is quiet. There is the poise of its Baroque architecture, though many buildings are in chronic disrepair and slough ruinously over the pavement. I stuff money in my bra and leave a little in my pocket as a decoy, in case I get stopped. Two fellow tourists I speak to, had their phones taken off them. Writing this, I feel more like a war correspondent than a tourist. It’s a dramatic travel story, as long as you get home to recount it.

Over 60% of the population is of indigenous descent. Music, dance, weaving with vicuna wool, and other textile arts and crafts are radiantly diverse. There are vast natural resources and a sparse population. Yet political crisis, social stratification, and electoral fraud make poverty and protests a way of life.

When dining, tripe is popular; lamb intestines; anticucho snacks of grilled beef heart; and soup made with vegetables, rice, and bull’s penis (the national hangover cure). Or you might prefer the regional pancakes with cloves; or bunuelo – a fritter-doughnut cross, sticky with aniseed syrup.

A patient contacts me. I urge her to await my return, but she is very concerned about her son. Despite wifi flickering like candlelight, we manage a video chat consultation. The modern world.

Bolivia can bring to mind images of bright garb, bowler hats and deserts with salt mines. Strikingly different is the relaxed and tropical east. Seated along cobbled streets, people listen to the music of the lowlands and drink chicha – a fermented corn drink. 500 acres of botanical gardens are filled with a sea of fragrances, towering orchids (Bolivia has about 3,000 species), swarms of butterflies, wandering sloths and large tortoises. Not far away in rugged, wild terrain – where Che Guevara once hiked – are pumas and bears. Beauty and danger mingle.

At the heart of the continent and beyond the usual gringo trail is steamy Paraguay. After the turmoil and rubble of Santa Cruz, I want to kiss the tarmac of capital city, Asuncion.

My hotel has a glorious pool, dependable aircon and wifi, and other worthy markers of civilisation. There are craft workshops and stalls, vibrancy and squalor, and, thanks to early British engineers, South America’s first railway. The country is resoundingly Catholic. Military service is mandatory. History is told through a succession of dictators with sprinkles of democracy. The Irish harp (originally an Egyptian invention) became the national instrument and is used to passionately play what they call polka. All culture is fusion.

I stroll through the city centre and get asked by police where I am going and why, as – guess what – there is a street protest nearby. About 65% of the population is under 30, which the teeming night life confirms. In rural areas there are Jesuit ruins; stealthy jaguar; isolated Mennonite communities; toucans and other bright, squawky look-at-me birds. I travel by taxi rather than bus, as armed robberies can occur on public transport. Not just the wildlife prowls with potential peril.

I delight in manioc bread; hot maize pudding with onion; yuca empanada; cassava patties; hot chipa rolls made with corn and peanuts; banana leaves filled with cheese and egg pie; and refreshing, cold yerba mate tea. For dinner, I eat at Bolsi, a popular restaurant since the 60s, and have two small, though filling courses and a glass of local wine for NZ$13.

In each country I book a 2 to 4 hour walking, history tour. Guru Walks offers thousands of these in over 100 countries. There is no fee and payments are based on tips. Great entrepreneurialism. It is lovely to meet many well informed and passionate guides, plus engaging fellow travellers. Here, as elsewhere, some of the young women participants say they are inspired by my solo travels. Nice for an old gal to get the nod. The world has dangers, but far more fellowship.

Finally, to South America’s smallest country. Uruguay is wedged like a round, seaside ball between the vastness of Brazil and Argentina. The population is only 3.5 million.

Before I travel, I register with the NZ Ministry of Foreign Affairs’ Safe Travel site. They keep track of citizens abroad and send notice of political and natural dangers. Everywhere else on this itinerary (and previous ones in Africa and the Middle East) comes accompanied with strong warnings about crime and political instability.  In contrast, Uruguay is progressive, stable and sophisticated. The life expectancy and literacy rates are among the highest in Latin America.

The temperature drops 10 degrees to a more comfortable 23. I leave the airport in the first clean – and most expensive – cab of this trip (as soon as I get free wifi then I use Uber).  Montevideo, the capital, looks prosperous and well tended. Prices are commensurate. What buys a glamorous hotel stay in Asuncion is more like youth hostel territory here. There are occasional homeless men, but no strings of families living on the pavement, nursing infants under sheets of plastic called home.

It is a ferry ride next door to Buenos Aires, Argentina. Uruguay is like a humbler ‘Canada’ to its brasher neighbour. I join a walking tour of the old port, glorious beaches, artisan markets, antiques, museum, plaza, and a food market with over 100 stalls and eateries. You can walk for hours along the stunning Rambla walkway that hugs the sea. The arts – both traditional and innovative – are a strong part of their culture and pride. In 2013 it was the first country to fully legalise cannabis.

Our fun, young, local guide (who worked in Queenstown for 4 years) tell us that Uruguay is the least corrupt country in South America – though he adds with a chuckle, that is a low bar achievement. There is a strong feminist and LGBTQ+ community. Most people describe themselves as secular and it is illegal for government institutions to promote religion. Officially and amusingly, Christmas is thus “Family Day”, while Easter is “Tourism Week”. Meanwhile stores look as traditionally festive as ours.

