RARATONGA, Cook Islands – It was a quiet afternoon on Raratonga, in the Cook Islands, when Lydia Nga heard the news. With the stroke of a pen, her homeland, 15 scattered islets west of Tahiti, a country smaller than Detroit, had grown exponentially, reborn as a 690,000 square-mile nation.
But it wasn’t the islands that grew. In 1982, the Third United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea ruled that coastal nations had jurisdiction over their own “exclusive economic zone,” defined as 200 miles of the ocean floor, measured from the shore. Most nations welcomed the ruling. For a group of tiny islets like the Cooks, population 17,600, it was a passport to the future.

Fast forward to my second visit to Rarotonga, lured by memories of blue lagoons, warm breezes and fewer annual tourists than DisneyWorld sees in a holiday weekend.

“How’s the economy doing?” asked my editor at the newspaper. “Has big money spoiled Rarotonga’s Polynesian charms? The last time we looked the Cooks were like Hawaii in the 1960s, 50 years behind everybody else.”

I wondered myself. And as the overnight flight from Los Angeles descended above a group of low, volcanic peaks, the lagoon and its sandy shoreline, framed by rows of palms and scattered houses, came into view. Adjusting to a new time zone, I figured I’d start the day on the beach with a stroll and a swim. But Nga, head of the tourist office, better known as Auntie Lydia, greeted me with a resounding “welcome” and a request.

“I hope you can stop at the Marae Moana office to meet our ocean specialist,” she said. “He’s the one who can explain what the Marine Park conservation project is all about.” Greeting us at the door, the speaker, a tall man in shorts, waved us toward a couple of empty seats behind a dozen high school kids then turned back to the chart on the screen up front.

“Marae Moana means ocean domaine,” he said. “It’s a mind-set, an idea, a shift in the way we see ourselves,” he added, clicking through a series of charts listing each of the Cook’s 15 islands and regulations including fishing areas, no-fish areas and sea-bed limits. “We’re may be from different islands, but we’re one marine nation,” he said. “As conservators of 690,000 square miles of ocean floor, including known and untapped resources, we need to know that the government will be conducting a detailed survey of it all.”

Slipping out, I headed to the nearest ocean-side café for a grilled fish sandwich, and sharing a table, I made two new friends. Friendly and curious, they explained that the Cooks have a historic connection with New Zealand, and many have families there. Yearly visits are the norm and most college-bound students choose a school in New Zealand or Australia.

Later, at dinner at the Moorings Café, I learned that New Zealand’s Maoris originally came from Rarotonga. Falling out with a rival clan, they loaded their families onto canoes – ocean-going “vakas” – and headed west, eventually settling New Zealand. Meanwhile, curious about the menu, I learned that the sea slugs listed under “Seafood,” squishy marine dwellers commonly found in shallow water, are not only a favorite snack but are often eaten raw.

At Charlie’s Café, I found myself sitting with a group speaking a mix of English (for my benefit) and Maori, one of the few Polynesian languages still in common use. A required subject in school, they told me, it lives on in the Cook Islands despite colonial rule, foreign tourists and cell phones.

The next day and ready to explore, I rented a bicycle for a jaunt on the famous “outer-circle” road, 20 miles around and “a good way to get your bearings,” according to my guidebook. I could have hurried – the road is paved – but it was more fun to stop at viewpoints, wander through craft shops and wave at passing motorcyclists. Teens, moms, grandpas, men with fishing rods, everybody was riding a motorcycle.

The tour was so rewarding that I signed up for another bike tour, this one on the “inner-circle” road, the “Ara Metua,” an ancient road said to be 1,000 years old. Guides Dave and Tami Furnell, the owners of Storytellers Eco-Cycle Tours, led the group on a sometimes-paved, mostly grassy, occasionally gravelly road encircling the base of the mountains.

Staying inland and taking frequent detours between forests and farm fields, I discovered why the food in Raratonga’s restaurants is so fresh. It’s because it’s grown locally. Rows of taro (the edible leaf variety) grew next to salad greens, tomatoes, pumpkins, red peppers, onions, pineapples and passion fruit. Blocks of orchards produced limes, oranges, papaya, mangoes and star fruit. Stopping at the noni orchard, Tami stopped to explain that the noni, reputed to be a health tonic, is one of the few fruits grown for export. Picking a ripe one, mushy, smelly and dripping juice, she held it out. “Go ahead, try it,” she said, laughing. “They’re a popular mosquito repellent.” Pulling it into pieces and handing chunks around – to a chorus of laughs and “yuck, icky, sticky” – she dared us to smear a little on.

Since no Cook Island is complete without a visit to the neighboring island Aitutaki (eye-too-TOC-kee), famed for its enormous lagoon, I grabbed a seat on the next flight, took a bus to the lagoon and checked into an over-water bungalow at the Aitutaki Lagoon Resort. Popular with families, children, girlfriends and newly-weds, the bungalows include kitchenettes and sleep up to six people. Walking paths circle the property and the restaurant serves three meals a day. With a deck and a ladder five feet away, outside my door, I had to get into the water and float around.

Since the only way to explore the Lagoon is by boat, the resort concierge suggested a cruise with Tere (pronounced Terry), an enterprising islander and owner of Te King Lagoon Cruises, one of several local outfits. Packing ten of us (from the U.S., Italy and Australia) into his boat, he circled the lagoon, speeding through deep water and rounding the motus (coral islets) on the rim. Reaching shallower water, we slowed down to drift-speed for a closer look at the spectacular coral gardens, reef fish, and all of a sudden, a couple of massive four-footers, big fish cruising among the smaller ones.

Circling again, heading for lunch at One Foot Island, we climbed out on an enormous sand bar for the trek to shore. Greeted by the smell of grilled chicken, we found the lunch crew working in the shade, flipping wings and breasts and laying out plates of fresh fruit, green salads, potatoes, bread and chips. I discovered why we’d been told to bring our passports. Those who did – including me – came away with One Foot’s  famous “been there, loved it” stamp.

Speeding back to the pier, leaving a wake behind, I found myself marveling at every other South Pacific lagoon, each a unique biome inside Pacific lagoons, ecological wonders inside a coral reef. Protected from the wind and tides but continually refreshed by water spilling over the edge, lagoons are worlds unto themselves, populated by birds, fish, crabs, clams, mollusks, coral and insects. And people.

On my last evening, I was invited to dinner at Plantation House, a colonial home and the property of Louis Enoka, a former restaurant owner and international businessman. The dinner, with Chef Minar Henderson cooking, is held just once a month and seats 20 to 26 diners guests at a single table. Equally important is the pre-dinner cocktail hour, a rare opportunity for diners to wear a gown or put on a tie, introduce themselves and socialize. And it gives Henderson a chance to finish dozens of different dishes at the same time: A remarkable feast, with heaping platters of chicken, fish, pork and pasta, and plates piled with fruit, island-grown vegetables and spices. But the event has a larger purpose. It’s an opportunity for those with a world view people, whether islanders or visitors, to share their views on politics, international business, technology and science, and ancient cultures.

Filling my plate and heading to a designated chair, I was amazed to find the former Prime Minister, Henry Pun, sitting next to me. After studying law in New Zealand and Australia, he said, he turned to politics. But with dinner in front of us, serious conversation gave way to the meal, and comparing the prawns with lemongrass to the coconut-flavored rice and the spiced pork and couscous with kaffir lime. Eventually the conversation turned to pearl farming near on Manihiki (his birthplace) and the current underwater search for rare-earth minerals.

Commenting on the importance of the Trans-Pacific Partnership (which former President Trump dropped and which President George W. Biden has now rejoined), Puna reminisced about hosting Secretary of State Hillary Clinton, whom he described as delightful, intelligent and well informed. But it was the pan-seared mahi mahi with ginger and garlic that finally turned the conversation to global warming and the ocean.

“That former president, Trump, he doesn’t believe in clean energy,” he said, noting that melting ice means rising sea levels, threatening Aitutaki and the Cook Islands’ other atolls. “And yes, we’re worried,” he said, “but we’re doing our part. Right now 50 percent of these islands’ electric power comes from solar installations. In another four years our islands will be 100 percent solar.” Well, I said to myself, if only the rest of the world could say that.

THE NITTY GRITTY:

COOK ISLANDS TOURISM: Hotels and resorts are listed at www.cookislands.travels.

WEATHER: June through September is warm and dry. December through March, the rainy season, is hotter and more humid. Shoulder months – April, May October and November – are variable.

GETTING AROUND: You may not need to rent a car. Most activities, cafes and beaches can be reached by cab or bicycle. For tours or expeditions see outfitters like Tik e-tours (www.tik-etours.com) and Storytellers Eco Cycle Tours www.storytellers.co.ck.

FLIGHTS: Limited flights may make it hard to choose a date. At the present, Air New Zealand operates the only non-stop flight from the U.S. to Rarotonga, a nine-to-ten-hour flight. Choose economy, premium business, and beds. Rates are geared to New Zealand’s holiday seasons.

For more, follow veteran traveler Anne Cooke on Facebook at “Anne Z. Cooke” and on Twitter at @anneontheroad.

The post When the Cook Islands Grew: Coming of Age in the 21st Century appeared first on Traveling Archive.

JEFFERSON, Colorado – “If you don’t get a bite,” said Scott Tarrant, wading out into the Tarryall River, “remember the old timers’ advice. Foam is home. Follow the bubbles.”

