The Nature, Albanian Style

Posted on May 23, 2026 by Bev Marshall

I arrive in Tiranë, Albania, to meet up with two friends for a ten day adventure. Our guide/driver meets us at the airport and we drive north to Shkoder, near the Montenegrin border. We’re here for a couple of days to get out into the Albanian wilderness, with its mountains, lakes and rivers. If you, like me, wonder why Eastern Europeans refer to “the nature” instead of just saying nature, it’s partly direct translation as these languages use definite articles (the), and partly a cultural nuance. “Nature” is often thought of as a specific lived place outside the city — forests, mountains, rivers, countryside — rather than an abstract ecological concept.

So we drive north to Theth National Park in the Albanian Alps to explore the nature. To give you an idea of the road, it’s only about 70 kilometres but takes over two hours. We aren’t on a highway, or even a standard road – it’s more of a prolonged negotiation with gravity. Our driver assures us the road is better than it used to be. The mind boggles. We wind up the mountains in a series of perilous hairpin bends to the summit at 1,666 metres before descending, every corner offering either a magnificent abyss and early death, or a herd of goats regarding us with mild contempt. That’s when we can see something. The day begins with misty rain and we reassure ourselves it will clear. Of course it will clear. Mountain weather is famously changeable. Indeed, it changes from wet to wetter. By the time we arrive, the clouds are unwelcome guests who have taken over the spare room and refuse to leave.

Our grand plan is to hike to the Blue Eye, a celebrated alpine spring – the photographs suggest a lost paradise. Unfortunately the reality involves another hour long hike each way, clambering over rocks and boulders polished by rain into something closely resembling an accident compensation claim. We briefly weigh scenic beauty in the unyielding rain against maintaining structurally sound limbs and decide in favour of the latter.

In the village there’s one thing of particular interest: Kulla e Ngujimit, the Lock-In Tower, once used in blood feuds as “a place of self-security. The guilty person waits the irritability to be substituted by reasonable actions.” I suspect this benign description, sounding more like a mindfulness retreat from homicidal neighbours, is something of an understatement. Reasonable actions in the Albanian Alps historically had a fairly flexible definition, and once the occupant stepped out the offended party would settle the blood feud with, well, blood. I enter the tower and climb the precarious ladder up three floors to find the occupant would at least have a nice view – if it wasn’t raining.

You can check in any time you want, but you can never leave

Our next excursion is an almost perfectly Albanian travel experience. What makes it funny in retrospect is the sheer contrast between expectation and delivery. The Shala river cruise is billed as a must do. We imagine a couple of hours cruising on a scenic river, albeit one that’s part of a hydro system. However something seems to be lost in translation, and it turns out we’ve committed six hours of our lives we’ll never get back. We cruise an hour and a half up river through a lovely uninhabited landscape of steep canyons and turquoise water to arrive at a Balkan remix of a bargain Mediterranean beach club. Instead of the serene riverside wilderness we expect, there’s umbrellas, beach loungers, bad wine, and aggressively upbeat Albanian pop music. The whole place has the slightly surreal atmosphere of a package holiday accidentally dropped into the middle of a canyon. Three hours later we retrace the river journey back to the dock where tour groups disembark and dash for their transport. It’s relatively quiet at this time of year but Summer must be chaotic. The entire expedition is, naturally, bookended by several hours of narrow, winding, white-knuckle driving.
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At least it’s not raining.

Silk and secret passages, and not much sun in Lyon

Posted on May 18, 2026 by Bev Marshall

The weather in Lyon, it turns out, has a sense of drama. I arrive on a sweltering, sunny day and enjoy a jaunty promenade riverside, dreaming of 10 sun filled days to explore this gorgeous city. Lyon is sandwiched between the Saône and the Rhône and has 2,000 years of history and drama to reveal. Oh, how I laugh over the next eight days as the city shows me every weather mood it possesses, mainly rain, before farewelling me with two glorious sunny days.

One day I arrive at class (more on that later) and it’s hailing. By the time I emerge two hours later it’s sunny enough to take the rattly funicular up Fourvière hill to enjoy stunning views over the city and check out the glories of the Basilica of Notre Dame. Now I’ve seen a lot – too many – fancy churches and Cathedrals in my time but this gilded gem would be right at home in the Oval Office – there’s not a surface that doesn’t have decorative features, and gilt is in evidence.

Another day I emerge from the metro to a thunderstorm of Biblical proportions. Fortunately there’s a nail bar right there, and by the time I have my manicure, the storm is over.

Over the years I have attempted to maintain and improve my schoolgirl French. In my nightmares I still see Sister Barbara, arms folded under her nun’s habit, disapproving look – usually in my direction – dictating a passage for us to translate. Her particular pronunciation of virgule (comma) has never left me, although I can now safely say she was mispronouncing it. In Lyon, I enrol at a language school for a week of one-on-one tuition. Every afternoon for five days I meet with Lorène, a lovely young woman whose patience deserves the Legion of Honour. While I am actually not too terrible, I sometimes confidently invent grammar structures and verb tenses that the French, despite centuries of development, somehow neglect to recognise. Impressively, when I struggle to find the right word, or grammatical structure, Lorène waits. She never looks at the clock, though to be fair I do, frequently. The lessons demand concentration. While afternoons involve two hours of grammar, vocabulary, and occasional self flagellation when I seem to forget even the most basic concepts of the language, the mornings I spend exploring this city I find absolutely wonderful – rain or shine.