There is a museum dedicated to the famous Andean plane crash of 1972. It was immortalised by the book and later movie, Alive, with its tales of heroism, desperate cannibalism, and – after 72 sub-zero days – the unexpected return of 16 survivors. I well remember the news and global, water-cooler, moral discussions that ensued.

Later there is an evening tour that includes dinner and Tango dancing. Good thing I’ve been taking Tango lessons most of the year. Ole! It’s how today’s seniors roll, baby.

Outside the main centres there are hot springs, horseback riding and gauchos. I enjoy seaweed fritters; chickpea flatbread; and steak sandwich piled high with toppings.

All these countries are soccer-mad (games are broadcast at almost every café) and meat-mad, especially for beef. Their papaya is so deeply orange that it looks caramelised. Coffee and wine are dependably good. Some type of barbeque, empanada and chili sauce are everywhere. As well as creamy, caramel dulche de leche perhaps served as a pudding; slice; or a filling for cakes, meringues, churros or cookies, or a spread for toast. I take some home for the grandchildren to try. Here in Uruguay, it is also served with quince tart for breakfast. I manage to cope.

These lands are warm and boisterous with Latino life and centuries of culture. They are a staggering contrast to my journey’s next phase and the white temple of sacred silence that is Antarctica. Even in temperature, I must pack for the extremes of 41 degrees above to 38 degrees below.

Or so I think.

Three days before the Viking cruise is due to assemble and depart, a giant rogue wave damages the ship on the previous sailing as it nears port. The Drake Passage is listed as one of the world’s worst 5 bodies of water for dangerous seas. Broken windows kill one passenger and injure four more. Unusually, a few weeks previous, another company had two people die when a wave overturned their Zodiac landing craft. My cruise is cancelled with a full refund. Tragic for some and so disappointing for me.

I’ve been a wasteful, slow developer in this regard, but in the last few years I finally learned not to catastrophise. Ah, the more pleasant sanity of acceptance followed by action. I manage to book earlier flights home – at a cost. This will be an interesting test of my travel insurance. I have a few days in the graceful elegance of Buenos Aires. I, and life’s opportunities, move on.

Humans are notoriously poor at risk perception. Cruises and air travel have a death rate of 1 in 11 million. Our most likely form of accident of any type is being near a moving car, with a rate of 1 in 5 thousand. Hmm.

Onward huskies to another day, another year, when I will visit the seventh continent.

Food and Travel in Africa: South Africa, Egypt and Morocco

South Africa

No matter where you live, genetically speaking, a trip to Africa is a journey home.

Local women might have the world’s most inventive hairstyles. Less attractive are the unemployment figures of 27%. And for the young, make that 56%. South Africa has the world’s greatest economic disparity between rich and poor. And it is a shining achiever of courageously sought democracy and justice.

In Johannesburg we visit the Apartheid Museum and spend the day in Soweto where blacks were forcibly removed from former mixed areas. There are about 3 million people in homes that range from comfortable brick houses to abject lean-tos with streams of sewerage. There is also dancing, singing and a nearby church reverberates with passionate gospel. Without African roots there would be no blues, jazz, reggae, rock, samba, salsa, tango and more.

Cape Town is Joburg’s beautiful older sister. The coastline is spectacular with crashing waves, sharks, baboons, ostrich, pods of whales and colonies of penguins. I join a walking history tour and later one focussed on cuisine. We sample local cheeses, impala sausage, seafood, sweet Afrikaans curries and custard-mad desserts, stewed antelope, springbok carpaccio with pickled figs, sophisticated wines, and gin with rose petals. South Africa is not yet a significant food destination – unless you are a four legged carnivore. As a marker, this nation on a major coffee growing continent has had artisan cafes and baristas for less than 10 years.

Next we safari at Kruger. This national park is larger than Israel. Each day at 5:30 am and near dusk a ranger takes us out in high-sided, open-air jeeps with tiered seating for 3 to 7 hours. Train your bladder as there is no exiting the vehicle except for lunch in a secure compound. There are repeated warnings that viewing game is a gamble like going to Vegas. Fortunately the weather is dry and cloudy, which animals prefer for heading to waterholes.

Amazingly, we see ibex, antelope, impala, hippo, rhino, eland, zebra, Nile crocodile, warthog, mongoose, honey badger and wildebeest. Many are less than 2 metres away. Lions creep through long grass to eye Cape buffalo. A hyena family plays with their cubs. They have jaw strength second only to crocodiles and they’ll take on a lion. A leopard holds onto his kill encircled by vultures. Giraffes playfully press necks while nearby sentry birds monitor for predators. Mother elephants and baboons nurse their babies. We live half a world away and yet grew up with stories of African animals. Big magic.

A typical greeting is Sawubona, which is Zulu for “I see you”. See you next in Cairo.

Egypt

Cairo is home to over 25 million people. All of them are on the road at once.

