Irene Butler

Frolic in Nature and Taste the Culture in Riviera Nayarit

by Irene Butler

Curtains of foliage drape the sides of narrow waterways deep in the mangrove forest. Our small boat manoeuvres past the bulging roots needed to hold these towering trees upright in the silt base.

“See the crocodiles?” says our guide José. He stops the engine and points to foot-long babies squirming on an embankment. Before I can ask where the Dundee sized ones are, the water around us churns. Our boat pitches. What appeared to be a few large drifting logs blink at us with yellow eyes and propel away with swishes of their powerful tails.

After our tussle with the crocs we watch swamp turtles laze on root masses protruding from the brackish water. A pitch-black bird is oddly perched on a branch; its motionless wings spread like a fan. “That Anhinga,” says José, “is drying his feathers after diving for his lunch.”

The amazing wildlife reserve of La Tovara is the first outing my husband Rick and I undertake along the 180km coast of Riviera Nayarit from our grand hotel in Nuevo Vallarta (just north of Puerto Vallarta).

Our goal, with the aid of our rental car, is to seek out as many of the area’s natural wonders and drowsy fishing villages that pepper the coastline as we can fit into a week’s stay.

From La Tovara we veer off to the nearby port of San Blas for a glimpse of the town’s glorious past. Milling about the colonial-era tax office and hilltop fort built in 1770, I imagine the activity when this was the seat of Spain’s Pacific navel command. The original great cannons still stand guard like aging sentinels.

At the foot of the hill we enter the massive stone shell of Our Lady of the Rosary Church. The church bells once rang to signal ships coming into port. The closing of the port to foreign trade in 1872 stirred the renowned poet Henry Longfellow (1807-1882) to lament their silence in The Bells of San Blas.

The next day’s excursion brings us to the quintessential Mexican village of Bucerias. Shop owners give their best spiel as we pass by on the cobblestone streets. I purchase several pieces of intricately beaded native Huichol art in the open air market.

At a side walk café our waiter keeps the tejuinos coming (a refreshing semi-fermented corn drink) as we wile away the afternoon watching fisherman deliver their fresh catch. Benches by the water are filled with old timers gazing out to sea.

Families fill the streets by the time we dig into our specialty supper of grilled red snapper. Children dash about while their folks chit-chat with friends. It is long after sunset before we pull ourselves away from this tranquil setting.

Our village hopping ends in San Francisco (also known as San Poncho). Well stocked with snacks from a local vendor of tart tamarind candy and jackfruit (tastes like a cross between banana and cantaloupe) we head for the beach. Between dense jungle and the turquoise sea we spread our mats on a patch of creamy sand.

This same stretch of beach is, at certain times, reserved for other than human visitors.

From mid-June to November the endangered Olive Ridley and Leatherback Turtles are so intent on egg-laying, they barely notice that members and volunteers of a local conservation group are on hand to protect them during their mission.

They then collect and transport the eggs to a hatchery. I would love to be here in September and October to watch the hatchlings being released and see them scurry to their briny home.

Being slightly past the winter season when Humpback Whales come to these warm waters to breed and give birth to one-ton calves, we can not believe our good fortune when a few stragglers are seen off the coast.

We quickly make our way to Vallarta Adventures Center and are soon in an APEX (rigid inflatable boat) squinting over the horizon for a sign of these huge cetaceans.

I gasp as the gigantic body of a lone Humpback surfaces about 100 metres away, making our vessel seem like a toy. A blast of water sprays from its blowhole and a huge eye looks up at us before he submerges with a tail slap that rocks our small craft.

There could not have been a more perfect “tail end” to our Riviera Nayarit visit.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Irene Butler who lives in Richmond, a suburb of Vancouver, B.C..

Photos by Rick Butler:
1: A street in the village of Bucerias. Rick Butler photo.
2: A seller of native Hoichol art at an open market. Rick Butler photo.
3: A whale surfaces near our vessel. Rick Butler photo.

If you go:
www.visitmexico.com
www.rivieranayarit.com
Eco-turtles Group: www.project-tortuga.org
Vallarta Adventures: www.vallarta-adventures.com

Living History in Redcoat And Blackfoot Country

by Irene Butler

As if in a time-warp we walked the ‘downtown’ streets lined with historic buildings in Fort MacLeod. Some date back to the late 1800’s; many are sandstone structures of the 1920 era.

Locals greeted us, a few stopping to chat; traffic moved at a snail’s pace. My husband, Rick, and I were swept back into the past while experiencing today’s unhurried life in this small south-western Alberta town.

An arched walkway veered off Main Street, and led to The Fort Museum of the North West Mounted Police. Red-coated riders on sleek prancing steeds entered the grounds, their white pith helmets bobbing to the rhythm of “This land is your land, this land is my land….” My chest swelled with pride as we watched a musical ride performed by young equestrians, in replica uniforms of our Canadian icons.

The ‘Mounties’ trooped into this area in 1874 when Sir John A. MacDonald saw the need for law and order in the frontier.

Their newly constructed Fort and burgeoning town site was named after James F. MacLeod, their leader on the arduous trek west from Manitoba. MacLeod in turn was greatly aided by the legendary Métis guide and interpreter, Jerry Potts, who spoke many Native languages.

“After quashing the illegal whiskey trade that was destroying the lives of Blackfoot,” said Gordon, a local historian, “the NWMP had to deal with 4,000 men infiltrating the area to build the Canadian National Railway.”

Further challenges involved deterring horse thieves, minimizing strikes, and appeasing the First Nations Peoples’ fear of changes the “iron horse” would bring.

King Edward VII bestowed the appellation “Royal” on the NWMP for their part in the Boer War. They later joined the Dominion force to become the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

Gordon then led us to the filming locations of “Brokeback Mountain” – Academy Award “Best Movie” in 2005. Being movie buffs, Rick and I gleefully recognized the backdrop of many scenes.