You’d think I’d have enough after two hours brain gymnastics , but one afternoon after class I head up to the area of Croix-Rousse and join a tour at Maison des Canuts, the silk weavers museum. The history of Lyon is absolutely bound up in the development and success of the silk industry. For two and a half hours our guide, Paula, tells us in rapid fire French everything from the life cycle of the silk worm, the industrial development of the industry and the labour unrest that created a small revolution, to the lives of the canuts (silk weavers) who built Lyon’s fortunes thread by thread. Not to mention the invention of the Jacquard loom, which is like the Swiss army knife of weaving machines: it uses a punch card that controls which warp threads (vertical) are raised to allow weft threads (lateral) to pass under them. This means you can create incredibly detailed patterns that would be impossible on simpler looms. If you’ve been to Versailles, the silk wall hangings and furnishings were woven in Lyon.

One of my favourite experiences is a walking tour of Vieux-Lyon, the old town which is only about three streets wide, hunched up against the bottom of Fourvière hill and with very few cross streets. This brings us to the traboules, hidden passageways that thread through and between buildings, connecting one street to another. They are one of the city’s most distinctive architectural features, dating back hundreds of years. Inhabitants living on the slopes of Fourvière needed fast access from their homes down to the river Saône for water and trade. Over the years the traboules have been used by silk workers, resistance fighters, merchants, and now generations of locals – and of course tourists.

The city is rightly proud of its silk history which draws from China, Japan, and India, but which it made its own craft and style. There are subtle and not so subtle nods to the canuts and the importance of the silk trade throughout the city. Place Bellecour has swathes of fabric like sculpture across the square and the image across these up to Fourvière neatly sums up the city.

Absolutely love Lyon. I haven’t even mentioned the food and Lyon is the gastronomic capital of France. Good thing I’ll be swinging back here another couple of times this trip. With any luck, the sun will shine.

Beyond the Bedlam – The Alternative Phuket

Posted on February 26, 2026 by Bev Marshall

How many massages is too many? I clock up seven in twelve days and, frankly, it feels like I’m just getting into my stride. I begin to wonder if I should push on — double figures feels like a personal growth milestone. Mind you, after the Indian head massage, which was sublime, I come away looking like I swam through the Exxon Valdez oil slick. I need to shampoo my hair no fewer than six times.

I’m at CC’s Hideaway, a small, low-key hotel perched on a hill behind the chaos of Phuket’s western beaches. Down below: jet skis, beach bars, wall to wall umbrellas and the raucous throb of sunburned tourists. Up here: birdsong, sea views, and me scheduling another massage.

***The view from the rooftop yoga studio***

This place provides opportunities to engage in everything from high action: eco adventures, island trips, kayaking, kick boxing, zip lining, to gentler pursuits such as massage and spa treatments, yoga, meditation, visiting offshore island beaches, and aligning your chakras – which you probably don’t even know are out of whack.

It’s possible to book the hotel and pay as you go for activities. I go for the all inclusive Yoga Holiday, which gives the illusion I’m focusing on my health. Each day I decide whether to go active or go slow. Spoiler alert – go slow is a very attractive option, especially as every day is about 32 degrees. There’s a yoga class in the morning, another at sunset. Some classes are on the beach, which sounds idyllic until you realise it’s hot, tricky to balance, and sunblock attracts sand like iron filing to a magnet. I prefer my exfoliation in the comfort of a spa room.

Day one is a slow one: swimming in the pool; a private yoga lesson, where after 28 years I learn a few things – after all, they call it yoga practice; the best massage I’ve ever had; and an evening restorative yoga session.

Next day, action woman. It’s the 4 elements adventure: Earth, Air, Fire, and Water. The earth is advertised as “a trek to Ao Yon Waterfall through the lush jungle of Phuket to discover the hidden beauty of the Waterfall. This trek offers the perfect mix of nature, tranquility, and adventure as you walk through the forest, feeling the Earth beneath your feet, breathing in the fresh air, and reaching the serene waterfall”. I’d describe it more as a half hour stumble up a rocky dry riverbed through dusty forest to a trickle more like a leaky tap. It hasn’t rained in a while.

Now, I love a zip line, flying through the air suspended by a carabiner attached to a washing line. First run? A bit short. Second run? Bit longer. Wind in my hair. Third run? Bring on the big guns. I’m basically Bear Grylls. Well, maybe not, because I wasn’t expecting a high cable walk. Across a single wire with a higher one to hold – or grip for dear life. I shuffle across. Yes, there’s photographic proof. Luckily it’s of my back so you can’t see the whites of my eyes.

Then a wobbly net – is there any other kind when it’s suspended above the jungle? This leads to a drunken zebra crossing, comprising sliding, zigzag planks designed by someone who hates ankles. Please, I beg, tell me the rest is all zip line? “No, madam. More climbing.” At this point my legs are trembling like I’ve just played two hours of squash and topped it off with 50 squats. I make the executive decision to retire from extreme sports forever, unclip myself with what little dignity remains, and retire to my natural habitat – the bar.

After lunch – the fire aspect, and fortunately I’m a world champion at eating – we go to Ao Yon beach, ”a peaceful beach to unwind and experience the Water element. You can relax on the soft sand, listen to the sound of the waves, and enjoy the cool ocean breeze.”

As nice as this is initially, it becomes an unexpected second fire element when one of our group steps on a sea urchin, and another one on something even more toxic. The sound of the waves gives way to shrieks and sobbing and next minute we’re in a mad dash to a hospital, 30 mins away. The poor woman is in agony: sweaty, heart racing, tingling up her leg and crying in pain.

Our guide stays with her at the ED and we next see her four hours later, limping and bandaged, clutching pain killers and antibiotics, but with an excellent vacation story with which to regale friends and family. She spent the first three hours lying in a corridor with staff ignoring her, so it’s just like ED at home. From this day forth I wear reef shoes every time I venture near the ocean.