“Sounds like a beer drinker’s election slogan to me,” said Josh, my neighbor in the next cabin at the Broadmoor Fishing Camp, in Colorado’s South Park, in Park County. Fly fishing for the first time, he leaned over to peer in the water and dropped his hat.

“Over there,” said Tarrant, the Camp’s lead fishing guide, pointing at the ripples beside fallen tree trunk. “The bubbles where the two currents meet. It’s like a conveyor belt, sweeping the fish and the floating insects together. That’s where you drop your fly.”

Fishing with Scott Tarrant I realized how much I didn’t know. After watching me for fifteen minutes, he showed me how to cast farther and more accurately by powering the rod from my elbow and not from my shoulder. “Remember,” he added, “the secret to fishing is simple. It’s knowing where the fish are.”

Ask around and find out which insects are hatching – it varies – and when the fish usually eat. This tells you which fly to use. Then look for the trout, which swim up against the current to get oxygen. When they need to rest, they find ripples and eddies where they can tread water and wait for an insect. This is where you drop your fly.

Casting again I aimed for the bubbles, but the bait – a menacing looking dry fly called Amy’s Ant – flew out and into a bush. Not that it really mattered. I’d been daydreaming, imagining the area’s early explorers, adventurers like Kit Carson and Jim Bridger, fur trappers who camped and hunted here in South Park in the early 1800s. They might have camped right there beside the river.

I wouldn’t have been there either, if a friend in Colorado Springs hadn’t invited me to her wedding reception, held at the Broadmoor Hotel. Checking in, I picked up a brochure describing the hotel’s new back-country adventures, including Fishing Camp. I hadn’t been fishing since my dad died, but I decided to take a look.

My dad loved talking about his childhood, fishing with a bamboo pole and catching sunfish and bass on a lake in Wisconsin. My favorite tale was the one about the bass so long and heavy he could hardly hoist it up and into rowboat. He got it up and nearly there, he said, when a giant snapping turtle suddenly lunged up out of the depths and grabbed it, skinning his fingers. That brochure reminded me of what I was missing.

Reading it, I wasn’t surprised to find that the Broadmoor had a couple of off-site camps, projects introduced by the owner, Phil Anschutz, a western history buff. After all, with the Rocky Mountains practically in the hotel’s back yard, why not offer guests a couple of western adventures, the kind that travel industry surveys say is what today’s more experienced travelers want?

The first camp to open, the Ranch at Emerald Valley, in 2013, was a former cowboy outfit in the trees adjacent to Pike National Forest. Then Cloud Camp opened, at 9,200 feet elevation near the top of Cheyenne Mountain. An enormous, authentic log lodge, with a restaurant, sundeck, guest rooms and additional cabins, it boasts a fabulous western art collection, an archery court and hiking trails.

Meanwhile, the idea of an old-time fishing lodge with a covered front porch, pine plank floors, rustic guest cabins and family-style dinners sat on the back burner, percolating until the day that Anschutz happened to spot an abandoned cabin on the Tarryall River, in South Park.

Finding the cabin was so unexpected it must have been in the stars. A historic log house, it was usable enough to restore. The site, with 76 acres and five miles of private frontage on the Tarryall River, ranks among Colorado’s top-five trout streams. Promising a first-class fishing experience, it’s close to Colorado Springs, convenient for single-day trips. And the location, in South Park, the valley that western historian Bernard DeVoto called a “paradise, the last place in the mountains where the old life could be lived to the full,” borders the Lost Creek Wilderness.

Fishing Camp has all the charms of an old fashioned log cabin, but spartan it is not. Not only is it restored, but it’s been re-chinked, reroofed and enlarged. The utilities are upgraded to current standards, it has a new kitchen, bigger windows light the rooms and improved pine board floors resist muddy boots.
Navajo rugs hang on the walls between western paintings and a collection of western memorabilia that crowds the empty spots: snowshoes, buckets, cowboy hats, antlers, arrows, duck decoys, lanterns, antique fishing rods and woven wicker creels. A canoe and paddle straddles the rafters.

Individual log cabins, in the trees around the lodge, sleep two to eight. The logs are re-chinked and the doors, screens, porches and hand-crafted rocking chairs are new. The interiors are small but comfortable, with lots of windows, modern bathrooms and framed fishing-themed art.

All meals and beverages, served in the dining room, are included. Since most menus are planned by chefs at the Broadmoor Hotel itself, in Colorado Springs, ingredients are delivered daily and prepared, cooked, and/or assembled at the lodge.

Clearly, trout are what Fishing Camp is all about. But don’t pass it up because you don’t fish. Bring a fisher-person with you and explore the Lost Creek Wilderness from a network of trails that wind though rocky outcrops and open meadows. For would-be cowboys, the Tarryall River Ranch, off the highway three miles south of Fishing Camp, leads guided horseback rides.
For beginners and experts alike, the Tarryall’s combination of quiet pools and shallow rapids offer a variety of challenges, even for Tarrant, who loves a quiet hour at the stream. Asked about it, he says he’s a catch-and-release sportsman by choice. But, he adds, “Fishing Camp is a stream-to-table resort.” If you yearn for that old-time taste of just-caught rainbow trout, fried in the pan, feel free to ask.

PLANNING: Fishing Camp, open April 1-Oct. 31, is between Jefferson and Lake George, 3.5 miles south of Tarryall Reservoir on Highway 77 in Park County, Colorado. For more flexibility bring your car, or use the Broadmoor Hotel’s daily transportation service. Rates per night may vary, but start at about $830 for one and $950 for two sharing a room, and include all fishing gear, guiding, meals, snacks and alcoholic beverages. Half and full-day rates are also offered. Book at the Broadmoor Hotel, at (866)334-3693, or see www.broadmoor.com.

©The Syndicator/Anne Z. Cooke; Photo credits to Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

The post ON CLOUD NINE FOR ANGLERS: Colorado’s Broadmoor Fishing Camp appeared first on Traveling Archive.

The word is that the Dali Theater-Museum, celebrating the life and work of its enigmatic founder Salvador Dali, (1904-1989), Girona’s world-famous surrealist artist, is now one of the city’s most visited tourist attractions. The revival of interest in his paintings, both revered and ridiculed during his lifetime, are now seen as visionary.

Dali’s most recognized painting, the Persistence of Memory, now in the Museum of Modern Art, in New York, depicts — according to some — a dying world, marked by a scorched landscape and melted pocket watches. Or as one of the guides in the Dali Theater-Museum explained to the tour group I joined, the painting clearly suggests that dream time is elastic, the drooping clocks a clue to its creator’s inner life.

Are his paintings symbolic or are they a joke? asked a frowning young man who’d been standing silently, pondering an image of Dali’s wife titled Galatea of the Spheres. The guide blinked and the query went unanswered. Fortunately for historians, Dali, the man, who spent most of his life in Girona, left as many clues as he did art.

Dali’s life in Girona, his home in Port Lligat and his wife’s home in Pubol, both open for guided tours, offer surprising insights into the artist and the man. Sunny summers in the beach town of Cadaques, 15 minutes from Port Lligat, where his family often summered – and where I spent a charmed afternoon – fostered a love of the sea. For clues to his last decade, and some of his largest most ambitious projects, the answers are found in the Dali Theater-Museum, a building he designed and built on the site of his favorite movie theater, in Figueres, where he grew up.

I should have started at the museum when I headed to Girona for a long-planned, two-week escape. But Salvador Dali was the last thing on my mind. I’d been to the Costa Brava years earlier, stayed a couple of days and spent most of my time there on the world’s most inviting  beach. Going back again, I realized Girona was a town with a history. Settled 2000 years ago by the Iberians and officially founded by the Romans in the 5^th century, it has been a proud survivor. 

Free to wander, I spent a couple of days exploring the Old Quarter, first circling the area on the path of 4^th century Roman wall, then visiting various 10^th century monasteries and churches. Deep in the middle of the ancient streets I discovered a wide spot, with a couple of shade trees and a café, my lode stone from that moment on.

On the advice of Marco, the hotel clerk, who said he was more interested in movies than history, I climbed the 91 stone steps up to the entrance of the 12^th century Romanesque Cathedral, built on top of a mosque, after the Moors were defeated and driven out.  They’re the same steps that the “Game of Throne” used when they were filming the last season, he said, beamingly.  Counting each step, I thought of the countless people who’d been there before me.  

Marco also recommended a sight-seeing bus tour north along the coast to the Cap de Creus, the tip of a rocky peninsula jutting into the Mediterranean Sea. The drive, winding through bush-covered hills ended above a windswept rim, looking down at the water and a chain of small bays. Munching a bag lunch and stretching my legs, I spotted a sailboat leaning into the wind, heading north toward the French border, 16 miles away. Before there was a border, Phoenician and Greek ships came this way, stopping at coastal villages like Empuries, to trade.  

Ten days into my vacation, done with museums and the occasional vineyard tour and wine-tasting, I headed to the beach, still the softest sand and freshest water on the Mediterranean’s western shore. Striking up a conversation with a couple of Canadians sunning nearby made the afternoon fly by. They had rented an apartment for six weeks, I was in a hotel; they were going on to Madrid, I was flying back to Denver. We both liked skiing at Whistler Blackcomb, in British Columbia. And they wanted to know more about Salvador Dali.

So, I tagged along, heading first for –  Pubol Castle, the 12^th century mansion Dali bought in 1970 for his wife Gala. Larger than it appears from the entrance, it consists of a main house, a tower and an open-air covered passageway, surrounded by gardens.   