The gleaming hardwood floors of the Empress Theatre creaked as we made our way down the isle. This grand lady first swung open her doors in 1912, and has since played host to a continual flow of live theatre, concerts and films.

Sinking down into the red velvet seats, we looked up at a giant neon tulip adorning the ceiling. The only additions since the last renovation by Dan Boyle in the 1940’s are large wall paintings of old movie classics, the work of Dan’s son, Neil.

“This theatre has been haunted for many years,” said Jamie, our guide. “Recently we had a medium tell us it is a ghostly “Ed” who is to blame for what happens in balcony seat “FF1”, also known as Ed’s seat.” Ushers surreptitiously watch patrons sitting in FF1, as they almost always squirm uncomfortably and end up moving over a seat or two. I do hope Ed enjoyed the evening’s side-splitting live performance of “Johnny Chinook” as much as we did (from our main-floor seats).

Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump is a short drive north and west of Fort MacLeod. We were greeted by resounding drum beats and the chanting of singers recounting 6,000 years of history. Nimble dancers dressed in beads, porcupine roaches and eagle feathers enacted ancient traditions to the delight of the audience.

The Interpretive Centre tells about the evolution of the Blackfoot culture. Our guide, Quinton Crowfoot, explained that the original name of their tribe was “Niitsapii” meaning “Keepers of the Prairies”.

The tribe’s method to lure the buffalo to a particular area was to burn the grass thereby promoting new lush growth. Europeans attributed the name Blackfoot because of their soot imbedded moccasins.

The Buffalo Jump itself is at the end of a path leading away from the Centre. As we stood near the edge of the cliff, I envisioned thundering hooves and clouds of dust as stampeding buffalo plunged to their death.

The ingenious strategy entailed mimicking a strayed calf or encroaching wolf and directing the buffalo into a funnel of stone cairns. Hunters, shouting and waving skins, then came from behind and drove the panicked herd over the then eighteen-metre precipice.

I’d initially thought the name “Head-Smashed-In” referred to a buffalo cranium, but its folklore origin is much more intriguing. The story goes that hundreds of years ago a young brave decided it would be awesome to watch the falling buffalo from under an overhang at the bottom of the cliff. The hunt was unusually good that day and regrettably the boy’s head was smashed in by the weight of the carcasses.

At the time of Europeans arrival, an estimated 60 million buffalo roamed the plains. With the aid of guns the species was nearly extinct by the late 1800’s. It meant the end of a way of life for the prairie tribes.

Like a time-capsule journey, our walk through the dramatic history of the early law enforcers, pioneers and Blackfoot was both enlightening and enriching.

In addition, the community’s friendly hospitality left us feeling warmer than the Chinook winds that turn the winter snows of Fort MacLeod into puddles.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Irene Butler, who lives in Richmond, a suburb of Vancouver on Canada’s west coast.

If You Go:
Town of Fort MacLeod: www.fortmacleodd.com
The Fort – Museum of the North West Mounted Police: www.nwmpmuseum.com
May 20 – Aug.31 – Open 7 days/week Ph: 403 553-4703
July & Aug. – 4 Musical Rides Daily at 10 a.m., 11:30 a.m., 2 p.m., 3:30 p.m.

Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump:
UNESCO World Heritage Site -One of the oldest and best-preserved buffalo jumps in
North America. www.head-smashed-in.com
-Open all yr round – 16 km N & W of Fort Macleod: Ph: 403 553-2731-July & Aug – Drumming and Dancing Wed 11:00 a.m. & 1:30 p.m.-May 12 – Sept 7 – “Sleep in a Tepee” Reservations

Photos by Rick Butler:
1. Fort MacLeod Main Street.
2. NWMP in The Fort.
3. Blackfoot Dancers entertain visitors.

Safari Smitten in Kenya

by Irene Butler

The King of Beast’s fiery mane ruffled in the breeze as he raised his head from the carrion. With a throaty rumble and a menacing glare he warned us to keep our distance. My husband, Rick and I watched him from the 24-inch viewing space below the raised roof of the customized mini-van. We were on safari – living a dream.

Having arrived in Nairobi several days ago, after booking our safari tour, we spent our time walking the streets and swirling in the sights and sounds of the city’s indefatigable rhythms.

To visit markets on the outskirts of town, we added to our grey hair by hopping a “matatu”, the infamous mini-buses driven by madmen. Our “jambo” (hello in Swahili) was met with a smiling response everywhere we went in this hospitable metropolis of 2.5 million people.

The highly anticipated day dawned. We set off down the pothole-ridden highway with our expert safari guide and driver, Joseph, and our assigned tour-mates, Heidi and Paul. With our being from Vancouver, finding out they were from Calgary gave tenor to the cliché ‘small world’.

Lake Nakuru, one of the many soda lakes in the Rift Valley, was our first stop. The algae, larvae and soda-resistant fish make it a Shangri-La for millions of water fowl.

When we first spotted the lake from a distance, a solid band of vivid pink divided the powder blue of the water and sky. As we moved closer, this band separated into a multitude of flamingos poised on one leg, scooping up the rich soupy mix alongside their pelican and stork friends.

The soft cooing of each contented bird, magnified by thousands, filled the air with a lulling hum. In the surrounding grasslands we were casually watched by a grazing herd of hefty African buffalo; some weighing as much as 800 kg. Tawny Thompson Gazelles, alarmed by our intrusion, flashed their black side-stripe and white underbelly as they dashed away.

That evening we nestled into our “no-frills” campground in Masai Mara National Reserve. A large #5 was painted on the front flap of our tent to differentiate it from its clones.

As the camp had no electricity, we were given a quick tour of the facilities before dark: two squat and two sit-down toilets, plus a ‘water-heated-in-a-drum-over-a-fire’ bucket shower. Curled up in our cots for the night, the raucous cackle of hyenas lurking outside our enclosure sent shivers down my spine.