And so the days drift by in a haze of smoothies and good intentions. I’m enthusiastic about a trip to a “desert island.” Desert implies deserted, but in this case it’s only a 10-minute longtail boat ride so, not so deserted. Undeterred, we march heroically across to the other side and discover an uninhabited stretch of sand, complete with trees thoughtfully providing shade for the impressive mountain range of plastic waste artfully scattered along the shore. Ahhh Paradise. Lost.

***The clear water is in contrast to the trash ashore*** – **Bon Island**

In the interest of regaining my sense of adventure, I decided to try aerial yoga. How hard could it be? It’s just yoga, but in a hammock. Suspended. In the air. By fabric.

We start with some stretches, hoisting a leg into the hammock and engaging in a series of contortions, which I’m sure you have to pay for at a BDSM house. Getting into the hammock requires engaging your core, the precursor for which is having a core. After a small but committed wrestling match with the silk, I resemble laundry aggressively flung over a fence during a storm.

Then came the inversions. I know my limits and draw the line when the instructor tells us we’re going for the “chicken roll”, which is nothing to do with food and requires complicated wrapping of various limbs, all of which I prefer to keep. I resist her insistence I challenge myself, preferring to keep my appendages where they were set at birth.

While I demur at the prospect of the splits (Good God I’m nearly 70 and couldn’t do it at 17), I manage to impersonate a butterfly – I believe I might be ready to audition for Cirque de Soleil. Right up til I attempt to dismount. Then I am a newborn giraffe. Would I do it again? Probably, if only to prove the hammock doesn’t win.

If staying another week I’d likely do a cooking class, maybe an eco printing workshop, try another island trip that includes biking and kayaking, possibly even join a fermentation workshop. I suspect the Muay Thai kickboxing is beyond me, but I’d definitely have another few massages.

When Does Craft Become Art?

Posted on February 20, 2026 by Bev Marshall

An interesting question. Craft. Shells glued to a box? Something involving a piece of driftwood and macramé? Or egg cartons and toilet roll cardboards fashioned into, well, God knows what.

What I do know is that all the workshops we visit are places where what would be termed handcraft are elevated. Centuries of cultural meaning imbue design: beadwork, painting, dyeing, weaving, all done the way they’ve been done for generations. No machines, no glue guns, no short cuts.

In the tribal Ahir community we meet a lovely mother and two of her five daughters, all dedicated to the art of Ahir embroidery, featuring bold colours in silks and cottons with small mirrors stitched in. They welcome us into their home and we sit in a room that is part workshop part living room. The women sit comfortably on the floor, hanks of yarn by their sides, deftly stitching. We watch, transfixed by their deft speed.

The embroidery transforms fabric into pieces heavy with meaning and history. They’re also, quite literally, heavy — dense with stitching and the tiny mirrors. Each pattern carries stories of life, community and identity. Nothing is random. Every motif belongs.

The Kutch region in Gujarat, of which Bhuj is the capital, is home to 33 tribes. If you are thinking small, recalibrate your thinking. There are over 60 million people in Gujarat, and the Kutch tribes account for almost 9 million of them. These are not tiny, obscure enclaves – this is culture on a grand scale.

At the Life Learning Development Centre my ears bleed from the excited chatter of hundreds of school children, there to learn about culture and history. The Centre exists to preserve, revitalise and promote the design heritage of Kutch. It provides an opportunity for kids to get hands on, and for artists to train, develop, and also adapt to contemporary markets. The place is overwhelming, full of galleries and learning spaces. We tour room after room showcasing the motifs and design that are specific to various tribal groups. If your camel needs a new outfit you can get some decorative ideas here. By the end of our visit, you could hold a gun to my head and I still wouldn’t be able to differentiate between Rabari, Ahir, or any of the others with any confidence. I would, however, be able to say with absolute certainty that none of it involves macramé or egg cartons.

Across all the stops we make, the visit to the indigo workshop is a favourite, not just because of the fascinating process. This is an extended family business with father, brothers, cousins, uncles, aunts all working in a vertically integrated enterprise. From hand carding the cotton bolls, spinning it into yarn, winding the yarn onto hanks, dying the hanks, then weaving the fabric.

Our host patiently guides each of us at spinning the cotton bolls into thread. Do I need to say most of us do not show innate talent? Hell would freeze over before I created enough cotton for a g-string. The coordination is tricky, with the right hand gently on the spindle and the left stretching up to keep gentle tension, but it’s a proud moment when thread emerges.

Indigo dyeing in India is an ancient, 4,000-year-old tradition and the process is nothing short of alchemy. Cakes of natural indigo, derived from the leaves of the Indigofera plant in yet another time consuming and complicated ritual, are mixed with natural ingredients like lime and jaggery for vat dyeing. As an aside, Indigo will not dissolve in water – it repels it. More repellent, at one time stale urine was used. Pee was left outside for a couple of weeks to ferment before the indigo was added. How did anyone work this out? Who thinks, I know, let’s let horse pee sit out in the heat for a couple of weeks and use that. Great idea! In a short google search I find there are people who still do this, using their own urine.

Back to the vats. These are sunk into the ground and, brace yourself, goat and sheep droppings are scattered on the ground around the vats. In a “believe-it-or-not” mystery of traditional science, (like the urine as a solvent) this helps maintain the vat’s temperature year-round. Sustainable heating, countryside edition. You may wish to try this at home, given the cost of heating, though I’m not sure Council bylaws stretch to goat farming in the inner city.