Joining a tour, we were waved through by a guide who offered a brief history: The renovation of the building, Dali’s interior designs and the decade that Gala lived there alone, entertaining overnight guests, both women and men, and banning Dali, except by her written invitation. 

People ask why she wanted a house of her own, said the guide, when the rest of the group drifted away to other rooms. Dali was 67 or 68 then, and Gala was 77, ten years older than he was. Too old to want another man, you’d think. He loved her, but they couldn’t live together. Like many couples.

Whatever the reason, Dali rebuilt the structure and surrounded it with gardens, tucking home-made stick-thin elephants between the leaves. Furnishing the rooms with satin and velvet, he installed modern bathrooms and a kitchen, and he decorated with paintings, ceiling murals, wall hangings, hand-decorated tiles, tiny tables, angular arm chairs, mirrors and dozens of little baubles and charms. A reluctant collector myself, it tickled my heart to see that he, too, couldn’t resist objets d’art.

Spotting a lion’s head lying on top of an 18th century wardrobe (a clothes closet), near an out-of-focus photo of a person, I took a second look. Comic theater? Or was Dali spoofing the book, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe? He could have read it when they fled Spain for New York City, in 1940, after the Nazis invaded France.

Before we left, I went to the photography exhibit upstairs to see what Dali and Gala looked like together, in plain black and white. They’re in their Manhattan studio, she’s laughing for the photographer, and he, the celebrity of the moment, is mugging for the photographer, with his trademark wide-eyed stare and curvy black mustache.

The next day we headed for Dali’s permanent home on the shore in Port Lligat, a house filled with gewgaws, cartoon figures, knickknacks, a stuffed bear next to the stairs and chains of tiny, dried, white everlasting flowers. The sort of things a teenager collects.

The house, with several six-foot white eggs mounted on the roof, one of them half-cracked, were a link to his older  brother, who died at nine months old. According to Rosia our guide, the cracked egg, big enough for a man to climb inside, symbolized Dali’s other half, without which — it’s said, he always felt incomplete.

I’d already been to the museum in Figueres; now I wished I’d saved it for last. Making another reservation I went again, walking and looking. This time the place was packed, the rooms crowded with guided tours. Don’t come on Saturday if you can avoid it. But if those drooping clocks leave you wondering, come. This is where the pilgrimage ends and disconnected symbols click together, making sense. I hope. At the very least, I left with a new respect for Spain’s greatest 20th century painter.

For more: See Salvador Dali’s Celebrity suites, Part 3 at the Hôtel Maurice in Paris.

The post Finding Dali: Celebrating the Best of Girona appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Oars up for these rafters on a quiet stretch of the Pacuare River, a classic pool-and-drop stream.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

TURRIALBA, Costa Rica – It was 6:01 a.m. when we heard them barking, insistent “huh-huh-huh-huhs” rising above the rain forest canopy. After a pause they began again, rough grunts floating through our mountain eyrie, high above the Pacuare River.

“Howler monkeys,” mumbled Steve, squinting at his watch. Then a toucan squawked, a raspy screech from the trees near the corner of our deck, 500 feet up the hill at Pacuare Lodge, in eastern Costa Rica’s Barbilla National Park. Jumping out of bed, we grabbed the binoculars and a camera and dashed outside, to be greeted by the dawn and a faint chorus of chirps and whistles.

Keel-billed toucans, bright-colored and slow-flying, are easy to spot in dense rain forests like those in the Pacuare River gorge.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

“Shhhh! Listen,” said Steve, who’d been thinking about jaguars since the evening the office manager showed us a video of a big cat prowling through the underbrush, photos captured in night-time trail-shots taken up the hill. He peered over the railing and under the deck. “Was that a growl?” Wildlife thrives in Costa Rica, in forests, backyard gardens and especially near eco-lodges, most of which are in remote parks, along rivers and in coastal jungles. From birds to monkeys, each day brings another surprise. Keep your eyes peeled when you’re out for a walk and you may be rewarded.

Each Linda Vista Suite, on stilts above the Pacuare River, has a private deck, hammocks, lounge chairs and a plunge pool.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

Capuchin monkeys, sloths, coatis and birds appeared when the morning was fresh and light spread over the horizon. Butterflies, bacillus lizards (so-called “Jesus lizards” because they “walk” on water) and howler monkeys seemed to prefer full sun. By late afternoon, green frogs, tapirs, armadillos and tarantulas were active. But it wasn’t until the dark hours – after we were in bed – that Costa Rica’s six big cats – leopards, pumas, ocelots, oncillas, jaguarundis and margays – went on the climbed down from the trees for a silent prowl, crossing in front of the camera in search of prey or a mate.

Pacuare Lodge, a National Geographic-designated Unique Lodge of the World, built of local wood among rain forest trees on the Pacuare River, includes a central hall, lively bar and an indoor-outdoor dining area, with over 18 guest cottages, from thatched bungalows to luxurious suites.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

“Jaguars? Maybe, but don’t count on it,” said our travel planner Alison Carson, a Latin America expert, when she called to talk about our proposed two-week trip to Costa Rica. We’d been there before on a cruise, but the short time we spent on shore sowed the seeds for a real adventure.

We’ve always planned our own trips. But when a friend recommended Carson we decided to see what she’d suggest. After years of experience booking trips for friends, couples and families, she specializes in creating customized, personalized itineraries. And as we explained, we didn’t want to sit in a hotel or on a bus. We wanted to be outdoors. “The possibilities are endless,” she said. “But in case you wondered, we’re not booking trips to the rest of Central America, at least not yet.” Why, I asked. “Just Costa Rica,” she answered. “Because it’s the region’s only safe country.” Was it? I asked myself. Wars, poverty, and drug cartels have plagued Central America for decades. How could Costa Rica avoid entanglement in their neighbors’ problems?

Howler monkeys, kings of the rain forest canopy, are hard to see but easy to identify; listen for their loud throaty howls. Though nine species have been identified, Costa Rica is home to just one, the common mantled howler.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

Unlike its Central American neighbors, Costa Rica reaches across the region from the Atlantic Ocean to the Pacific Ocean. The Atlantic climate, rainier and more humid, supports forests, thick jungles and an endless variety of bushes, vines and flowers. In contrast, the Pacific climate, determined by a different set of wind and currents, is drier and sunnier. We’d already planned to visit friends who’d rented a house overlooking the Pacific Ocean. So Carson suggested starting with Pacuare Lodge in the east, continuing to Nayara Springs Resort, near Avenal Volcano in the center, and from there we’d go on to join our friends.

River runners rafting to Pacuare Lodge encounter easy Class 2 rapids. Beyond the Lodge, the river becomes a torrent, with Class 5 white-water rapids downstream.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

River runners rafting to Pacuare Lodge encounter easy Class 2 rapids. Beyond the Lodge,

“Pacuare Lodge is pretty special,” said Carson. “It’s off the grid, on the Pacuare River, in the middle of the forest, best reached from the river. It’s world famous for class-five white-water, but those rapids are farther east, past the lodge. The part you’ll be on is easy and short, about four miles. Guests take the rafting company’s bus to the river and rafdown from there.”

An overnight at the historic Finca Rosa Blanca, a 20-minute drive from San Jose International Airport, is a brief journey back in time to Costa Rica’s Spanish colonial era. 

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

Two weeks later our itinerary arrived, with car transfers, drivers’ names, contact information, guides and hotel confirmations. Three weeks later we were on our way to the Pacuare River Lodge, with reservations to follow for Nayara Springs Resort, near the country’s signature volcano, Avenal. Since Avenal continues to puff and steam, you can’t climb closer than the observation deck, up the trail. So we hiked up to the top of another volcano, this one extinct.

With a dozen hot springs, some free and others built into commercial spas, swimming pools, gardens, restaurants, miles of walks and the town nearby, a town and nearby, it promised a change of pace. Ready to go, bags packed and flights and plans in order, all I needed to know was whether Costa Rica really was that safe.

Fully restored, Finca Rosa Blanca, a National Geographic-listed lodge 20 minutes from San Jose International Airport, perches on a hill behind an arcaded courtyard and lush gardens. Spanish colonial murals, decorative sculpture and hand-crafted furniture echo the period.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

“Is it true what they say,” I asked Abel, the driver who picked us up at Juan Santamaria International Airport, in San Jose, the capital city. “Is Costa Rica Central America’s safest country?” “We think so,” he said, catching my eyes in the rear view mirror. “And why?” he said, heading for the Finca Rosa Blanca hotel, north of the city. “Because we have no military,” he said. “The money (taxes) pays instead for schools, high school and college, and for health care and doctors. And it’s all free,” he said. “Of course, there are always people who don’t want to work and are tempted to steal,” he said. “But most people here have jobs,” he added as we reached the hotel, a restored, 14-suite Spanish Colonial house and coffee plantation, with a pool and a popular open-air restaurant.

Manolo Munoz, coffee plantation guide at the Finca Rosa Blanca Inn, 20 minutes north of San Jose, explains the coffee bean sorter during a plantation tour.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

Arriving in time to join the hotel’s coffee plantation tour, we expected a sales pitch. But the two-hour uphill walk with Naturalist Manolo Munoz was as much about sustainable farming and water conservation as it was about a good cup of joe. Stepping off the trail and among the coffee trees, each planted in volcanic soil between banana and poro trees in a “mixed-species forest,” Munoz explained that these “trees add important minerals to the soil. A mix of sun and shade grows better “cherries” (coffee beans) than commercial farms planting on big flat fields,” he said. That evening, as the sun slipped between the palm fronds, Miguel, one of the hotel waiters, came around with menus. As he paused, I decided to see what he’d say about safety. “Um, Miguel, why do people say Costa Rica is Central America’s safest country?” “Because we don’t have an army,” he said. “After the civil war, in 1949, the government decided that paying for education, hospitals, culture and parks was more important than guns and soldiers.”