Starting at day-break we manoeuvred the dips and twists on the dirt roads for glimpses of wildlife. A huge bull elephant swiped branches clean of leaves with his trunk. Joseph took a detour in order not to come between him and the mama with baby on the opposite side of the road.

Giraffe regally waltzed across the plains. I was mesmerized by a leopard lying in the long golden-brown grasses, so thoroughly camouflaged, that only the sunlight reflecting off his eyes gave him away.

Wildebeest were everywhere; and estimated 1.6 million of these gangly antelope migrate into Kenya in July and August and return south into Tanzania in October and November. Being September, they were now grazing compatibly alongside zebra; the ‘stripes’ being partial to the longer dry blades, while the wildebeest favour the short green under-grasses.

When we came across a mother cheetah and her six fur-ball cubs, Joseph’s eyes took on an effulgence of admiration. “They can reach speeds of 105 km and hour,” he said, “They’re particular about what they eat, preferring smaller game like antelope. Their kill is dragged up into tree branches where they eat it slowly instead of gorging.”

Coming back to camp each evening we were amazed at the delectable meals put together by the cook and his assistant on two small camp stoves in the 4’x 4’ kitchen hut.

As darkness fell and campfires blazed, tall lanky Masai warriors danced and chanted in their traditional dress of a shuka (red-checked blanket) tied over one shoulder, each clutching a club and spear.

In displays of gravity-defying prowess, for which Masai men are known, they took turns springing into the air to three-foot heights, piercing the night sky like arrows. A young warrior proudly displayed large earlobe piercing; a prestigious body modification in their culture.

This pastoral semi-nomadic tribe pride themselves in living harmoniously with nature. They do not slaughter their cattle, but shoot an innocuous stumpy arrow at close range into the jugular vein to drain blood, which they mix with milk for protein. They are fighting to keep their traditional way of life in spite of modern encroachment.

Luxury Safari Kenya Balloon Ride

On the last day we splurged. A military jeep transported us to a 5-star resort to join a balloon safari. We stood by as hot air brought the limp balloon to life.

In silence we drifted over the savannah watching animals roam, graze, leap and hunt from our lofty perch; the tranquility broken only by intermittent fire-blasts to keep the balloon afloat. I was white-knuckled as our operator swept down to tree top level for a closer look at a rare black rhino; then dipped still lower over a snorting hippo emerging from a river.

A nearly bump-less landing brought us down near a giant acacia tree. Under its ample branches tables were spread with linen and fine china for an extravagant champagne breakfast.

Joseph took a detour on our way back to Nairobi to show us emerald tea fields and expansive coffee plantations. Stopping at an outdoor market, he said, “Just wait”, reappearing minutes later with a big grin and a gift of fresh mangoes.

Parting with Joseph, Paul and Heidi was heartfelt. We had shared many magical moments. A meld of the dynamic landscapes, wondrous wildlife, and warm friendships left us with memories as rich and glowing as an African sunset.

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Irene Butler, who makes her home in Richmond, B.C., a suburb of Vancouver on Canada’s West Coast.

Photos by Rick Butler:
1: The “King of Beasts” is always a popular sight. .
2: A Cheetah leads her three cubs close to our van. .
3: Preparing for our balloon adventure.

Luxury Safari Kenya video gives you an inspiring taste of Africa

No Ordinary Christmas: Lake Titicaca, Peru

by Irene Butler

Lake Titicaca is a name all school kids know and giggle at, although most have no idea where it is – straddling as it does the border of Peru and Bolivia. Coming over a rise, our first view of its sapphire waters is stunning—170 km in length, it looks more like an ocean than a lake. Having travelled through Peru for three weeks in November and December, my husband Rick and I decide on spending the Christmas season here. As our bus enters the lakeshore city of Puno, the magical sounds of flutes, drums and bells float across the air. Craning our necks out of the window, we see elaborately costumed dancers twirling to the rhythm of the music. “Puno is the festival capital of Peru!” says our bus driver. “The whole town participates in more than 300 a year.” Hoisted above the heads of four carriers a gigantic wooden babe in a crib conveys the message of this joyous celebration.

After stowing our bags at our hotel we join the lively crowds along the street. We purchase alpaca toques with earflaps for the folks back home, snack on ceviche (a Peruvian specialty of raw fish marinated in spiced lemon juice) and book a Lake Titicaca Island excursion.

Lake Titicaca, the world’s highest navigable lake (at 3820m) competes with the sky for the deepest shade of blue under a brilliant sun. We skim over the glassy surface towards the Uros Floating Islands. “Step carefully and watch for soft spots”, our guide Juan says. I warily step onto the damp spongy surface of totora or reeds, then relax as I catch sight of children running effortlessly toward us and women going about their daily chores. Most of the men are out fishing or trapping waterfowl.

Everything is made of reeds – houses, furniture, and Viking-like dragonhead boats. We test out a reed bench while the village leader demonstrates how the island’s base is built. Huge blocks of buoyant roots are harvested from the lake bottom. Once secured together and anchored, they are piled with criss-crossed layers of cut reeds until the surface is out of the water and sturdy enough to support community life.

Juan explains the “why” of this water-world: “The Uros people took refuge here to escape Inca domination, and later to avoid Spanish slave labour in silver mines.”

The aroma of frying bread wafts from an iron pan set over a small fire – we are captivated when the women sing a carol while offering us the warm brown rounds “as a Christmas gift” Juan says smiling.

Another two hours brings us to Taquile Island. The inhabitants speak Quechua, the ancient Inca language, and hold strongly to traditional ways of life. Listen up fellows – the men do the knitting here, and are renowned knitters at that, learning the trade from early boyhood.
Half the island is rock; the fertile remainder is terraced for growing crops. Goats and chickens provide cheese and milk, and although the occupants are mainly vegetarian, they enjoy fresh catches of fish. We are served a divine quinoa soup and omelette in a private home before heading back in a sudden afternoon squall that whips the lake into frothy grey foam.