When the vat is ready the colour is more of a yellowish green than blue. The yarn is dipped in the dye and when it’s taken out it is yellow, but as the air hits it the yarn turns blue as it oxidises. Before your very eyes you see the colour change. It is aired and then the dyer repeats the process as many times as it takes to achieve the deep indigo colour they seek. In the photos you can see the shades of blue in the hanks hanging on the wall.

**Vats in the ground with sheep and goat droppings and terracotta on the surrounds**

When the yarn is ready, it’s on to weaving. It can take days to set up a pit loom, and as long or longer to manufacture the fabric. At this workshop women set up the looms and men are the weavers. They sit in pit looms where their feet smoothly work the pedals and hands pull handles sending bobbins skittering across the width of the loom. What appears to be a tangle of threads stretches along the length of the floor and emerges on distinct lines feeding into the warp.

Ajrakh block printing is a painstaking and exacting work involving multiple dyeing and drying steps. At the workshop we watch two workers follow each along and around a table measuring about 6m by 1.5m with a saree length of fabric laid out. Each man has an intricately carved wooden block which he dips into dye then carefully places the block on the fabric, taps it, and moves on. The second guy follows with the next layer, each print landing exactly where it should. With each successive layer the final pattern emerges.

This trip with All India Permit really is an mind blowing experience: the history, cultural stories and watching exceptional artists at work is a lot to take in, but we really appreciate the skills they demonstrate with such competence and ease when we attempt them ourselves. Fabric painting, spinning, block printing, embroidery, and what proves to be one of the most challenging, tie dyeing.

Now this isn’t what you are thinking – the 1970s calling and wanting their tie dyed t-shirts back. This is tying minute bunches of thread the size of the head of a match, resulting in tiny dots patterns, very like Aboriginal dot paintings in Australia. Complex patterns need multiple processes of tying, washing, more tying and dyeing.

While the two brothers who own and run the business are responsible for design, the tying is done by women working from their homes. The work is extremely intricate as the photos show. When all the dying and washing is done, the fabric is stretched out and all the cotton threads pop off, revealing the magic.

**the master showing us how to tie minuscule pieces of fabric**

***A complex pattern ready for dying. Photos by Jacqui Nelson***

It would take several more blogs to fully describe the breadth and richness of the experiences this trip provides. Whenever we think we’ve seen unsurpassable expertise, a different skill blows our minds. The dedication, patience and passion is humbling in this increasingly fast world. They greet us with warmth and pleasure at our interest, and are generous with their time and information. Highly recommend if you have even the remotest interest in fabric, design, art, history or culture – I guess that’s everyone!

Textiles, Tigers, Tribal traditions, and the Taj

Posted on February 12, 2026 by Bev Marshall

Our local guide, Haseeb, cites these four reasons for visiting India, and we knock off three of them. Ahmedabad, the capital of Gujarat state, was known as the Manchester of the East due to its flourishing textile industry, with over 100 cotton mills at its peak. It’s also famous as the site of the fatal Air India crash last year, a fact I’d conveniently forgotten until after I flew in.

Here we visit fabulous workshops before continuing to the western part of the state, to the heart of traditional, tribal textile and design work. Every day is a revelation. We embrace a rough routine over the week: drive to a workshop, remove shoes, enter the workshop, drink masala chai, admire genius at work, exit through the gift shop, put on shoes, repeat. We punctuate this with samosa stops. Remember, when eating street snacks in India the mantra is fried food is your friend.

This stunning work uses minuscule pieces of shed peacock feathers and iridescent beetle wings

Asif Shaikh, a micro-miniature embroidery master is internationally revered with work held by major international museums. He has an exhibition in a local gallery, and is kind enough to come and talk about his work. I expect a wizened, hunched old man to appear, but he is a tall, elegant, softly spoken man with a background in design, but a great passion for reviving this work. It’s difficult to explain how intricate and delicate the pieces are, with their thousands and thousands of tiny stitches. One stunning piece is embroidered with peacock feathers and beetle wings. Others are gossamer fine, mere wisps of fabric transformed into art.

Delicate embroidery on even more delicate fabric

Driving the mean streets of Ahmedabad takes us through dense traffic and densely populated neighbourhoods, streets full of business and trade, life lived on the street, with garbage strewn everywhere. There’s no discernible infrastructure for rubbish collection and for generations the habit is throw it on the street.

Haseeb leads us through the back alleys until the pungent aroma of what we learn is rusting metal soaking in jaggery (a type of rough sugar) sees us fumbling for the smelling salts. You’re lucky this blog doesn’t have smellovision, because this tub of liquid is rancid. This mixture becomes the ink for the traditional fabric painting we are about to see – and have a go at doing. Narrow concrete steps lead up to an open room where the windows give out to ragged rooftops. A troupe of monkeys is engaging in a territorial battle, clattering across the rooftops.

Mata Ni Machedi means behind the mother goddess, and these works are traditionally used in shrines. One of the last families engaging in this art form are showing us beautiful paintings all created with natural dyes, and painstakingly drawn layer by layer. The father’s work features in museums worldwide, and in art books nationally and internationally. Using a thin bamboo pen dipped in the ink our artist swiftly knocks out a masterpiece of a goddess to show us how it’s done. Then his daughters, who are carrying on the dynasty, set us up with cloth, pen and ink. Unfortunately they can’t impart talent, but we do our best.