Arenal Volcano’s unexpected 2010 eruption reminded observers that Central Costa Rica’s most iconic feature can be unpredictable.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

Local police manage local crime and a national government-supported 70-man team of “commandos,” a so-called trained “security and intervention” group, is available for emergencies, he explained. But beyond that, no army. And from then on, whomever we met, the conversation eventually turned to the importance of an education for youth, health care, and the importance of environmental awareness, all of it taught in grade school.

Howler monkeys barking overhead led to a conversation about species adaptation to the country’s 12 climate zones, ranging from sea level to the summit of the 12,533-foot volcano Cerro Chirripo. Rafting through the Pacuare River’s narrow gorge, the guide pointed out the differences between the trees along the river gorge and those on the mountain side above. Even at Nayara Springs Resort, a popular tourist destination with winding trails among gardens and trees, our dinner-time waitress paused to coo over a pair of young sloths napping in the trees nearby.

Like much in Costa Rica’s rain forest, the Pacuare Lodge’s “Canopy Adventures” zipline orientation starts up in a tree. Pacuare Lodge, Costa Rica.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

Located beyond city power and water, Pacuare Lodge employees were doubly aware of the environment limits. Electricity, limited to the early evening hours, was carefully managed. At night, candles lit both floors of the lodge – the bar upstairs and the dining room and river-side deck downstairs, where all of our meals were served. Our bungalow had a single light bulb available during bedtime hours. The bungalow had a solid wall against the hillside, with stilts anchoring the floor and front deck to the hill. The front and side walls were nothing but screens, admitting light – and bird calls – and keeping mosquitos out. The lodge itself and its oldest bungalows, recently remodeled, were built at the bottom of the hill, near the river.

The luxurious Linda Vista Suites, high up in the rain forest canopy and with screened walls on three sides feels like being outdoors.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

It was a startling contrast indeed, to Nayara Springs Resort, in central Costa Rice. Approaching on a paved road near Avenal Volcano and greeted by a uniformed bell boy, we thought we’d made a wrong turn. But this popular vacation retreat only masquerades as a sophisticated hotel. Despite a few sumptuous suites – elegantly costumed and with private plunge-pools – all the rest, the swimming pools, shaded patios, bars, pubs, a spa and gym, restaurants, shops and a cafeteria were tucked away between lush greenery on a maze of serpentine paths. A five-minute walk beneath the trees – alive with resident birds and 30-odd sloths – was a stroll in the woods. And for a real stroll, guided walks toured the property and headed up toward Avenal Volcano and a dozen hot springs. Three nights was probably enough, though I could have stayed longer.

Nayara Springs Resort, near Arenal Volcano National Park, is centrally located for hiking, zip-lining, spelunking and mud bath treatments.

©Steve Haggerty/ColorWorld.

Heading west to the Pacific coast, we met our friends at Villa Manzu, a privately-owned two-story manor flanked by grassy lawns and trees, pools and patios. Intended for parties and anniversaries, it slept 24 guests and had a staff of 12 including a butler and three chefs. Located on five shady acres at the end of the road, it guaranteed privacy to deep pockets: Celebrities, tech-company CEOs, movie moguls and sports greats. We were lucky to have generous friends among them. Everything was included, from meals to fishing gear, and most important, Costa Rican hospitality.

TRIP TIPS:

THE LODGES (look for low-season discounts):
Finca Rosa Blanca – www.fincarosablanca.com/en: Double rooms start at $254 per night;
Pacuare Lodge: all-inclusive rates for three nights, for two in a bungalow start at $766;

Nayara Springs Resort: Bungalows for two start at $351;

Villa Manzu: All-inclusive rate for the entire house priced per night. Multiple guests, groups or families share the cost. Call for dates, availability and current prices.

GOING THERE: Fly into Juan Santamaria International Airport, in San Jose, the capital. For Villa Manzu, in Guanacaste Province, fly into Liberia Airport; the chauffeur does pickups.

My bio: Anne Z. Cooke writes about travel and its effect on global warming. Contact her at

tr*************@cs.com











; or Twitter at @anneontheroad.

©The Syndicator 2021, Anne Z. Cooke.

The post Costa Rica’s Big Experiment appeared first on Traveling Archive.

If you can answer “yes” to three essential questions, a dream vacation at Villa Manzu, on Costa Rica’s Papagayo Peninsula, may be in your stars.

Do you have a dozen or more buddies, besties who’ve been vaccinated for Covid-19 and are itching to get out of the house? Are they the free-wheeling sort, willing to splurge, always up for an adventure? Lastly, are they cheerful and tolerant, relaxed enough to share a house with 21 other people?

When a letter arrived from Stephanie, one of my oldest friends, announcing her anniversary and proposing a getaway with 20-odd other people – mutual friends and colleagues – I was tempted to toss it. A six-day vacation at Villa Manzu, a private, fully-staffed mansion with two dozen strangers? Crowds aren’t usually my thing. But in a mansion like Manzu, she explained, you need a crowd – or a big bank account – to share the cost.

“Do join us, you won’t be sorry,” she said, reeling off the benefits. Guests are guaranteed privacy and luxury, of course, as well as a variety of activities: ocean swimming, two heated pools, kayaks, paddle boards, fishing gear, impeccable service and chauffeured drives in the area and to and from the airport in Liberia. Chef-prepared meals and butler-served cocktails served at any hour, are part of the pleasure, she insisted, along with glimpses of neighborhood residents, including Costa Rica’s most popular furry friends: monkeys and sloths. I hemmed and hawed, and then I jumped.

Six weeks later we – my partner and I – were on our way, flying into Liberia Airport, where a Manzu driver was waiting. Forty minutes later, driving out onto the exclusive Papagayo Peninsula, we got our first look at the house, an adobe-colored contemporary building spread out over five acres, with connecting wings flanked by patios, lawns, native trees and flowering bushes.

“Make yourself at home,” said Stephanie, greeting us with warm hugs and introducing her three children, ages 9 to 14. “Take in the scenery. Join us in the pool; it’s heated,” she said, motioning toward an outside pool and an infinity pool. “But first, meet the butler, Luis Morera, who makes the most marvelous cocktails.”

Melting away to greet other friends, she left us alone to admire the owner’s collection of art and artifacts displayed in the corridors and on living room walls. Two chefs looked up from the open-air kitchen, smiling “hello” as they bustled between refrigerators, ovens and chopping blocks, re-supplying platters laden with appetizers.

Following our suitcases upstairs, we settled in, then checked out the other bedrooms, five of them, all spacious, with windows, big closets and indoor-outdoor showers. Designed for couples, friends and families, they were arranged that way, with more beds in some rooms, and nooks for single beds in family rooms. Umbrella-shaded patio decks were tucked into spaces above the rooms below. Back downstairs, I spotted the infinity pool and headed outside for a 180-degree views of the surrounding bays and beaches beyond.

On the main level again, we followed an outside staircase down to lower level and a second, more private pool with a waterfall, around the corner from a casual party room, bar and a small theater. Crossing the lawn below, we found the path downhill to the beach. Another path, to the west, wound through the trees to the cliff and a viewing space set up with a fire circle and benches, arranged to catch Costa Rica’s spectacular sunsets.

“You can sit at the counter and talk ingredients with the chefs,” said Stephanie when we returned to the living room where our fellow travelers were sharing glasses of wine and chatting. “They’re happy to share their recipes. Or ask about tonight’s recommended wine-pairings.” Tomorrow, she insisted, we must walk down to the beach and try snorkeling. “Or you can take a car to the beach club, or borrow clubs and play golf. It’s ten minutes away and Villa Manzu has guest privileges. You can dock in the local harbor,” she added, with a wink. “Next time come by yacht.”

At Villa Manzu, keeping things running smoothly is accomplished to a “t” by a dedicated staff of 22, including two on-the-spot managers – a husband-and-wife partnership – and a butler, three chefs, a ground crew, maids and drivers. Comfort and privacy are guaranteed, which is why Manzu’s list of illustrious visitors – celebrities, tech-company millionaires, movie moguls and the like – remains a secret. You could be one of them.

Glad You Asked:

Costa Rica’s borders are open for visitors and tourists with passports and proof of recent Covid vaccinations. Your best bet?  Plan a trip with family or friends and share the cost. The Villa sleeps 22 adults and/or children, depending on ages. Guests in residence have the house exclusively, including meals, wine, cocktails, snacks, sports equipment, fishing gear, a car, guides, and friendly Costa Rican hospitality.

Rates vary based upon the season. Call for dates and availability. More questions? Search the internet for “Villa Manzu Costa Rica.”

The post Dream Time at the Villa Manzu, in Costa Rica appeared first on Traveling Archive.

Foreign countries may close their borders and airlines cut their flight schedules, waiting for Covid-19 to disappear, but that doesn’t mean you can’t treat yourself to a vacation this year in a Colorado hideaway as safe and solitary as it is remarkable.

At the Ranch at Emerald Valley, on 100,000 acres in the Pike National Forest, near Colorado Springs, ten fabulously rustic cabins and a maximum of 32 guests makes outdoor activities – and social distancing – as comfortable as if you owned the place.