After wishing our family back home in Canada “Feliz Navidad” by phone, we walk to a small colonial church for Christmas Eve mass. We didn’t need to understand the language to be uplifted by the choir and the brightly decorated altar.

Roco, our hotel manager, and his wife Maria invite us to share their Christmas Day supper. Knowing the fare might well be guinea pig, eaten widely in Peru, we don our “try anything once” attitude.

A feast awaits as we join a dozen or so guests. And yes, one of the many courses is Cavia porcellus, which tastes rather like chicken, although there was no mistaking its form. Alpaca, roasted Inca style, is served to table on flat hot rocks just lifted from an open wood fire. The fireplace is then stoked for an evening of camaraderie while we sip fine wine.

It was an enlightening experience being so far removed from our country of plenty, and in the midst of a simpler, less affluent world. The differences of customs and traditions dissolved in the universal message of love, peace and good will as shown us by our Peruvian hosts. Truly an unforgettable Yuletide celebration.

FOR FURTHER INFORMATION:
www.peru.info/perueng.asp
www.andeantravelweb.com/peru/hotels/puno/index.html
www.edgaradventures.com/
www.plazamayorhostal.com/en/index.html

About the author:

This week Traveling Tales welcomes freelance travel writer Irene Butler who lives in Richmond, a suburb of Vancouver, B.C.

About The Photos:

1. Uros 4 – Boat (Photo: Rick Butler)
2. Uros – Frying Bread (Photo: courtesy: Mick Linthorne)
3. Taquile Island (Photo: Rick Butler)

Isan, the Thailand of Old

by Irene Butler

A monkey swung on a vine above our heads in metronome-fashion, as if counting the humans entering his domain with each side-to-side movement. I set off into the tangle of jungle with my husband Rick and our guide Yui (U-ey) checking periodically for unsolicited passengers clinging to my “leech socks” (cotton gaiters that are a must during the rainy season). The heady scent of damp foliage was intoxicating. Towering rubber trees bore jagged claw marks from large cats that sleep in their branches. We came across elephant licks; patches of red soil sensed by pachyderms to be rich in minerals. Near a water hole, ginger plants ripped out by their roots and fresh dung were evidence of a recent visit by one or more of the 250 wild elephants that tramp the 2,168 sq km Khao Yai National Park.

This national park is in the gateway province of Isan (EE-san). The colossal Isan region is composed of 19 provinces in the northeast of Thailand, and is the least explored part of the country. Being modern day explorers, we travelled in a comfortable air-conditioned bus for five days across the five most southerly provinces. With Yui’s guidance we became immersed in the Isan culture, in which village life goes on as it has for centuries; a slow steady pace steeped in tradition.

Beyond the jungle the landscape morphed into bright lime rice paddies stretching to the horizon. Tethered water buffalo idly grazed along the roadsides.

After an overnight stay in Nakhon Ratchasima city (Khorat to locals), it was to Jungle House, a small village that sustains itself by offering elephant rides to visitors for a small fee. The well-cared for elephants are considered members of the family. My new friend Chinda and I sat in a box-chair on our elephant Powpam’s back, and Mahout “Mam” straddled Powpam’s neck as we descended a muddy slope to the river. I was taken-aback when Mam swung herself onto an embankment, and motioned for ME to take her place as “Queen of the Jungle” on Powpam’s neck.

In Buri Ram Province our highlight was Phanom Rung Historical Park. A restored pink sandstone and laterite Khmer temple crowns the summit of a 200-metre-high spent volcano. The long promenade that leads up to the lengthy stairway is flanked on either side by naga (5 headed mythical serpents). Erected during the Khmer rule in this area between the 11th and 13th century, and dedicated to the Hindu destroyer god Shiva, this temple is an awesome display of their architecture and art in the carved lintels, pillars and decorative friezes.

The city of Surin was our next sojourn. Yui said of all the country’s night markets, Surin’s is not one to be missed. We were pulled by peddle-rickshaws to a foot-ball-sized field. Food vendors sat under light bulbs strung on poles selling peculiar fare. To us westerners and other Thais nothing stands out in Isan cuisine as crunchy insect snacks with chili sauce coating. Rick could not resist having a photo taken of him sampling a few to shock the folks back home – the only taste he said was the potent spices.

The following morning’s excursion was Ban Tha Sawang, a village that weaves silk so fine it is fit for a king…the present-day King Rama IX that is, and the royal family. From the baskets of worms munching mulberry leaves, we followed the process to plump yellow cocoons bubbling in a pot of boiling water under a women’s watchful eye. As each pod burst she adeptly caught hold of a thread and wound an unbelievable 250m from each pod around a hand-cranked reel.

Vats of indigo dye were being processed that day; on another day it might be red from insect nests, or green from tree bark. A large loom clacked away as four women worked simultaneously to weave the silk threads into intricate designs at a rate of 5 to 7 cm a day, selling for up to 70,000 Bhat per metre (approx $2,400 Can). More in line with my coffers, roadside vendors sell more affordable factory made silk scarves, purses, and shawls, easily activating my shopper-mode.

It was then on to Ubon Ratchathani, the easternmost province of Isan, bound by the Mun River to the north, the Mekong and Laos PDR to the east, and Cambodia to the south.

From our hotel, perched on the banks of the Mekong, it was surreal to throw open my balcony doors to the roar of this brown river churning not ten feet away, and to gaze across its breadth to the spiraling smoke and lights of a Laos village on the other side.

At a nearby point, known as Maenam Song Si (Bi-coloured River), we witnessed the phenomenal spectacle of the muddy Mekong meeting the sparkling blue-green waters of the Mun.

Yui said he never tired of taking visitors to Pha Taem National Park with its huge mushroom-shaped stone pillars carved by nature over the millennia. Other paths crest a mountain side where two steep cliff faces are covered with prehistoric rock paintings dating back 3,000-4,000 years. I was most intrigued by human forms with tall flat heads and by hand prints on the underside of a rock shelf, positioned as if they were holding up the mighty cliff above.