And this is my picture – you can see what I was going for

We know calico as un unbleached woven cotton. In its textile heyday, one of the big mills in Ahmedabad was the Calico Mill, and today this rambling brick building houses the Calico Museum of Textiles, India’s finest collection of historical textiles. It is set in expansive lush grounds, but has that special feeling of crumbling elegance. While you expect to be wowed by stunning centuries old carpets, clothing, travelling canopied tents and wall hangings, you don’t the guide: a no-nonsense old woman who runs her tour like a headmistress guarding a kingdom of silk. She wastes no time on pleasantries and looks us over with sharp eyes, assessing if we are worthy of entry. Once inside – shoes off, no photos – she sets a brisk pace. We scuttle behind her like slightly anxious ducklings. Her explanations emerge from behind a firmly secured mask, so that interesting information about double ikat and Mughal patronage is muffled. We nod earnestly whether we hear her or not. It feels safest. Asking a question is a calculated risk: generally it’s ignored – if deemed worthy, it earns a brief, precise answer delivered with the efficiency of a judge’s verdict. If someone lingers too long or drifts toward a display case, she fixes them with a look that could starch cotton at 20 paces. And don’t even think about touching. These textiles survived centuries of climate, politics, and neglect. Under her watch, they will survive careless tourists.

In another area, less heavily patrolled by the gestapo, we see dorukha shawls, essentially two shawls in one as the interlocking method of weaving produces a smooth reversible surface.

Cotton has been the lifeblood of Gujarat for hundreds of years, but the industry is facing a myriad of challenges, not least climate change. The traditional strain, Kala, crops once a year, and when the weather becomes unseasonal that creates problems. After a massive earthquake (7.6 lasting 85 seconds) in 2001 killed over 20,000 people, injured another 166,000 and destroyed about 400,000 buildings in Gujarat and a nearby Pakistani province. The Government injected considerable assistance to support reconstruction and assist small, medium, and cottage industries. Unfortunately it also introduced and promoted a GM cotton that crops twice a year, but needs more water, chemicals to control insects, and takes more out of the soil so it becomes less fertile after five years. By the way, a cotton picker earns about $1 per 20 kg. If you’re not sure how much that is, go to the supermarket and pick up 20 kg of cotton balls. It’s hot work and the cotton buds have sharp pods.

I haven’t even arrived in Bhuj yet, where we get more dyeing, weaving, and hands on with spinning, block printing and spending money. Looks like another blog coming your way. Here’s some snacks for a break from fabric.

The White People Are Here

Posted on February 8, 2026 by Bev Marshall

Kids shout “the white people are here”, and a crowd gathers. A smile and a hello usually bring wide grins in return, often with fits of giggles. The brave ones try their English with “what’s your country?” or “what’s your name?”, then collapse in laughter.

This is Gujarat, NW India, close to the Pakistani border – at one point we’re only 20 km away and fighter jets patrol the airspace. We’re the object of considerable curiosity. Just a small group of seven, but few westerners make their way here so we attract intense interest. In fact, not many Indian tourists come this way either, and later in our trip we constantly meet people who are amazed that we’ve been there. Our interest is in the culture, design and fabric heritage of India, but more of that in the next instalment. That’s especially for the artists and artisans among you.

I didn’t come to India for surgery, but tuk tuk rides over rough streets and old city cobblestones are definitely rearranging my internal organs. We climb into bright pink tuk tuks, run by a local tour company with only women drivers who all look about 12 years old. They charge off into the maelstrom and deliver us safely to the early morning wholesale flower and vegetable markets.

Colourful and noisy, frantic with commerce, the narrow alleys throb with action. Do not get in the way of the women carrying 20-40kg bags of veggies unless you’re ready for shove and a concise Hindustani correction.

Everything is pink in Jaipur – it’s like falling into the Barbie movie. In the old town most buildings are a gorgeous shade of dusty salmon pink, a hangover from 1876 when the Prince of Wales (later King Edward VII) came to town. Pink being the symbolic colour of hospitality, Maharaja Sawai Ram Singh had the whole city sloshed with pink paint to welcome the royals. Prince Albert nicknamed Jaipur the ‘Pink City’ and the name stuck.

Jaipur is an huge contrast after the remote villages of Gujarat. Flying in after dark, the lights reveal the grid design set out in 1725 to establish India’s first planned city, completely surrounded by a wall that still stands. The higher rise, more modern commercial spaces and hotels spread out from the centre.

Planning a city doesn’t mean it’s not chaos. As in all of India, the system somehow works, even though lanes and traffic direction are merely ideas; horns are mandatory – to announce your presence but never used in anger; cows, dogs, pedestrians and beggars are generally avoided; everyone – except the animals – is on their phone; and you are responsible for your own life. There are remarkably few accidents, though death appears imminent- possibly my own due to cardiac arrest as we narrowly avoid another rickshaw/car/dog/pedestrian.

The go-to in Jaipur is Amer Fort, which rises out of the Aravalli hills and sprawls along the ridge line like it owns the place. A16 kilometre wall, studded with watchtowers, snakes along the the hills and around the perimeter. The fort is a blend of architectures, Rajkot and Mughal, covering over four square kilometres and overlooking the gardens on Moata Lake. From the International Space Station, this is apparently the only wall you can see. Take that, China.

To reach the fort we load into jeeps. What they lack in suspension they fail to compensate for with comfort. The kilometre or so climb up the cobbled road is bone-shaking in the most character-building way. Progress is slow, traffic jams stop traffic as every other tourist in town has the same idea – arrive early and beat the crowds.

This whole Raj thing is such a contrast to the backwaters of Gujarat, where we stay in small villages and visit home based workshops. We also travel across the Great Rann Of Kutch, a huge desert that at this time of year is typically a vast, blindingly white, salt flat. However unseasonal rains a couple of weeks ago (hello climate change) deprive us of the spectacle. We stay on the eastern side of the Rann ( which means desert) and one morning load into jeeps – again with the jeeps – for a morning safari. We are on Little Rann and see some wildlife, including a native donkey, and watch the desert come to life.