A couple of months before the pandemic hit, my husband and I spent our anniversary at Emerald Valley Ranch, playing pioneer in a luxurious but rustic log cabin, hiking the back country trails, photographing wildflowers, fly fishing for trout and sitting under the trees with a book, soaking up nature. Not much cowboy grit about it, but I hadn’t expected any. Emerald Valley it isn’t that kind of ranch. And then the old cowboy appeared.

I’d spent the morning by myself, hiking on Mount Vigil, the peak behind the Ranch and was on the road back to the cabin when a leathery-faced old cowboy hobbled around the bend, leading a horse and muttering to himself. Just as he reached me, a car pulled up and the driver, eyes masked behind dark sunglasses, leaned out to ask directions.

I was about to answer when the cowboy stopped, wrapped the reins around the saddle horn and squinted at the license plate. “Texas, hmm, humph,” he grunted, frowning. Then he pointed down the road. “That way,” he said.” “Thanks,” said the driver, hesitating. “I’m Tony,” he added. “I’m going to the Emerald Valley Ranch. I’ve got a reservation but I’m lost. Say, do you know why they call it Emerald Valley? Was there a gold mine here? Gemstones, maybe?” Curious myself, I stepped closer. “Well now, I couldn’t say,” said the cowboy, pulling a dented army canteen off his belt. “I’ve wondered on it myself. Might be for all them green trees, a hideaway-like, where a person can git away and think.”

“They used to call it Camp Vigil, after that mountain there,” he said. “Real special for old Mr. Penrose, Spencer Penrose he was, the man who built the first lodge up there on Cheyenne Mountain. Back in the 1920s, that was.”

The cowboy took a swallow and paused, warming to an unexpected audience. “The way the folks around here tell it,” he went on, “he’d git down here with friends, sittin’ up late, telling stories about mountain climbing and all. That’s a purty fine log cabin he had, the one they still got. It’s renovated now with a real bar, tables, all chinked up, nice and tight. You’ll see. No rain gittin’ in there.

“All kinda trees shades them log cabins, and your creek has a waterfall and lakes stocked regular with trout. The cabin on the hill is a palace, big enough for weddings and the like. The cook’s in the kitchen most days, handy with the fixin’s. I stop in now and then and he makes me a plate.”

When he paused, I spoke up. “Is Spencer Penrose the one who built the zoo at the bottom of the mountain and when the town organized parades he’d ride the elephant through town?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the cowboy. “He bought the land for them animals. It’s what happens to folks from the east when they git to this here west. The land took old Penrose and it’s took the new owner, too. The rocks, the hills and your meadows, they call you to put down roots.

“You buy an acre, build a cabin, git some chickens and you think you’re done. Then the place next door gits a sale sign so you buy it, git a rail fence and a cow and call it a ranch. Then that homestead down by the creek, well, you need water in these parts so you buy it, too. That’s history, hereabouts.”

With that, the old cowboy tipped his hat, nodded to me, clucked to the horse and they clumped away down the road.

“Guess I’ll be seeing it for myself,” said the driver, adjusting his sun glasses and revving the engine. “Can I give you a ride?”

“No thanks, I’ll walk,” I said.

“But you can’t check in here. You have to go back to the Broadmoor, in town. It’s not far.”

Alone again I got to thinking. The old cowboy was right. Story telling is just another other word for history, especially in a hidden valley like this one. Back in the day, when gold miners explored Emerald Valley, the road to the Ranch was called the Gold Road. I’d seen the tailings on our horseback rides, mounds of yellow sand piled up between the trees.

But the mines were a disappointment, leaving the valley in peace until a local Girl Scout troop rented it over a couple of summers. When that petered out, Spencer Penrose leased 16 acres from the Pike National Forest to build a log cabin headquarters for his newly-created social club, the Pikes Peak Camping and Mountain Trails Association.

After the club disbanded, the log cabin sat empty until a family-run dude ranch decided to try their luck. Finally, in 2011, after multi-millionaire Philip Anschutz bought the Broadmoor Hotel, he purchased the property, enlarging the lodge, building ten new, sumptuously decorated pioneer-style cabins, and hiring a staff and a chef.

As for the “palace” on the hill, the one the old cowboy described, it was vacant on the day I checked in, so I wangled a tour. Trudging uphill on a winding path, I thought I’d been banished to the barn until I spotted the two-story cabin and the flower-decorated flagstone patio, with an outdoor grill and space large for a 25-guest reception.

Big glass windows lit the living room, decorated with hand-tooled leather chairs, big sofas, wood floors and a man-sized fireplace. Western and Native American art decorated wood-paneled walls and furniture. The kitchen, with an island long enough for a restaurant, included 20 feet of cupboards, counters, sinks and appliances. Four bedrooms and baths, upstairs and down, were intended for families and friends.

Your time is your own except for dining, set at specific hours. But even that is flexible. If the hike was longer than you expected or you slept late, you wouldn’t miss a meal. The lodge manager can provide maps, contacts, advice, suggestions and guides. This summer’s special riding experience (priced separately) is the “city slicker,” a genuine cattle drive.

According to Ranch Manager Craig Hilton, this year’s guests will experience social distancing with some masks on some occasions. “Tables are a little more spread out, both in our inside dining room as well as our two outdoor dining areas,” he told me. “Cleaning protocols are enhanced and followed according to the CDC and local Health Authority guidelines, including the use of electrostatic sprayers.”

Twice a week we gathered around a crackling campfire at dusk for a nightcap and to watch the stars blink on in the sky. A mike and speaker in the corner suggested an evening of background music, earning an “oh-oh,” frown from some.  But the arrival of guitarist Jeff Houlton, in his signature cowboy hat, a professional musician and accomplished singer, earned smiles. Wowing us with a real show, he played both new and old favorites, and all requests. If I ever wondered whether Colorado’s unique brand of western hospitality lives on, I had my answer.

GLAD YOU ASKED: Check-in is not at the ranch but at the Broadmoor Hotel in Colorado Springs, after which you are chauffeured to the ranch. Guests who stay at the lodge atop Cheyenne Mountain first, can hike down to the ranch on a marked 5.3-mile trail.

Included in daily rates: The Ranch at Emerald Valley is expensive but all meals, drinks, fishing gear and activities are included. Additional horseback rides cost more.

For more: Visit Broadmoor, The-Wilderness-Experiences, The-Ranch-at-Emerald-Valley

Getting there: Fly to Denver, then drive or fly to Colorado Springs.

©Syndicator 2021 Anne Z. Cooke

The post Finding Gold in the Emerald Valley: Tales from a Colorado Guest Ranch appeared first on Traveling Archive.

HONIARA, Solomon Islands — If it weren’t for the potholes, thousands of gaping pits jolting the car every which way, I wouldn’t have missed the sign on the tree. But Andrew, our guide on Guadalcanal, in the Solomon Islands, knew everybody. “That’s Dolphin View Cottage and there’s the owner,” he said, waving at a stocky, dark-skinned man in rumpled shorts, a faded t-shirt and flip flops. “It’s Guyas Tohabellana. He works here in Honiara.  C’mon, let’s say hello.”

Down by the shore, Guyas’s son Mike sat at a picnic table with his sister, playing with his pet cockatoo. Behind them the beach sloped down to Iron Bottom Sound, the World War II graveyard where 50-plus sunken ships — American and Japanese — still rest, slowly rusting away.  Across the water, Savo Island, site of the famously fierce WWII batle, shimmered on the horizon. For a minute the two men chatted, speaking local Pijin so quietly I missed most of it. Then Guyas turned to me and held out his hand. “You’re from America!” he said, beaming. “Do you like it here? Have you been to Gizo and seen the beautiful coral reefs? Yes, my grandfather was a Coast Watcher during the war, a spy you’d say, reporting Japanese movements to the Americans. He watched the Battle of Savo Island from right here.”

Arriving for a two-week trip in early 2019, we were lucky to be there before the corona virus became a pandemic and the country closed its borders. Two of just 25,000 annual tourists — fewer than on a single day at DisneyWorld — we seemed to be the only Americans there. But we did want to see some of Guadalcanal’s famous battle sites, rusty tanks, long-buried artillery and the remains of downed airplanes. In 1942, when the first company of American Marines landed on Guadalcanal, the local islanders joined the fight, supporting the troops as eyes on the ground. Allies then, American tourists still friends, invariably greeted with an exchange of names and a handshake. “Americans are always welcome,” said manager Ellison Kyere, from the tourism office in Honiara, the capital city, when my partner Steve and I met him for lunch at the Lime Lounge Café. “But we want them to know that there’s more to see here than battle sites and more to do than scuba dive for wrecks. We have mountains that have never been climbed, natural preserves, miles of beaches, lagoons, forests and rare birds.”

Planning a trip beyond Honiara is a tall order in this South Pacific nation, 2039 miles northeast of Australia. With 922 islands, three-fifths of them uninhabited, it’s a hodge-podge of many cultures, dozens of traditions and 78 different languages. The website is a good place to start, at  www.visitsolomons.com.sb. But there’s no hurry. With no covid19 cases reported as of July 1, 2020, the borders are closed and international flights are cancelled.

When it comes to picking a flight, Fiji Airways’ non-stop, overnight flights from Los Angeles are our first choice. The airline’s gleaming new plane — an Airbus A350-XWB — has private beds in the front and big seats in the rear, with an overnight flight that lets you sleep. We arrived early enough for a second breakfast in Fiji’s Nadi airport and plenty of time to board the Solomon Airlines three-hour flight to Honiara. On arrival, I took advantage of the “tourist special,”  a SIM card good for 75 minutes, priced at U.S. $1.30. The rest of the day we spent in the Heritage Park Hotel garden and pool, and booked a tour for the next day.