As we flew back to Bangkok my mind swirled with the montage of spectacular scenery, marvels of nature, ancient ruins and village customs. Yui did well in showing us the many aspects of Isan culture where the past and present meld in every day life and the hospitality of the people left an indelible imprint on our souls.

IF YOU GO:
For information on transportation, sites and accommodations in Isan, contact the Tourism Authority of Thailand www.tourismthailand.org.

More Information on Thailand:

Khao Yai National Park was designated as a world heritage site in 2005 by UNESCO for its biodiversity of flora and fauna. The monsoon forests and grasslands are habitat for 70 species of mammals, 70 reptiles, 315 species of birds, and 189 different butterflies.

Surin city explodes with visitors each November for the Elephants Roundup, when hundreds of elephants and their mahouts take part in battle re-enactment, games, and parades.

About the author:

Irene Butler is a freelance travel writer who makes her home in Richmond, B.C.. a suburb of Vancouver on Canada’s West Coast.

Photos by Rick Butler:

1. Elephant Ride
2. Jungles
3. Khmer Ruins
4. Cocoon Silk Spinner

Historic Steveston’s Cannery Row

by Irene Butler

“He’s too short, and too ugly to marry,” said Asayo. At first it was thought this “picture bride” was in bad sorts from her long journey from Hiroshima Japan in 1923-but she meant it.

As was the practice of the time, Japanese immigrant workers chose a bride from a picture, and then worked via a matchmaker to arrange her passage to Canada. Refusing to wed this troll-like man, Asayo was obligated to pay back the $250 it cost to bring her to the fishing village of Steveston, British Columbia, which she did by working in a salmon cannery for two years.

Once free as a soaring eagle, she married Otokichi Murakami, a boat builder and fisherman. They moved into the ample home that my husband Rick and I were standing in. My opinion of space changed when our guide Gabrielle said, “Twelve people once lived in this home, with Asayo adding 8 children to the two her widower husband had from his first marriage.”

The Murakami house is in the mix of worker’s dwellings, cannery, and boatyard of the Britannia Shipyard National Historic Site, once one of 15 cannery complexes along Steveston’s Cannery Row. This twenty-year project called “How We Live” restored some of B.C.’s oldest shipyard buildings and outfitted them in furnishings and knick-knacks that transported us back to the early 20th century.

We learned of the segregation by race in housing that also translated into the jobs they were hired for in the cannery. Seventy-five Chinese workers once lived in the looming pale grey two-story building, yet to be restored. A 12-man bunkhouse was filled with paraphernalia of the day; washtubs, lye soap, tins of “Players” smokes, rubber work boots and aprons. This bunkhouse was once home to a dozen Japanese, First Nation (native Canadians), or European men. Married couples lived with their children in homes the size of an average bedroom today. I envisioned the young ones dressing in front of a pot-bellied stove-each home’s standard fixture-during the chilly winter rainy season.

Mrs. Murakami’s unconventional ways must have stirred neighbourhood gossip. She outrageously planted flowers instead of vegetables in her garden, and every Sunday she dressed in her finest, and left the family to fend for themselves while she strolled the afternoon away, and then spent the evening playing her violin.

Down the road from the Britannia Shipyards we came to the Gulf of Georgia Cannery (constructed in 1894) where workers chalked up 14-16-hour days when the salmon was running. To avoid spoilage the catch had to be in tin cans within 24 hours from the time they spilled from the fishermen’s nets.

We started at the sizeable door to the dock, where the salmon was brought into the cannery on a conveyor belt, and was sorted by workers wielding hooked instruments called peughs into wooden bins by type-sockeye, pink, coho, chum, steelhead. The fish were then shuttled to the Chinese butchers with “singing knives”, so named for the whssit sound of rapid slashing. Our guide Rob said, “A good butcher could remove the head, tail and degut 4 or 5 fish a minute.” I imagined the stench and the splatter and the odd missing digit. A steam-powered machine called the “Iron Chink” was later developed reducing the time to one fish per second.

Fish bodies were transferred to a line of mostly Japanese fishermen’s wives. Many with babies on their backs tediously washed the slime and blood from the fish. From here the salmon was whisked along to machines that clanked and clanged in a deafening din to portion-cut, pack the tins and weigh the contents all under the watchful eyes of mostly European women who, if necessary, added or removed a smidgeon of fish to ensure the customers got exactly what they paid for. A pinch of salt and it was on to the “clincher machine” which loosely crimped the lids, ready for the “vacuum closing machine”.

Men took over again as skids loaded with product entered the steam-pressure cookers for 1-1/2 hours at 127° C. The skids were rolled out in retort cars to cool for 24 hours before being labelled, boxed and sent far and wide, England being a key destination.

A disastrous crank was thrown into the smooth sailing of the bustling fishing village when in 1913 the Hell’s Gate crisis occurred. During railroad construction a blast of dynamite collapsed a huge amount of rubble into the Fraser River blocking salmon destined to thrash upriver to lay their eggs. With the four-year spawning cycle of salmon, by 1917 the ready supply of salmon to feed the cannery production lines ended, necessitating more distant sourcing.

Salmon canning ceased in the 1930’s, but the plant still operated as a herring reduction plant producing fish meal and oil products until 1979. It was declared a heritage site in 1984, which began ten years of restoration, its museum doors opening to the public in 1994. In 1942 the Murakami family were among those wrongfully forced out of their homes and livelihood and sent to an internment camp. In 1946 they joined their oldest daughter in Alberta and remained there for the rest of their days; Mr. Murakami passed on in 1968 and Mrs. Murakami in 2002 at the age of 104. Two of their children came back to B.C., and it was their son George who assisted in recreating the house he grew up in and the boats his father built.

As we sat at an outdoor café at day’s end, I thought of the village’s early inhabitants relishing the same stunning beauty of the sun reflection on shimmering waters and the amber hue of distant mountains. The historic sites left us filled with admiration for these men and women who toiled and raised families through abundant and lean times, their rhythm of life tightly bound to Steveston’s Cannery Row.