We meet a family working out here: they live here for six months a year, establishing the salt ponds by digging then stomping the ground flat, flooding with salt water pumped up from the water table, and raking them daily to build up the crystals. God knows what it does to their health walking in salt every day. The family earns about $250 a month. The company provides the infrastructure – solar panels to run the pump, a couple of drums of fresh water each week for living purposes. A gutted bus, set up as a school room, comes out during the week, but other wise the kids are working as well.

It’s a basic, very basic, life we witness.

Los Cabos: tequila, tacos, touts

Posted on June 1, 2025 by Bev Marshall

Cabo San Lucas, or CSL. The southern tip of Baja California, where the desert meets the sea and the tequila flows before noon. It’s a place of contrasts. On one hand, the stunning natural beauty: turquoise waters, towering cliffs, and the rock formation known as the Arch, which punctuates the very bottom of the Baja peninsula, and is where the sea of Cortez and Pacific Ocean collide.

That’s Sly Stallone’s house on the far left

On the other hand, Americans: a rotating cast, split at an age point I’ve yet to accurately determine, though they can bleed across. Forties-ish up, they head for their time share apartment or all-inclusive resort and don’t leave until it’s time to head back to the airport – unless it’s to play golf. The younger set are on a different trip, sometimes quite literally, altogether. If not the famed American Spring Break crowd, it’s the bachelor and bachelorette parties, eternal in their youth and questionable choices. They descend in herds, wearing too little, drinking too much and accessorising with sunburn and classy headbands proclaiming various proclivities, such as Ass Muncher or I ❤️ cock. Their parents must be so proud.

Activities centre on the water: glass-bottom boat tours, snorkelling, scuba diving, jet skiing, paddle boarding, kayaking, sunset sails, catamaran parties, private tours – the list is endless. As is the relentless touting. It’s impossible to meander along the beautiful marina without really wanting a T-shirt that shouts LEAVE ME ALONE – I don’t want silver plated jewellery, a beaded wristband, a blanket, a hat, a headband, a tequila tasting, a glass bottom boat trip, 2 for 1 watered down margaritas…

Still, there’s fun to be had. The snorkelling trip I take is just me and a couple of Indian families, tech imports to San Jose, working for Meta, so there’s no pumping music. As we leave the bay we glide past the fabulous rock formations and craggy cliffs, punctuated by a couple of small beaches with sea access only. We head for the Arch, the postcard picture of Cabo. There are many, many boats out there – it’s a like a nautical version of the Black Friday sales, but the skippers are skilled at jockeying for position so everyone can get the shot with the Arch in the background.

At the very end of the peninsula the seascape is quite different as the force of the Pacific rolls in. This entire west coast to the north is popular for surfing, and you can see why. Not so many boats venture around this side, and those that do keep their distance from the shore as the swells are heavy. We head back for a snorkel around Pelican rock. Nemo and all his mates are there, but the viz isn’t as clear as the Pacific Islands, and the area is limited – not least so you don’t get mashed by a boat.

Thirty minutes east of Cabo San Lucas lies serenity in the form of San José del Cabo. The two towns form Los Cabos, the Capes, but they couldn’t be more different. In San José del Cabo the margaritas are made with fresh lime, the art scene actually means something, and no one is selling boat trips – the big harbour and the punters are at CSL. But you can beach walk for ages and not be deafened by electronic dance music, or be accosted by itinerant hat sellers. In San José people quietly stroll. They meander through the Thursday evening art walk, where local artists create a huge outdoor gallery in the main square. It’s an enchanting mix of complete crap, skilled craft, and interesting work, along with tourist tat and great street food. Middle-aged couples discuss whether that cactus-shaped ceramics piece will clash with their Napa Valley kitchen, and buy handwoven rugs they’ll never find a place for at home.

A day trip to Todos Santos takes us an hour or so north of Cabo. The desert opens up quickly as we leave town, the Pacific with its famous surf breaks glinting off to the left. The stately cacti fascinate me: some tall and solo, others with arms up as if they’re being robbed. There’s hundreds of different varieties and I’m happy to steer clear of all of them. Then, Todos Santo – dusty streets, bright bougainvillea, and a quiet, creative buzz. At our first stop we learn of the long history behind the traditional glass seed bead work with its roots in the Guaycura people of the area. It’s exquisite and painstaking decorative work. I hanker for the cow head, but I’m guessing it won’t fit in my hand luggage. The surf board, which looks spectacular, took two artists three months to bead. I’m curious about where the beads originated, and it seems Chinese immigrants chasing the Californian gold rush brought them. That includes Mr Wong, who built the Hotel California over three years from 1947, opening it in 1950, so although there is no connection whatsoever to the Eagles or the song, it doesn’t stop everyone believing it does. Anyway, you can’t check in any time you want because it closed during Covid and hasn’t reopened.

Cabo San Lucas is beautiful, chaotic, and just the right amount of absurd – like if a postcard had a hangover. The most baffling thing? The sheer number of pharmacies. I’m not exaggerating: you can walk one block and pass five of them. It’s like a bizarre pharmaceutical Disneyland. Naturally, I investigate. The answer? Americans. Not just the spring break crowd, but also those hunting for Viagra, Ozempic, Ambien, or basically anything you can’t casually ask for at home without a stern lecture from your doctor. But they’re not cheap. We priced a sleeping pill, the one we get at home on script for zero dollars, and it was $650 NZD for 90 pills.

Not subtle, but I wonder about the positioning of the erection

Ultimately, both sides of Baja are part of the same glorious, sun-drenched contradiction. One side shouts show us your boobs from a passing booze cruise. The other murmurs, This pottery speaks to the soul. You choose.