We were still jetlagged when Andrew pulled up the next morning, driving a two-year-old, shiny black SUV. I was impressed but he apologized. “All our cars are Japanese and they’re all second-hand. We never get new ones,” he said. “Never. And see this? The Japanese are building the overpass and paving the street and it’s taking forever,” he added, as we inched past grimy storefronts and vegetable stands overflowing with greens, tomatoes and squash. “That new one, where everybody shops, is owned by a Chinese company,” he said, nodding at a big-box department store, the kind China builds in every willing mineral-rich third-world country. We’ve seen these “gifts” before. They are there to smooth the way for future highway and mining contracts.

Mortified, I looked for something I could brag on — an American-built hospital or a college — but Andrew had already turned toward the American Memorial Garden, the cemetery and then to Bonegi Beach to see a rusty tank. Then we headed to up the hills to Bloody Ridge, where Andrew parked, leaving a few minutes to walk past the row of overgrown foxholes and imagine  the deafening noise and chaos as the Japanese rushed up from below and were beaten back. I wondered who they were, the 40 U.S. Marines who died here.

After touring Guadalcanal, we flew we flew north to a one-room water-side airport on Gizo, on Ghizo Island and then to Munda, on New Georgia, in the Western Province. The gateway to pristine rain forests, volcanic mountains, blue lagoons and sandy beaches, the Western Province was made for adventurers. Meeting our driver and a Fat Boys motor boat, we hopped aboard and in minutes we were speeding away over a clear blue lagoon to the dock.

Fat Boys Resort, our base camp for three nights, was located on a small island, in a group of smaller islets near easy-to-reach tour sites. The first was Kennedy Island (also called Plum Island), where Lieutenant John Kennedy and his PT-109 crew swam ashore after a Japanese vessel sank their torpedo boat. After a look around — and a quick swim — we headed away to another group of islets and sand bars, for a lobster barbecue and snorkeling. “The ocean is washing the island away,” said Sam, the boat captain, as he stowed the ice chest and a grill under a shady tree. “Why do these trees, with half of their roots in salt water, seem to be dying,” I’d asked. “People around here used to think they had a disease,” he said. “Now everybody knows why. It’s global warming.”

It was party time the next day in Gizo, the main town on Ghizo Island, at the Friday market. Families in home-made dugout canoes docked at the waterfront, buyers crowded the aisles, coins changed hands, sellers hailed friends and old ladies filled their shopping bags. Everyone smiled, asking where we were from and offering to pose for photos. Ngali nuts — the holy grail of island snacks — were in season so I stocked up with a half-dozen packages in folded-leaves. Green taro leaves competed with slippery spinach (Malabar spinach), purple bananas, four or five kinds of potatoes, carrots and betel nuts, a popular and affordable substitute for coffee or cigarettes. “What do they taste like?” I asked an older man with red-rimmed eyes (the give-away), who offered me a seat in the shade. “Do they make you feel relaxed?” I ventured to ask.

“Oh, no, they give you energy!” he said, smiling, showing me how to fold the nut and leaf together with a pinch of slaked lime (ash from burned clam shells). “One or two of these and I want to get up and work all day.”

Flying on to Munda, famous for wreck diving, we checked into the Agnes Gateway Hotel on the waterfront, a group of rooms and spartan cottages advertised in scuba and backpacking magazines. Our cottage was beyond plain but it had a front porch with chairs, and hooks and a clothes line for bathing suits and diving gear. The restaurant and bar, conveniently adjacent to the check-in desk, served hearty, tasty affordable meals. Booking a boat tour out to Skull Island — the last stop for many a victim — now a popular tourist highlight — we joined captain Billy Kere, 40-ish and friendly, and as he introduced himself, a “descendant of the Roviana headhunter clan.” Once past the coral, Kere cranked up the speed and we roared out over the deep water for 45 minutes, the bow pounding the waves until we reached the island, a small pile of slippery rocks and sharp coral (wear tennis shoes). The skulls inside this gloomy cavern were piled high on every side, with more on a small altar, near a cement plaque where — where it is said — the headhunters buried a well-intentioned but unlucky Christian minister.

“Don’t worry, the headhunters are gone,” said Billy, chuckling. “Nowadays it’s all about love. But not then. If you sinned, your head came off.” Heading out, we docked at Lubaria Island, a public park and the PT-boat base where Lieutenant Kennedy and his crew were stationed during the war. The barracks and a new modern bathroom were open and several rusty artillery pieces remained, half-hidden in the bushes, facing out to sea. But a new monument stood in the center, guarded by Ata, the park’s ancient keeper, who lives in a tent near the pier. Hustling over to us, he produced a carved wood bust of the youthful Kennedy which belongs on the monument but which he hides at night. “It’s been stolen and recovered twice,” he said, as we snapped photos.

As the trip wound down, we headed for Tavanipupu Island Resort and Spa, one of the Solomons’ few five-star properties. Installed in the same palm-shaded bungalow where England’s Will and Kate overnighted on a previous world tour, we reveled in the screened windows, four-poster bed, indoor and outdoor showers, two sinks and a covered porch, a perfect place to watch the sunset. We swam off the dock in water so clear we could see 20 feet down, canoed (with a guide) over acres of healthy coral, sampled the chef’s summer menu, climbed the hill for a view and walked around the perimeter, an easy 45-minute stroll.

On our own to explore, we met some of the local islanders, a chance to learn more about everyday life on an outlying island: Finding fresh water, doing laundry, picking coconuts, planting vegetables, making canoes, uses of native trees, the names of other islands, and favorite foods. When I asked who made the woven baskets in our room, I was introduced to Melania who paddles to work from her home on an adjacent island. Finding her in the laundry, an open-air platform behind the lodge, furnished with soap and water, outdoor tubs and an improvised washboard, she put the washing aside for 15 minutes to show me how to split and strip the leaves from sego palms, then weave them together. Before we left, the manager joined us for dinner, and asked what we thought what most Americans liked to do, besides swimming and sunning. We suggested a couple of inexpensive and low maintenance games: croquet, tether ball and the corn-hole toss. To my surprise, he’d never heard of any of them, hence a comic evening enlivened by charades.

At last, with two weeks gone and our trip at an end, we boarded a Twin Otter — lifting off a grassy field — for the flight back to Honiara. Soaring over islands, bays, coral reefs, mountains, rain forests, volcanoes, winding rivers, broad estuaries and waterfalls — I realized how much we’d missed. The Solomon Islands, unspoiled and spectacular, is one of the world’s last untamed destinations. The roads need work, but those ghastly potholes might be just what’s keeping the uncurious away. Potholes or not, we’re going back.

©Anne Z. Cooke, The Syndicator 2020.

The post Untamed Islands: Adventures in the Solomons appeared first on Traveling Archive.

SAN BLAS, Mexico – When you’re self-isolating at home, whiling away the hours scanning the internet for recipes, did you ever stumble across Mexico’s most-watched television show, “Master Chef Mexico?” How about the celebrity chef herself, Betty Vasquez, one of the show’s three judges? The name didn’t ring my bell, either. But when I searched online for “famous chefs Mexico,” planning ahead for our upcoming trip to Puerto Vallarta, I was amazed to find Betty – and her restaurant, El Delfin – in San Blas, a couple of hours north on the Riviera Nayarit.

Later on, when my partner Steve suggested that we spend an overnight exploring San Blas, I agreed, as long as it included dinner at Betty’s. “It’s only two, maybe three hours north of Puerto Vallarta on Highway 200,” said Sonia, the concierge who checked us into the Miraval Hotel, in Nuevo Vallarta. “Take your time and look around. It’s scenic all the way up the coast, with sandy beaches if you want to swim. We take our bathing suits and eat lunch at one of the villages. My favorite? In Sayulita, maybe, or San Pancho.”

Thanks to my parents, inveterate travelers, Mexico was familiar country. But we’d never explored the state of Nayarit or its spectacular western border, the Pacific coast. Leaving the PV cruise ship port and the airport behind, we crossed the border north into Nayarit, leaving the tourist world – crowded souvenir shops, shopping centers and tourist hotels – behind. Within minutes, the landscape gave way to open country, interrupted here and there by fields, jungle thickets, giant trees, crossroads with houses and an occasional village. According to Steve, who’d done his homework, San Blas, population just 8707, was once an important port. At the mouth of a river, it was a source of fresh water, a necessity when, in the 1500s, Spain’s “treasure ships,” sailing northeast from the Philippines laden with silks and spices, made landfall. Repurposed as an official naval base in the mid-1700s, it was the port from which the Spanish empire, threatened by Russia’s settlements in Northern California and Alaska, sent a company of soldiers and colonists north to build the missions, led by Father Junipero Serra.

Our first brief stop, in Buceritas, was just long enough to explore the arts and crafts market on Lazaro Cardenas Avenue, a block from the beach, and to grab a ten-minute dip in the ocean. Passing a half-dozen Canadians retirees, lounging on the sand, they stopped us long enough to offer a cold beer. “We come every winter for three months,” they said. “Join us, it’s marvelous.”

We couldn’t miss the next stop, at Sayulita, one of Mexico’s historic “magic towns.” Popular with tourists and famous for miles of surfing beach and endless waves, Sayulita’s narrow cobblestone streets are shaded by trees and lined by art galleries, craft shops, cafes, ice cream vendors, bars, cottages and sheds, all crammed onto every buildable inch. Following mobs of shoppers, mostly Mexican vacationers, we found a beachside café, ordered ice tea and waded in the waves.