Photos by Irene Butler
1. Britannia Shipyard
2. Mr. & Mrs. Murakami
3. Murakami Home
4. Men’s Bunkhouse
5. Butcher’s Iron Chink
6. Slime Removal Station
7. Clank-filling Machine

For more information:
Steveston Village in Richmond, B.C. is a great weekend get-a-way for couples or the whole family with historic sites, boutique and gift shops, fine seafood & ethnic restaurants, bike rentals, cruise boats, waterfront boardwalk, and a wide variety of Richmond accommodations.
www.tourismrichmond.com
www.richmond.ca/britannia
www.pc.gc.ca/gulfofgeorgiacannery

Geothermal Wonders and Glowworm Caves in New Zealand’s North Island

By Irene Butler

Pohutu Geyser erupts on average twenty times a day… it should not be long now. My husband Rick and I patiently wait before the gigantic rock mound from which intermittent spurts of steam escape through a large central crevice. Mother Nature kindly sends a warning signal in that the smaller-scale Prince of Wales Feathers Geyser spews its scalding water first…and it does just that with a startling whoosh! Within ten minutes the ground rumbles and my breath catches as the mighty Pohutu sends voluminous columns of water higher and higher with thunderous firehose force to heights of 30m (100ft). Mega-gallons of spray glint in the sun, then fall in torrid cascades over the edge of the rocky mound. The jaw-dropping drama goes on for over a quarter hour, before the Pohutu giant is spent….for now.

This famed geyser is in Te Whakarewarewa Thermal Reserve at the southern edge of Rotorua, the hub-town to one of the most active geothermal areas in the world.

We leave the geyser area for the Reserve’s Maori Weaving and Wood Carving Schools for an introduction to the artistic skills of the indigenous peoples of New Zealand. At the evening cultural show of song and dance the Maori women swing poi (balls on strings) with great finesse, and the men’s “haka” warrior dance is a roaring success with its resounding chants, vigorous movements and facial distortions of bulging eyes and protruding tongues.

Early the next morning we aim our rental car towards Rotorua District’s Wai-O-Tapu for the10:15 a.m. eruption of the Lady Knox Geyser. How does this occur at the exact same time daily? Well, at this site nature has a helping hand in Fred, the park ranger, who pours a little bag of organic soap into its funnel-like opening. He explains, “ The soap breaks the surface tension of cold water in the geyser’s upper chamber so that it mixes with the hot water below, releasing it to shoot to the surface.” Almost immediately the Lady Knox begins to bubble, froth, erupting to a height of approximately 12m – rather less melodramatic than Pohutu.

But Wai-O-Tapu is not called the “Thermal Wonderland” for naught. It covers 18sq km of collapsed craters from volcanic activity eons ago. Champagne Pool and Artist’s Palette are perfect monikers for the bubbling 100°C pools, steaming fumaroles, and patches of dynamic reds, lime green, zinging yellow and chalk white produced by different mineral elements. Spectacular!

Leaving Wai-O-Tapu, a small wooden sign reads “mud pool”, which is more like a lake than a pool. Under a baking sun the surface is like a simmering caldron of bubbling milk chocolate worthy of a scene from Willy Wonka’s factory.

The next day’s two-hour scenic drive is through the Waitomo District of verdant valleys, fields of corn, grazing sheep and cattle. It boggles my mind knowing that underneath these hills are 300 known limestone caves. The abundance of limestone, which is composed of compressed marine life, is due to the area once being under the sea. We arrive at the Waitomo Visitor’s Centre to see some of the caves open to the public.

Before entering the Glowworm Cave, Hardie, our guide, gives us a 101 lesson on the lifecycle of the glowworm (arachnocampaluminosa). The female lays about 120 eggs, which hatch into larvae. The larvae build nests and put down sticky lines to trap insects for food, emitting a visible light from their tail to attract their prey (this bioluminescence is a reaction between chemicals given off by the worm and oxygen in the air); the hungriest glow the brightest. After 9 months in this pupae stage of glowing and growing, they morph into adults whose only function is mating and egg laying for survival of the species.

Climbing into a boat with Hardie and twenty other enthusiasts, we silently drift into the dark hollows of the cave, our eyes glued to the mesmerizing milky way of a million miniscule lights on the cavernous roof. These magical creatures were long known to the Maori people, but the caves were not extensively explored until 1887 when Chief Tane Tinorau and English surveyor Fred Mace mapped them out, after which Tinorau and his wife began guided tours through the caves. In 1904 the caves were taken over by the government, until in 1990 the land and caves were returned to the descendents of the original owners.

Ruakuri Cave is next; its cavernous entrance is likened to an enormous space station. We follow Angus, our guide, down a spiral ramp dotted with amber lights akin to alien orbs taking us15-metres below ground. A vast subterranean world spreads before us with delicate limestone formations in hues of pale pinks and soft gold; stalactites hang en mass from ceilings, stalagmites rise like sentinels from the cave floor, some meeting in the middle to form columns.

With only the railing to guide us we shuffle into a pitch-black section and stand transfixed by an intimate encounter with glowworms; their soft illuminating light is a metre above our heads, and their threads of “fishing line” along a side wall are mere inches away! On the subterranean river below our walkway people swirl by on tubes, as part of the Legendary Black Water Rafting Tour.

Further along we enter a chamber that amplifies the river’s turbulence. Lord of the Rings aficionados, hold onto your hats! “Peter Jackson, Fran Walsh and actor Andy Serkis (a.k.a. Gollum) were here,” says Angus, who further relates technicians from “The Hobbit” recorded soundscapes for the movie’s underground scenes: such as Gollum’s chamber and under the mountain with Smaug the dragon. Listening to the eerie, echoing dash of water against rocks, I feel there could be no better background sound than this resounding overture in Mother Nature’s symphony.