The Texas Triangle Part 2 – Is Austin Weird?

Posted on May 24, 2025 by Bev Marshall

The road out of San Antonio sets the stage for another round of Texan time travel. Starring Buc-ee’s, this time for fuel at one of the 200 bowsers, and the irresistible Buc-ee’s Beaver chips (again), and then a much-hyped strudel showdown in New Braunfels, a town with German roots and big pastry promises. The chips are still crunch bombs, but the strudel is a major letdown after the Kountry Kitchen. The pastry is stodgy and the filling tastes synthetic and could only be described as apple adjacent. No points for New Braunfels.

If you’re looking for a job, Buc-ee’s is hiring

However the detour is worth it for Gruene, pronounced Green, an historic district settled in the 1840s by German immigrants. The crown jewel? Gruene Hall: Texas’ oldest dance hall still in operation. It’s rustic, charming, and practically begging for boots on the floor. We didn’t stay long enough for a dance, but the floorboards look more than ready for a Texas two step. And it’s fair to say the restrooms are the antithesis of Buc-ee’s clinical cubicles.

Next up, we poke our heads into a beautifully restored 1903 mercantile building housing the Gruene Antique Company – a massive museum-meets-thrift-shop fever dream. Vintage furniture, variations on gorgeous and/or garish glassware, useless but beautiful memorabilia, and enough historic Texana to turn any bookshelf into a Wild West shrine. The air smells like old books and nostalgia. The floors creak like they’re gossiping. It’s all weirdly perfect.

That’s right, Houston is not the capital of Texas

Speaking of weird, part of the reason for this road trip is Austin. With Willie Nelson the spiritual mayor and the late great Stevie Ray Vaughan as a favourite son, the collision of country and blues is perfect. And you’ve gotta love a city that’s motto is Keep Austin Weird. This was once a call to arms, meaning support local, be as eccentric as you like, and yes, your dog looks cool wearing sunglasses and riding a skateboard. Unfortunately, Austin has lost it’s weird. The transformation was fast when San Francisco brought tech to town, arriving armed with start up cash and kombucha. The influx of companies has driven up house prices, and with that comes some bitterness from locals as rents and property prices soar. Unless of course they bought 10 years earlier, in which case they’re counting their fortunes.

You could mistake Stevie Ray for a gunslinger, but he could really sling a guitar.

We love Austin for the miles of walking and biking tracks that go through the heart of downtown and the multitude of parks and recreational areas. We do a great bike trip with Steve, who looks like a survivor of a particularly emotional Grateful Dead concert circa 1974. We go to Barton Springs, a three acre pool fed from underground springs, ideal for year-round swimming. We’re dreaming of a refreshing plunge after our ride, only to find out it’s closed for cleaning. On Thursdays. Which, of course, is today. Nothing like a sweaty bike ride followed by a contemplative sit next to water you’re not allowed to touch.

Walking and bike trails fun along the riversides

The big disappointment, though, is Rainey Street. I expect a neighbourhood of historic bungalows serving as a centre for music, art, and food, where all three combine for an enjoyable evening out. I must’ve missed the memo giving free rein to high rise developments over historic designations. A more fitting name would be Schizophrenia Alley, as it’s now commercial developments, high rise apartments and building sites, with a very small side of once attractive bungalows.

That said, it’s preferable to 6th Street, also known as “the Dirty 6th”, which tells you a lot. A gritty, high octane strip of dive bars, cheap drinks, loud music, and crowds. It’s packed with college students carrying fake ID, and confused couples from Ohio. It’s a place youthful dreams go to party, and then quietly vomit behind dumpsters.

One evening we take a boat trip to watch the bats fly. This could count as slightly weird. Every night, at dusk, 800,000 or so Mexican long tailed bats emerge from under the Congress Street Bridge, and head out to the farmland to eat their fill of insects and mosquitoes. Good for them I say, and so do the farmers who now pay less for bug spray. The colony is all female and when they give birth the numbers will pretty much double in size. It’s a little breezy and these bats are tiny, so by the time they decide to go it’s getting fairly dim. The boat guide shines red light (which apparently bats can’t see – who knew?) to help us see them, but it doesn’t help much. Have a look on YouTube. Anyway, the stunning sunset and city lights alone are worth the trip.

We came to Austin for weird, some BBQ, and some music. We got the BBQ, so in the immortal words of Meatloaf, two outta three ain’t bad. And we got bats. You sure don’t get that everywhere.

How to eat your body weight

Posted on May 19, 2025 by Bev Marshall

A walking food tour of San José del Cabo isn’t a stroll, it’s a full-on flavour mission, and it’s not for the faint hearted. We meet our guide, Adrian, at 10:00am in the town square outside the historic Mission Church. Originally built by the Spanish but rebuilt several times over, the building is small and plain but beautiful. It’s interesting to see stained glass windows that open to let the breeze through.

Adrian leads us to El Pisito. We wonder where the heck we’re going as it looks like an old garage, And it is, but as we climb the steps at the side it starts to smell like a restaurant. We’re here for the enmoladas. Picture soft tortillas wrapped around tender chicken, blanketed in rich mole (pronounced moll-lay) negro. There are hundreds of different recipes for mole, a dark, nutty sauce with just the right kick of spice. It is deep and earthy, clinging to everything in the best way, and it’s a I want to lick the plate dish.

At the next stop, the Mercado Municipal, the town market, we see huge containers of different moles for sale. When you make mole it’s difficult to make a small amount as it usually includes twenty or more ingredients, many requiring their own preparation, and it takes hours. I know, because I made it myself – once – and if I remember rightly I gave the dinner guests containers of mole to take home.

The mercado is very small by market standards. Typically we’d expect a farmers’ market with lots of fruit and vegetable sellers, but Los Cabos is in the desert and there are no farmers. Almost everything is brought in. At the food stalls, we sit at long tables with the locals out for a late Sunday breakfast, and Adrian orders quesabirria. These are sensational. The history of the dish is short he tells us, maybe ten years, and it’s an adaptation of a birra, a dish of marinated meat cooked in a broth for ten or so hours. Taco sellers would sell birra on tacos and it was a few short steps to creating the more easily eaten quesabirria. It’s a cross between a taco and a quesadilla. The stew, usually beef, and cheese are inside a corn tortilla that has been dipped in the flavorful fat leftover from the stewing process, then crisped on the plancha. They’re messy and soft crunchy and delicious. I especially like my Nemo plate.

So following chicken and beef were ready for pork. It’s time for carnitas, the soul of Mexican street meat. Carnitas starts with the whole pig, you read that right, nothing is wasted, slow-cooked for hours in a cazo, a wide copper cauldron of bubbling pork lard. The kitchen is busy with cooks brandishing cleavers and chopping mountains of pork, crispy crackling skin, and tripe. The tripe sits in the display, twisted into plaited ropes. Adrian tells us he comes here at least once a week for tripe carnitas and dark beer. They’re not for everyone, but apparently unforgettable for the bold. We are not bold.

We’re beginning to waddle at this stage because no, I can’t leave anything on my plate. I was brought up to think about the starving children in Biafra. While there’s a good walk between the stops until now, Tacos Rossy is nearby. It’s time to go to seafood. The specialty here is sea bass fried in a very light batter so it is light and crisp, topped with slaw and spicy salsa. One bite cuts through the fat of the earlier meats, fresh as the coast.

The finale, after almost four hours, is a frozen fresh fruit popsicle from a quiet corner shop. I go for mango, Scott for lime. Cold, clean, and just sweet enough. The perfect finish to a tour that doesn’t pull any punches, and imparts a sense of place through the history of the dishes and the regional variations. This is the best food tour I’ve ever done, and now I need a lie down.

The Texas Triangle: Houston to San Antonio to Austin to Houston Part 1

Posted on May 14, 2025 by Bev Marshall

We set out from Houston in our giant SUV, but not before sampling the many delights of H-town: a day at NASA, wondering why they’d go to all this trouble building stuff just to fake a landing on the moon; watching the baseball home team, the Astros – if I’m not mistaken that was the name of the Jetson’s dog – lose a game to the Cleveland Reds; stuffing our faces with low and slow cooked BBQ brisket and ribs, oysters, crawfish, and fried chicken; biking in a bike hostile city where the mayor is having the cycle lanes ripped out and reverting them to car lanes – after all, this is oil and gas country; finding a neighbourhood pub where nobody knows our names.

Our meagre luggage rattles around the Grand Canyon that is the back of the SUV as we hit the Houston highways, a spaghetti tangle of concrete six to eight lanes wide, and throbbing with trucks so large they could carry other trucks inside them like Russian nesting dolls. There’s a few stretches of construction (like they really need more roads) and at one point things get… tight. On our left a concrete construction barrier, on our right, bearing dangerously close, a massive black semi. The cold wash of adrenaline shoots through me and I let out a scream that possibly breaks the sound barrier. We’re grateful for the surge of power and escape our lovely V8 offers.

We take a stop off the highway and roll into Schulenburg, a small town with German heritage and a reputation for good apfelstrudel. Schulenburg on a Monday has all the hustle and bustle of a haunted post office. The Texas Polka Museum? Closed. Ben’s Gun Store? Closed. But Kountry Bakery? Open and glorious. We walk in and, resisting the temptation of a slab of strudel so dense and sugary it could stop a moving car or clog a major artery, settle for just a slice. It’s worth the stop and settles our jangling nerves. Carrying on the lesser road that runs parallel with the highway, we breeze through Flatonia without stopping for the MAGA Café’s Trump Burger, though we’re pretty sure it’s the best burger, the greatest burger, the burger no one else could get a deal on.

We have our sights set on Buc-ee’s. I’m pretty sure you haven’t been to Texas if you haven’t been to Buc-ee’s. Google Buc-ee’s and the description reads “a chain of travel centers known for clean bathrooms and many fueling positions”. So modest! Buc-ee’s is so much more. It’s a sacred roadside cathedral to consumerism, where you can not only fuel up, but also buy 47 varieties of beef jerky, a camo bikini, a bag of beaver chips, and a Jesus air freshener all before you even pee in their famously spotless bathrooms. So how lucky are we that the biggest Buc-ee’s, with acres of store space and 120 fuel pumps, is at Luling on our very route? We will never again see so much junk food and crass commercial product under one roof – unless that roof is in Washington. The buck-toothed beaver logo adorns every item. The Texan founder, Arch Aplin, demonstrating inspiration should not always be translated into action, combined his nickname, Beaver, with the name of his dog, Buck. We escape after using the spotless facilities and buying a pack of beaver chips, which are remarkably good potato chips.

Onward to San Antonio. By some miracle we reached San Antonio just in time to throw the keys of our gas-guzzling behemoth at the hotel valet. Two days of parking costs about as much as our airline tickets – but at least we don’t have to parallel park.

With no time to waste, we sprint to the Alamo to meet our tour guide, because, history waits for no one, especially not people who stopped for strudel and beaver chips. We made it. We remembered. And we immediately forgot everything because it was 35 degrees C (95 F)and we were sweating out our body weight.

Next stop: Austin—if we survive I-35. Stay tuned.

Scott and Bev are not caravanning

continuing our travels, but not by caravanning