Then it was on to San Pancho – officially, San Francisco – where iguanas live in the trees shading the central plaza and where I bought a primitive painting from a sidewalk artist.

“My father paints all of these,” said Marco, flipping through half-dozen scenes, all different. “He makes the paper, too,” he explained, showing me the ragged edges. Colored flags strung between the rooftops led the way to the ocean and Las Palmas Restaurant where we sat under an umbrella on the beach front, watched the surfers and ordered lunch. Overwhelmed by a platter piled with six kinds of tacos and a cold pint, an hour ticked away in no time. By the time we finally reached San Blas the sun was hanging over the ocean, reflected in shivery streaks.

As we circled the plaza, crowded with mothers pushing baby strollers, old men playing checkers and skinny kids chasing each other around the fountain, I caught a whiff of barbecued pork. Street food! A wave of nostalgia made my heart thump and I felt like a ten-year-old, traveling with my parents. Still, San Blas is unlikely to ever be on someone’s bucket list. Simplicity, its greatest charm, is also its only charm. If you’ve seen Director Alfonso Cuaron’s film “Roma,” the story of ordinary families coping with life in Mexico in the 1970s, you know what I mean. As we pulled into the gas station, the attendant, a rangy fellow in cowboy boots ambled over to the pump. “If you want to taste real Nayarit cooking,” he said, glancing at our tourist map, spread out on the dashboard, “try the Hotel Garza Canela, that way,” he said, pointing toward the ocean. “They have a restaurant there and a pool.”  Was it Betty Vasquez’s restaurant? He wasn’t sure.

Heading for the hotel, a large, old-fashioned building behind a wall, we found the door, booked a room for the night, and asked about the restaurant, the El Delfin. “It’s right there, through the door, across the patio,” said Rosa, the desk clerk, pointing the way. “It’s still early, so you’ll be the only ones there.”  Stepping outside, I realized that we were behind a wall in a multi-acre, traditional, colonial-style hacienda, with a spacious patio and garden, leafy trees scattered about and two or three other buildings. A swimming pool was visible in the distance, beyond the door to the restaurant.

“Come in, come in, we’re open,” said a woman standing at the open door, her brown hair twisted into a bun. “My father spent hours out here, weeding and watering,” she said, smiling. “He loved this garden. Come in, I’m Betty.” she said, holding the door. I was so thrilled that I couldn’t think of what to say, but she shook hands and looked pleased. “You’ve come all this way, just to eat?” she asked, showing us to a table. “I’m so glad you’re here.” By this time, I was bursting with curiosity. “What do you think?” I asked Steve, after we’d looked all around, ordered from the menu, and she’d disappeared into the kitchen. “Her bio says she studied at the Cordon Bleu, in Paris.” Twenty minutes later the dinner arrived, and we wielded our forks. “This is delicious,” said Steve, savoring a bite of baked pork loin, with a fruit and chipotle sauce. “Here, try it,” he said, handing over a couple of bites. “Did you order curried shrimp?” he asked. “Am I tasting coconut milk?”  We were scanning the dessert menu when she returned with coffee, and to my surprise she sat down to talk.

“Tell me, will you be here long?” said Betty. “I’ve loved traveling in Europe and overseas, and I love the year I spent in France. But this is our family home. My roots are here in San Blas. Do you have time to tour? You must see the fort on the hill.” I grabbed my pen and began to scribble. Visit the fort on San Basilico Hill. Check ocean view and look for big white rock in ocean. Huichol people call it Tatei Haramara, the sea goddess. Walk through old church next to fort, La Nuestra Senora del Rosario. Swim at Las Islitas beach, on Matanchen Bay. Bring bug spray. Highlight is guided boat tour on Santiago River estuary in La Tovara National Park, with birds and crocodiles. “You know,” said Betty, pausing to think, “Why don’t I show you around? I’m going out of town tomorrow afternoon, but I’m free in the morning. We’re filming the next season of MasterChef Mexico and I have to be there.  We have three judges, and I’m one of them.”

After touring with Betty, who pointed out her favorite shop, the vegetable market and the ice cream shop she loved as a teenager, she left and we headed to the beach for the afternoon. The next morning, on her advice, we joined a boat tour through the La Tovara Park bird sanctuary, guided by naturalist Francisco Garcia. I was prepared to be as bored that morning as I’d been thrilled the night before. That is, until it became another one of the best adventures we didn’t plan. Gliding quietly upstream on the estuary, spotting rare birds at every turn; winding among the mangroves until the estuary met the river; watching the clear water curl around the muddy water and the sun-loving flowers crowding the banks; La Tovara Park was as enchanting as El Delfin dinner was unforgettable.

Just the Facts:

Touring the Riviera Nayarit

Hotel Garza Canela: rooms for 1-6 US $90-$275.

Entrees at El Delfin restaurant: US $10-$25

From Puerto Vallarta by car: 79 miles, 2-3 hrs, Hwy 200 North, then State 16.

From Guadalajara: 162 miles, 3-4 hours.

The post Treasures of the Riviera Nayarit appeared first on Traveling Archive.

COLORADO SPRINGS – Here’s the thing about western art. It’s an acquired taste, like rattlesnake steaks and Rocky Mountain oysters. If your great-grandparents crossed the plains in a covered wagon or homesteaded in Montana, it could be in your genes. So, when a friend from Connecticut scoffed at the genre’s two most revered artists, Frederic Remington and Charlie Russell, dismissing paintings of cowboys and Indians as “poster art, portraits on black velvet,” I dared him to take the “immersion cure.”

“Join me for a couple of days at Cloud Camp, on Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado Springs,” I told him. “I’ve been there. You’ll be surprised.” What I didn’t mention was that Cloud Camp, one of three backcountry camps linked to the Broadmoor Hotel, in Colorado Springs, was owned by a man with a sharp eye for fine art, billionaire Philip Anschutz, a western enthusiast.

At Cloud Camp, where paintings and North American native artifacts are on display on every wall, every guest – rich or poor, willing or not – is exposed to a double-dose of what AI (artificial intelligence) scientists call “deep learning.”

Simply put, this is the ability to recognize and distinguish between every individual in any particular group – dogs, human faces, cars, or in this case, western paintings – because you’ve seen so many of them. Deep learning is why trained robots can distinguish between a human face and last month’s Halloween pumpkin.

Agreeing to a date and the terms of the bet – a spa treatment for the winner – we booked a couple of nights at Cloud Camp and a couple at the Broadmoor. Then we bought tickets, flew to Colorado Springs and checked in with staffer Hannah Brenneman at the Broadmoor’s Base Camp reservations desk. Spotting a familiar-looking painting behind the desk, and two more in the adjacent lobby, I asked Brenneman if I could have seen it elsewhere, in a museum, perhaps.

“You could have,” she said. “Or it could be a copy, though I don’t know for sure. There are a number of copies in our collection, but nobody – not the staff and not the general manager – know which ones they are.  You’ll see some up at Cloud Camp, but they don’t know either. And here’s your shuttle,” she added, changing the subject and escorting us to the door. “It’s seven, slow winding miles, with 12 steep switchbacks to the top. Enjoy the views!”

Forty-five minutes and 3,535 feet of elevation gain later, we arrived, amazed and slightly giddy. So before “taking the cure,” we decided to tour the Lodge, a monumental chinked-log chalet worthy of a small Tudor castle.

Wedged between weathered boulders amongst a pine and spruce forest, at a breezy 9,500 feet, the building, flanked by porches on four sides, is composed of monster logs so long and thick they had to be carried one-by-one up the mountain.

The views from the patio and rear deck took my breath away, sweeping from the valley around to the Garden of the Gods just beyond and Pikes Peak to the north, its bald summit thrusting above timberline. It was that rare  view of the top of one mountain seen from another.

Inside the Lodge, the Great Hall, soared to the ceiling, 24 feet at the highest point. Rows on rows of windows and 20-foot walls offered enough space and light for large and small paintings, as well as for Navajo rugs, buckskin shirts and pants, a saddle, leather chaps, antique spurs and a stuffed black bear.

Dark-stained beams, two colossal fireplaces, groups of sofas and chairs and a banqueting table set for 28 announced that this was the gathering place.  And it was here, in the Great Hall, where it dawned on us: we were at the heart of one of the largest collections of western art – at least, those on a mountain top.

The paintings, vertical and horizontal canvases in brown or gold frames, were everywhere, hanging between and over the windows, above the doors, in the halls, over the fireplaces and near the ceiling, each handily identified in a detailed printed guide.

With it in hand, we wandered from one painting to the next, in every room, upstairs and downstairs, comparing Remington to Russell, and both of them to Henry Farney, Charles Schreyvogel, Joseph Sharp, Walter Uferto, Ralph McGrew and others.

Some of the painters were new to me. And my friend, now teetering on the edge of losing our bet, confessed that he hadn’t expected such painterly colors, such skillfully rendered shadows and so many different subjects and scenes. “You could tell the history of the west through art alone,” he conceded.

The next day, with the debate nearly settled, we put on our hiking boots and headed for the closest trail, down one side through the forest and up the other. And like the rest of the guests, we tried our hand at a few of the more essential western skills: an archery lesson, a mule ride, and a cooking clinic (with the chef). Other games included the horseshoe toss and a cornhole contest.

But it was the evenings, crowned by horizon-to-horizon sunsets, four-course dinners with fresh ingredients, and the company of 26 other convivial new acquaintances that made the weekend unique.