Near the end of the 1.6 km walk (out of 7.5 km in this cave system) a naturally formed stone corridor takes us back to the spiral walkway to climb out of the depths and into the halogen sun, hyped by our combined Sci-fi and Indiana Jones experience.

Warmed by the hospitality of the people and “wowed” by its array of natural marvels, we leave New Zealand’s north island, wishing our stay could be longer.

Photo credits: Rick Butler

Pohutu Geyser
Haka
Glowworm Cave
Crater Lake at Wai-O-Tapu
Entrance Ruakuri Cave
Limestone formations
Limestone veils
Glowworm Cave photo – courtesy of Waitomo Visitors Centre

For More Information:

Rotorua Town & District – http://www.rotoruanz.com/

Waitomo Caves & Legendary Black Water Rafting Co. – www.waitomocaves.co.nz

Titanic Belfast – Birthplace of the Titanic

by Irene Butler

From a distance it is likened to an immense iceberg glinting in the sun. As we near the edifice its appearance takes on the angular shape of four massive ship prows, each facing a different direction.

Both perceptions are befitting this monument to Belfast’s maritime history and to Titanic Belfast being the world’s most extensive Titanic experience.

On the inside we are swept up in Belfast’s industrial boom of the early 1900’s; shipbuilding being a major player. From here my husband Rick and I follow the levels that take us ever deeper into the Titanic story. To the thunder of hammers riveting steel, our cable car passes the phases of construction from her outer shell to her mega engines. Transfixed we watch old film footage of 100,000 people cheering as the Titanic slid down the Harland & Wolff slipway and settled on the waters of Belfast Lough for its maiden voyage.

In another gallery we swirl among original artifacts, replicas and imagery of opulent luxury for first class passengers, including the magnificent grand staircase. The 2nd and 3rd/steerage class quarters pale in comparison, yet no doubt were brightened by the hopes of these individuals and families emigrating to American to start a new life. Seeing the faces of passengers from rows of photos is haunting.

And how fortuitous that on display is the violin played on that fateful night by Wallace Henry Hartley, bandmaster on the RMS Titanic. Its whereabouts unknown for many years, the violin was found in an attic of a Yorkshire home in 2006, and has since undergone extensive research and forensic testing for authenticity.

Regarded as a hero in Titanic folklore, Hartley is credited with the decision to bring his orchestra of five, plus another set of three musicians onto the deck to play hymns as the Titanic was sinking on April 14^th, 1912 – an attempt to calm passengers as they boarded the lifeboats. It is said they continued to play until the lurching of the vessel made it impossible to do so. The time of the ship being swallowed in total by the sea is recorded as 2:20 a.m. on April 15^th. All eight men perished in the disaster – along with over 1,500 (out of the total passengers and crew count of 2,224).

The violin in a leather case with his initials W.H.H. was strapped to Hartley’s body when his remains were recovered by the crew of the ship MacKay Bennett 14 days after the disaster. Peering through glass within inches of the violin we read the inscription, “For Wallace on the occasion of our engagement from Maria” – a gift from fiancée Maria Robinson in1910. It was returned to Maria after his death. She never married and after Maria’s demise her sister donated the violin to a local Salvation Army band, from where it passed through more hands until its discovery. From Titanic Belfast it will go to public auction.

Dr. Robert Ballard’s account of his discovery of the wreckage in 1985 sends icy sensations down my spine. We stand on a glass floor while the images captured by Ballard go by beneath us, as if skimming along in a mini-submarine. Items such as the captain’s bathtub, bottles, and dishes lay scattered about. Two ladies shoes, one larger and one smaller, lie side-by-side….were they perhaps mother and teen daughter?

Outside the facility is the slipway (dry dock) where the Titanic came into being; its exact dimensions painted on the surface. We walk on what once was the length of the ship and as portrayed on a movie set (eat your hearts our Leonardo and Kate) we stand with arms outstretched on the actual spot where the bow was located!

Titanic Belfast revived and expanded our knowledge of everything Titanic, and left us deeply moved by the heroic gestures of crew and passengers during this cataclysm.

Post-our Titanic Belfast visit – the auctioneer’s hammer came down at Henry Aldridge & Sons, The Devizes Auctioneer, in Wilshire, England.

Hartley’s Violin and leather case sold for 900,000 pounds (about $1.45 million US)! No one expected the bids to go as high. The previous top sale for a Titanic item was a 32-foot plan of the Titanic used in the enquiry into the sinking, which fetched 220,000 pounds. The violin sold in ten minutes, the end bidding was between two undisclosed telephone bidders! …and is therefore lost once again to the public eye.

Hartley’s violin and case at Titanic Belfast

Photo/video credit: Rick Butler

For more info:
www.titanicbelfast.com

About the author:
Irene Butler is an award winning travel writer and author of “Trekking the Globe with Mostly Gentle Footsteps” now on Kindle. Her articles have appeared in national and international publications. She and her photographer husband Rick explore the world for six months of every year. www.globaltrekkers.ca

Gravity Defying Little Lake Manitou

by Irene Butler

The author floating in Manitou springs resort pool — Manitou Springs Resort

Day trips from Regina or from Saskatoon to Little Manitou Lake (located between these two Saskatchewan cities) afford a water experience not found elsewhere on the North American continent.

My husband Rick and I float about like astronauts in outer space in the pools of Manitou Springs Resort & Spa. Our ear-to-ear grins are brought on by the sheer frivolity of weightlessness. We cannot sink! The waters, piped in from Little Lake Manitou, have an astounding mineral content found only in a few other places in the world – Karlovy Vary in the Czech Republic and Israel’s Dead Sea.

We move between the pool sections in varying depths and ranging in temperatures from a pleasant 34˚C (93˚F) to toasty 39˚C (103˚F). My favourite maneuver is to sit as if in a lazy-boy chair and bob like a cork without moving a muscle. A lady lying flat on her back reading a newspaper is comical.