As usual in a new city, I join a walking food tour and try tamarind juice; cardamom coffee; mint and vinegar drink; flat bread filled with hummus, fresh coriander patties and super crisp potato; deep fried brains (a cross between scrambled egg and chicken) and numerous nut pastries, sticky with honey. We visit a 14th century market where Al Fishawi’s has served mint tea since 1773. It is now well over 40 degrees. Summer temperatures can reach 55. Businesses and even doctors cater to clients at a milder 1 am.

No one got the memo about the dangers of smoking. But there is lots to be awestruck over: the pyramids of Giza with their somehow manoeuvred stone in seamless symmetry while the Sphinx stands guard; Karnak Temple lit up at night in regal indigo; the Egyptian Museum with its towering statues and King Tut’s gold coffin.

On my birthday, ‘Mariapatra’ is exotically on a 4 day cruise down the Nile. The world’s longest river is more than 4 times the length of New Zealand. The Egyptians invented the 365 day calendar to predict its flooding. Female commoners then could own property, run businesses and initiate divorce.

When travelling, I love my hour long buffet breakfasts. Though most Europeans are GDW (Guilty of Dining White) and stick to familiar pale starches, plus eggs. There are such usual items while I sample the many pickled fish, fruits and vegetables; herb and spice seasoned soft curd cheese speckled with caraway; eggplant everything; halva and comb honey; legume stews with a side of couscous and whole grilled chillies; filo parcels with spiced lentils. In the evening I try a national favourite: whole pigeon stuffed with rice and raisins.

Whether on the pool deck or out the open window of my elegant stateroom, there is a changing scene of banana palms, water buffalo, donkeys pulling carts of raw sugarcane, children swimming, and men fishing out of small sail boats. We stop and visit the Valley of the Kings and its tombs of Queen Hatshepsut and other rulers with their hieroglyphics telling tales from 3,300 years ago.

At night, the all-male crew play traditional instruments and show us men’s dance moves with lots of arm and shoulder action. On the river, young men will hire an open air boat, play music and dance together just as our youths might get together over beer and pizza.

Morocco

“Come with me to the kasbah”.

The Kingdom of Morocco is mint and mosaics; cedar wood forests, coastal life and snowy mountains; serpentine 9th century market places; and the towering dunes of the Sahara.

If you ask for a cup of tea you automatically get a glass filled with green tea and fresh mint leaves. It is Africa’s top tourist destination and second only to Hollywood as a film set. Over 70% of the population is under 30.

The current King Mohammed VI is progressive and upon ascension immediately improved employment, democracy, human rights, women’s rights and increased universities from 3 to 24 – and all free.

Arriving in Casablanca, I go on an old city walking tour. Sampling a popular fermented milk drink I notice that glasses are merely rinsed in a bucket. Good thing my immune system is old and invincible. We try prickly pear – a type of fruit from a cactus plant; rounds of polenta with butter and honey; ground almond, peanut and sesame cookies from a tiny adobe nook with praise from the New York Times on its wall.

We head north and east to exotic Fes. Its Medina has the world’s oldest university, Al-Karaouine, which was started by women. The lanes are the narrowest I’ve seen with endless small shops selling intensely coloured ceramics; live chickens; 5 kilo blocks of nougat and hanging camel heads. From an ancient wood fired community oven, rounds of hot bread come out on a paddle. I pull off sweet, nutty chunks.

Compared to Egypt, this is greener, cleaner. More prosperous and socially integrated. We dine at a riad, meaning a private home with a tree and fountain-filled central courtyard. Riad Arabesque is also a guest house with photos of visiting celebrities and royalty. There are vaulted ceilings, intricate tiles, chandeliers and a rooftop dining room to admire the city from. An array of eggplant, fig and other salads precede a succulent tagine (a conical clay pot cooked over charcoal) of spicy beef and dates, served with couscous.

Another day we stop to admire the King’s palace. Outside a joyful Jewish Moroccan bride and groom invite us to join the singing and dancing. Judaism preceded Islam here by 6 centuries. Later the French contributed bureaucracy, language and the best patisserie and honest bread of my trip.

Near dusk we take a jeep and drive to the Sahara. The dunes shimmer like sculptures of caramel meringue. Camel drivers undulate in the distance as I walk through the sands – checking for snakes and scorpions – and watch the sun set.

We drive past the pink, striated, Grand Canyon-like sheer rock of the Atlas Mountains; the shock of green oases thick with date palms; forests of cork; nomadic shepherds tending sheep and goats; fields of argan fruit and roses for oil production. Morocco’s wealth is not from oil or gas, but water for agriculture. This securely feeds its people and export economy.

Marrakesh is softly beautiful with its buildings pink from local clay. The vast souk or market here is a celebration of art, craft and human enterprise with its snake charmers, palm readers, drummers and lively vendors.

The seaside gem of Essaouira is known for its walled Portuguese core. Numerous outdoor seafood restaurants offer views of weathered fishermen in vivid blue boats and parasailing youths. I enjoy spicy, stuffed, palm-sized sardines with a glass of local chardonnay and toast the end of the journey.

A bientot