“This is a special place,” said Julie Fuller, seated next to me, explaining that it was her eighth visit to Cloud Camp. “My husband David surprises me by organizing it every year. Up here on the mountain we’re above it all down there. You feel as if you’ve left your troubles behind.”

The Fullers, traveling with their family, said that they had tried the Zip Line, ten sets of double cables, ranging from 200 to a mammoth 1800 feet long. Connected by short hikes, several of the ten included two perilously swaying suspension bridges. If you had a special taste for fright, you could finish with the 180-foot long “horrible, excitingly scary rappel down to the Seven Falls.”  Next time, I said, wishing I’d tried it sooner.

If you play tennis or golf, consider spending your last few days at the foot of Cheyenne Mountain on the expansive Broadmoor “campus.” Paddle boats go out around the lake, there’s a pool and a lap-pool, and guided fishing lessons are available. Other good-time fun includes the the bowling alley, movie theater, a half-dozen craft-beer pubs and at least eight different restaurants.

If somebody suggests buying a ticket to the Seven Falls, which rushes down from the mountain and through a nearby box canyon think twice. You can’t see both the falls and the pools that connect them unless you climb up the 224 steps that were installed along the side walls long ago. Once a scenic pearl, lauded on many a sepia-toned postcard, the Seven Falls have been reduced to a commercial attraction. I passed it up and collected my bet instead. The winnings? A massage and facial in the spa.

If you have a few hours and haven’t already overdosed on paintings, there are plenty more to be seen in the Broadmoor’s three wings: 150 more, to be exact. We saved them for next time.

GOING THERE? To plan a visit, go to www.broadmoor.com .

Writer Anne Z. Cooke, a would-be painter, gets her kicks at museums.
©The Syndicator 2019; Anne Z. Cooke; 20309

The post Flying High on Cloud Nine, At Colorado’s Cloud Camp appeared first on Traveling Archive.

TAVENUI, Fiji – If Fiji was nothing more than sand, sea and palm fronds, it wouldn’t matter which beach resort you went to. Every vacation would be just like the last one, another been-there, done-that.

But after 15 years and as many visits to this 333-island nation, deep in the South Pacific, I’ve got a pretty good idea why every resort offers a unique experience. It’s the Fijians, themselves, thrilled to be showing you their country, who make the difference.

Sau Bay Fiji Resort, on Vanua Levu, Fiji’s second largest island, was the first stop on my most recent trip to the islands. Still jet-lagged, I was sitting on the lodge’s front, gazing over the bay, when the bushes below me began to wobble and two hands and a pair of clippers appeared, followed by a head.

Then the head looked up, saw my feet, and without missing a beat asked me what I thought of the umbrella-like trees towering over the lodge. Thus was my introduction to the owner, Nigel Douglas, a fifth-generation Fijian and a Scotsman by ancestry.

“These are rain trees,” he said, affectionately patting a gnarled trunk. “I took one look and I knew this was the place for me. You don’t often see these trees so close to the shore – salt water, you know – but they’re thriving. And look at these tiny white flowers. These bushes are native plants, and they’re rare. He paused, scanning the hillside. “This was bare when we bought it.  Carol and I planted everything you see.”

“How did you ever find this bit of beach,” I asked. “We couldn’t see the lodge until we’d crossed most of the bay and turned the corner.”

“That’s easy,” he said, as if the truth was obvious. “Fiji is home. I’ve been around most of these islands, dived every reef. Anything you want to know, people, politics, gardens, just ask. Are you a wine drinker? Let’s meet at dinner.”

I’d already met Carol, who emerged from her garden to show me around Sau Bay’s four ocean-view bures (BOOR-ays, i.e. cottages), with twin or king beds, mosquito netting, private baths, coffee makers, a cookie jar and air conditioning.

Courteous but casual, she and Nigel and Carol welcome all the guests like family, suggesting activities but never pushing. On most mornings Carrol worked at her desk while Dive Master Nigel suited up to guide the resort’s six other guests to the famous Rainbow Reef and the Great White Wall, 15 minutes away on the dive boat.

That left private time to kayak across the bay, hike up the hill, and tour nearby Kioa Island (guided by assistant manager Sarah), now the home of the Polynesians from Tuvalu, who have been forced off their native island by rising ocean levels.

Waving farewell, we headed to the next stop, Tides Reach Resort, on Taveuni, Fiji’s Garden Isle. Expecting a check-in desk, I was welcomed like royalty as the staff – ten smiling Fijians – lined up with hearty “bulas” and firm handshakes. “You must be thirsty,” said bartender William Celua, eyes twinkling, handing me Fiji’s traditional welcome drink, fresh coconut water.

Just five years old, Tides Reach is still growing, adding an on-site dive and additional bures, each an uncluttered white with minimalist furnishings and bold Asian and Fijian art. The lounge/bar/dining area  combination, open on two sides acing the ocean, was airy and spacious.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” said Guest Relations Manager, Paul Gonebeci, motioning me to a plump white sofa. “Let’s sit for a minute, then I’ll show you around,” he said, handing me a list of activities. “Some people don’t want to do anything but relax,” he added, nodding toward the beach where a guest lay under an umbrella, reading. “But you’ll probably need a guide for hikes to the waterfalls, so we should pick a time now.”

With a free afternoon ahead, Gonebeci suggested snorkeling around Honeymoon Island, across the bay. Snorkeling slowly in 20 feet of glass-clear water, our guide, Niu Lebaivalu led the way over the coral reef, one of many damaged in February 2016 when cyclone “Winston” roared through Fiji.

Small clumps of new coral — yellow, red and sandy beige – looked healthy. But the dead coral, looking like piles of brown sticks, was scattered everywhere, left on the bottom after the cyclone moved on.

“It was a category five storm, the worst one ever” said Lebaivalu. “They say it’s because the Pacific Ocean is warmer now than it used to be.”

On my last day at Tides Reach, Lebaivalu invited me to visit Wiwi, his village, a half-mile away. Most of the houses, a dozen small huts built in a circle on a grassy field, had vegetable gardens in the rear, with a large grove of coconut palms on the side. Fetching a sulu (a wrap-around skirt) from the car, he handed it to me, turning red.  “Shorts are okay at the resort, but the chief is inviting us to his house to share a bowl of kava. It’s traditional,” he said, hesitating. But I’d anticipated the invitation, and had stopped to buy the traditional chief’s gift, a bag of kava.

Our farewell dinner, a sumptuous feast – grilled lobster with roasted garden vegetables and a green salad  – was followed by an evening of native dancing and songs performed by kids from the local school, ages 4 to 13 – and mostly girls. After an hour, and lots of photographs, the kids ended the evening with Fiji’s farewell song, Isa Lei.

Our last resort, Yasawa Island Resort, in northwest Fiji, was a long way away from Taveuni Island, where we were. But Yasawa is one of Fiji’s most highly rated resorts. Not just deluxe, it’s isolated, completely private, furnished with local art and artifacts, and enjoys a perfect beach location. Guests who arrive by helicopter land on the resort pad at the end of the pier. It was worth the two flights it took to get there.

And we weren’t disappointed. Our private thatched bure, outfitted with every convenience and surrounded by palms and tropical gardens felt genuinely Fijian.

In fact, Yasawa Resort blends the best of a western style resort with the warmth and feel of a Fijian village. Guests may not know it, but the staff here – maids, waiters, guides, kitchen chefs, and gardeners – aren’t just employees. They are the hosts, assuming the responsibility with pride.

Why? Because Yasawa, like most Fijian beach resorts, occupies land owned and managed by the regional and village chiefs, and their clan.  The resort is a business partnership with shared traditions, one that that benefits both resort and village.

I did what I always do at Yasawa: I swam, organized a boat ride and beach picnic up the coast, toured Bukama, the local village, snorkeled in the nearby reef, walked along the beach and looked for shells, and spent a day visiting the Blue Lagoon Caves, named for the 1980s movie, “The Blue Lagoon,” filmed in part on Fiji’s Turtle Island.

But you don’t just swim into the Blue Lagoon caves. You hold your breath, duck under the water, swim through a narrow channel (guided by a strong, kindly Fijian man) and pop up to find yourself in a hidden, shadowy pool. And each evening, as the sun set over the yardarm, I joined my fellow travelers – kindred spirits all – at Yasawa’s pool-side bar, among the palm fronds and flowers.

IF YOU GO: Sau Bay Fiji Retreat hosts small weddings, honeymooners, families and scuba divers. A la carte rates keep prices lower than its competitors. Cottages for two or more start at $225 per night but may be discounted. Add $60 per day per person for meals; kids are welcome. Bottled drinks and guides cost extra.

Tides Reach Resort has been discovered by multi-family travelers. Villas for two start at $875 per night; the deluxe villa (for four) is $1275. Or rent the entire resort. Rates include airport transfers, meals, child care, kayaks, paddle boards and snorkel gear. Off-site tours and bottled drinks are extra.

Yasawa Island Resort’s rates per night are all-inclusive, excepting alcoholic beverages. Listed rates start at $1053 for two; frequent discounts are available. Included are kayaks, paddle boards, sports gear, tennis courts, wifi in public areas, non-alcoholic beverages, and most guided outings. Diving, catamarans, sailing, half-day Blue Lagoon Cave trips, village tours and private beach picnics are extra.

The Syndicator2019, Anne Z. Cooke

The post Proud to be Fijian: Where Paradise is More than Sand and Sea appeared first on Traveling Archive.