All this fun and good for you too! Oral history handed down by First Nation tribes claim that the waters healed the sick during a small pox scourge in 1837. Their medicine men believed the miraculous powers to be a gift from Manitou, the Great Spirit. Scientific studies reveal phenomenally high levels of magnesium, potassium and calcium, promoting skin health, anti-allergen properties and other salubrious benefits. The spa offers a full range of therapeutic remedies and aesthetic services utilizing the lake’s mineral salts.

Eons ago this lake was carved out by glaciers into a dish-shaped basin. Spring fed with no surface drainage other than evaporation over the millennia resulted in the heavy mineral content, giving the water its magical buoyancy and its light bronze hue.

During the 1920s and ’30s Manitou Beach was a happening place. Watrous, only minutes away, was a major stop on the Canadian National Railway line across the country, with special trains running from major prairie cities. During the summers passengers spilled out of the rail cars to waiting taxi shuttles to Manitou. Others came by car maxing out the available parking. As many as 125,000 vacationers enjoyed the lake and spa pools, intermixed with shopping, dining (and yes, brothels and bootleg whiskey).

Between dips in the pool we soak up the village atmosphere, stopping at neat coffee shops and eateries along the lakeshore. The strains of a live orchestra have us gliding like “So You Think You Can Dance” competitors around the 5,000 sq ft floor of Danceland. Playing a round at the Manitou Beach Golf Club or going to the Drive-In Theatre are handy to the resort.

We would love to be here during the fall migration to witness 50,000 Sandhill Cranes and 450,000 geese, plus many other bird species gather at the nearby Last Mountain Lake National Sanctuary. This awesome spectacle repeats itself in the spring.

Often called Canada’s Dead Sea, Little Lake Manitou, in the midst of wheat fields, grain elevators and under a canopy of endless prairie sky is an anomaly – and a wonderful one at that. Our resort stay leaves us rejuvenated and our mood as buoyant as the waters.

More information:

Manitou Springs Resort & Mineral Spa
102 Rooms/Convention Centre/Esthetic & European Spa Services
manitousprings@sasktel.net
Toll-free: 1-800-667-7672 Phone: (306) 946-2233 Fax: (306) 946-2554
Box 610, Watrous, SK, Canada S0K 4T0

Mineral Properties of Lake Manitou Water in Grams/Gallon
Magnesium Sulphate 308.38
Magnesium Bicarbonate 63.42
Sodium Sulfate 50.92
Potassium Sulphate 116.62
Sodium Chloride 1405.60
Calcium Sulphate 104.96
Oxide of Iron & Aluminum 0.28
Silica 0.69

The Legend of Manitou Beach
#ad

About the author:

Irene Butler is an award winning travel writer and author of “Trekking the Globe with Mostly Gentle Footsteps” now on Kindle. She and her photographer husband Rick explore the world for six months of every year. Find out where these Globaltrekkers have been!

Photo Credit: Rick Butler

The Philippine Island of Bohol

by Irene Butler

Tarsier in Philippines Bohol — Tarsier, smallest primate

Day trips from Manila to Bohol are a popular choice with island-hoppers, which speak volumes since the Philippine archipelago is comprised of 7,107 islands! After a short flight from the country’s capital we arrive in Tagbilaran where gigantic earth mounds and the tiniest of primates await us.

Along with our driver/guide “Lino,” my husband Rick and I are soon breezing towards Bohol’s 40-metre mounds known as the Chocolate Hills. “Their brown colour, hence the name,” Lino says, “is the result of the hill’s scrub vegetation becoming sun-scorched during dry season.” There are 214 steps or a winding path up to a viewing deck; we choose the latter. Gazing out over the hills in every direction I am surprised at how they really do resemble endless rows of chocolate drops (it is said there are 1,268 if you care to count). Geologists believe they were formed from deposits of coral and limestone being pushed upward, then sculptured by centuries of erosion.

Legend has it they are the calcified tears of a broken hearted giant, while another tale pegs them as leavings of a giant carabao (water buffalo) with distressed bowels. Spunky young people jump while a friend snaps a picture at ground level, which gives the appearance of bounding across the hilltops in the photo. We try, but a jump six inches off the ground is not enough to create this illusion.

We drive on to the Tarsier Sanctuary to see the world’s smallest primate. Lino introduces us to Bernard, the Tarsier specialist, who leads us along a narrow root-tangled path to where a few of the elusive creatures perch in the jungle foliage. “The tarsiers are nocturnal,” Bernard whispers, “so each morning I go looking to find where they have ended up for their day’s sleep.” We learn that although the Philippine Tarsier (Tarsius Syrichta) are often referred to as monkeys, they are more closely related to the lemur, loris and tree shrew.

Bernard points to a leafy haven where a 10-cm tall tarsier grips a branch with its proportionately huge fore and hind limbs. Even more super-sized for this 120-gram brownish fur ball are its saucer eyes peering down at us. We quietly walk along to another that has its back to us, but with its ultra-keen hearing twists its head a disconcerting 180 degrees to nonchalantly check us out with half-opened orbs. A Tarsier’s tail is more than twice its body length. I can imagine this rat-like appendage acting like a fifth limb while leaping up to three-metres during its nightly hunts to satiate its ferocious appetite, consuming about eight crickets a night (or insect equivalent of beetles, termites, or perhaps an available lizard or frog).

Since the establishment of the Tarsier Foundation in 1996 this endangered species has been protected in a 167-hectare reserve. This fascinating animal has been around for a staggering 45 million years; since the early Eocene period! Encroaching humans thinking they were pests that ate rice crops, along with no knowledge of their habits or environmental needs brought them to near extinction. A slow reversal process is now in effect to protect these amazing alien-like living treasures.

Back to Tagbilaran by late afternoon, we still have time to absorb some of the town’s quaint atmosphere before snuggling up at a small hotel for a good night’s sleep and our next day’s flight back to Manila.

More about the Tarsiers: http://www.tarsierfoundation.org/

Photo credit: Rick Butler

Watch a video of Tarsiers in Bohol, Philippines: