Author: Sue Barnard

What did you do today? For us, we got up early to sail around some old rocks. Not exciting maybe and you could stop reading here, but these rocks are pretty special. 

Our Captain had been given special permission by the marine authorities to divert from our journey to Mangareva in the Gambier Islands to circumnavigate these old rocks, known by the Polynesians as the Marotiri Islands. Ships visiting the location are extremely rare. Well why would they visit, their craggy nature makes them uninhabitable?

The Marotiri rocks are located within the Austral Islands lying 75 kilometres (about 50 miles) south-east of Rapa Iti where we visited yesterday. These are Polynesia’s most remote islands and lay in the South Pacific Ocean which at this point is 1,500 metres (5,000 feet) deep. Sail south and the next landscape to be seen will be Antarctica.

The islands are also known as the Bass Group. Just why is a puzzle. Some sources consider they are named after George Bass (1771-1803). That seems plausible as Bass was a British naval surgeon and explorer. The Bass Strait between Tasmania and Australia, and other areas, are named after him.

However, I could not find any sources that confirmed his sailing near the Marotiri Islands. More plausible is that a visit could have been based on assumption rather than evidence. His final days are also shrouded in mystery. His last voyage was on the Venus in 1803, heading for Tahiti, but he and his crew were never seen again.

The Marotiri Islands comprise four uninhabited volcanic rocks without surrounding coral reefs. The lower levels of the rocks are without vegetation, but the higher ground does accommodate some grasses and other plant growth.

Just getting to these rocks caused great excitement among many of the naturalists and voyagers on the ship as they are so remote and off the usual shipping routes. Our chief seabird man, Peter Harrison MBE, who has devoted his life to studying seabirds of the world and has received many significant awards for doing so including a Royal Society Gold Medal, the UK’s highest award for conservation, is not unfamiliar with the rocks. 

Since the 1980s he has not only visited here but managed to get onto the rocks to research the bird life and breeding grounds. Just getting onto the rocks is a feat. There aren’t any landing points and such studies involved jumping into the treacherous ocean to then attempt to climb the steep, craggy, slippery volcanic rock, which he and a few others managed to achieve. A group of 56 people signed up to go on the trip at the time in an attempt to get onto the rocks. As an indication of the extreme nature of the climb, only eight managed to land.

The islands are the breeding grounds for many important seabirds including those seen today: the Murphey’s Petrel, Kermadec Petrel, the Christmas Sheerwater, the Red-tailed Tropicbird, Brown Booby and several varieties of the Noddy. Oh crikey I think birding is starting to rub off on me. But of particular note was our sightings of the critically endangered Rapa Sheerwater and the endangered Polynesian Storm Petrel. Rather a pity I didn’t get some good shots of these rare birds as I stared in awe of these ragged rocks and thought how fortunate we were to reach such an extreme area – an opportunity afforded us by the skills of our captain, crew and expedition team.

But then it was onward. Our hour’s circumnavigation had come to an end and we were off to Mangareva in the Gambier Islands. Our next destination was approximately 600 miles away and two days sailing with sightings of the occasional humpback whale blows as they surfaced way off in the distance. 

Copyright: Words and photos Sue Barnard 2022

If you are going to start something, you might as well aim high. We are not ‘birders’, but have found ourselves on a ship full of them! The aim of our chief bird man on this voyage was to visit Rapa Iti to see one of the rarest birds in the world.  We have never seen the furore, as 60 people rushed for the opportunity to view a bird on a mulberry tree. 

But let’s hold on to that thought while I introduce the island. Rapa is the southernmost inhabited island of French Polynesia and is often referred to as Rapa ‘Iti’ (meaning small). This is to distinguish it from another Rapa island, being Rapa ‘Nui’ (meaning big), which is more familiarly known as Easter Island. To get here we sailed 300 nautical miles from yesterday’s Raivavae, and a total of 700 nautical miles from Tahiti  – the equivalent of about 800 land miles.

Just like Raivavae, the island is volcanic, fortunately now extinct. An aerial view shows the island is a ‘C’ shape and rather like a curled king prawn, caused by the right, or east, side of the volcano having been breached by the sea. The land comprises many peaks and precipitous cliffs, and inland travel is difficult which is why we stayed near the coastline, although that too involved a strenuous hill walk. There are just two villages, the small but main one being Ahurei, and the few roads that exist lay around that breached east side.

First reports of European sightings were in 1791 by George Vancouver of the Royal Navy – yes he who has today many areas named after him. Several reports followed of passing ships encountering mainly hostile residents and it was not until the 1800s that visitors seemed to land, namely the London Missionary Society.

At around that time the population was thought to be at least 2,000, but huge numbers died – with visitors, came disease including smallpox. Many of the people lived in fortresses, which some consider reflected feuding within the island and only diminished with the diminishing population. The remains of at least 28 fortresses can still be seen, although as they are on ridge tops we did not venture that high. Today the population is estimated to be 515 people living nearer the sea and its access to cultivated land. 

The indigenous Eastern Polynesian language of Old Rapa is no longer dominant, being largely spoken by the elders. Instead Reo Rapa is used, being a mix of Tahitian and Old Rapa. Some also speak English which brings us back nicely to our visit.

Upon arrival there was much jollity. At the quay side (this was a rare dry landing for us) island women were smiling and singing and placed hand-woven garlands around our necks. These were made of flowers and strong, shiny, slippery green leaves. Our ears began to ring with the extremely loud banging of drums from some of the island’s men.

We were then invited to sit while the master of ceremonies welcomed us to watch the islanders sing. They are known particularly for their religious singing. There was also a couple acting and shouting at each other in turn – it was just a pity we had no idea what they were saying!

Then came a speech from the Mayor who was passionate in his words, saying: “Thank you for coming to this horizon of ours. In the name of the population of Rapa we welcome you. It takes many days to reach our land, the furthest south of the French Polynesian Islands, and the first time your ship has ever visited. We want to make your visit as pleasurable as possible.”

And that is just what they did. As traditional dancing finished we were invited to take a nature walk. This pleased the ‘birders’ no end who had been eagerly anticipating an extremely rare visit to this island. 

They were on the lookout for just one bird, the endemic and critically endangered Rapa fruit dove, a colourful green, blue-grey, and rose-purple bird with a bright pink crown. There are estimated to be just 120-160 Rapa fruit doves on this one and only island, and their numbers are declining. 

But what were the chances of seeing some? We hiked a little inland as islanders told us of their lives and facilities. Unlike some other islands they did not have a runway for aeroplanes – the land was just not flat enough – and they told us they did not want one. We saw lots of fruit growing including guava and were invited to eat mulberries from the trees which were plump and tasty.

We all then veered off along a track and our leading land bird expert rush ahead. He ran back to us with hushed voice. The fruit dove had been seen. Sixty hushed ‘birders’ rushed into the bushes. Some scrambled hurriedly down a sharp decline to get a view of this little treasure. Being at the back of the scramble I stretched and weaved to get a glimpse, but had no idea what I should be looking for. 

The clicking of cameras was intense: still shots from super long camouflaged lenses, with ‘amateurs’ and the ill-prepared using their phones. And then the ‘scope’ came into play! If you are a true ‘birder’ there will be no time to mess with that lengthy word ‘telescope’. I retreated to the scope. Ah, that’s what I should be looking for. As the melee subsided I crept over to the mulberry tree, and there it was sitting bewildered looking at us and no doubt wonder what all the fuss was about.

It perched for a considerable time, and then disappeared. It had made many people happy. We walked back to the village speaking to our excited leading land bird man as we went. He told us this sighting had increased his lifetime bird sightings to 9,600. We were mighty pleased seeing what it meant to him and 60 others. We then told him of our count, explaining we had never been ‘birders’. “Ours is… umm one, unless you count some pigeons and sparrows,” we said. Well everybody has to start somewhere!

We then headed back, but the islanders had not finished with us. We viewed bread baking in a community-shared oven – they all lend a hand – and craft making. Then taro root came into play. The islanders had a huge wooden press in which they squeezed taro root to make a fermented drink from the juice. The press was so large and heavy that it took six men to manoeuvre it. “I think it’s possibly over-engineered,” I heard one guest say.

Then some of the women showed us how they prepare taro in a similar way to dough, which involved much kneading and hitting with a brick, yes, seriously. One needs strong wrists for this process, which are built up with this activity from the age of 11. Singing is carried out while doing this which sets the pace for the banging with the basalt rock bricks. This was once carried out at the river banks. We were also told that this dough was being prepared today (a Saturday) as everyone would be at church on Sunday.

All parts of the taro are used including the corm, stems and leaves. The corm is a nutritious, life-sustaining, staple on many of the islands and can be white, pink or purple inside. It is fast-growing, producing up to three crops a year and has a variety of uses, including a paste-like substance, and a dough. It can be rather bland so flavourings such as coconut milk may be added.

But it was then time to leave our new friends, who had clearly delighted in our visit as much as we had delighted in their efforts and company. Another brilliant day had come to an end.

Copyright: Words and photographs Sue Barnard 2022

It’s surprising what you find out when you travel the world. Today we learned that the pearlfish hangs out with the sea cucumber fish. Well to be precise, it hangs out of the anus of the sea cucumber fish. But having said that, it is very particular. Some say it will seek out particular species to inhabit. That’s choosy, especially as there are more than 1,200 species of sea cucumber, for the around 30 species of pearlfish to check out.

It seems this anal habit is likely to be beneficial for both fishes (what they call commensal) although in which ways is still not clear, but the sea cucumber certainly provides protection for the pearlfish. In most cases the pearlfish does not harm the sea cucumber, although the pearlfish can act as a parasite, eating the internal organs of its host. Well that’s not very appreciative!

Just how the pearlfish enters the sea cucumber is also interesting. After several minutes inspecting its host it will perform a tapping movement around the anus, at which time the sea cucumber will let its visitor into its orifice, usually tail first. Sometimes more than one pearlfish will be ‘housed’ at a time. One researcher found 15 cohabiting.

Well, there you have it… but not quite. One of our Expedition Team reported that he took a PhD student on a dive, only to find her picking up sea cucumbers along the way and looking at their bottoms. It appears that sea cucumbers also host crabs around their anus and that was what her PhD was based upon!

But I digress. Today we had reached Raivavae, in the Austral Islands, French Polynesia. It is encircled by a coral reef with 28 islets situated in crystal clear waters. Its dimensions are roughly 5 miles long by 2 miles wide. And it is all you would expect from a South Pacific island with its coconut palms, reef fishes, and tropicbirds, herons and noddies flying overhead. 

The first sighting by Europeans was by Spanish naval officer Tomas Gayangos on the frigate El Aguila in 1775. It was charted by the Spanish as Santa Rosa. But he was not the first to discover it as upon arrival he found the island was already inhabited, and it is thought had been by various peoples for 3,000 years.

Whether a friendly welcome or not at that time, our arrival was full of joy. The Raivavae people were out in abundance. Ours was the first international ship to arrive since the onset of Covid. In the good times there were three ships a month, predominantly supply vessels.

Upon our arrival by Zodiac boats there was a welcoming party playing lots of music. Immediately, they placed garlands of flowers around our necks and led us to the town centre where men and women danced for us. This was such a surprise and they were clearly joyous at our arrival and we were joyous to see such a welcome.

After the dancing we were taken on a walk around Mahanatoa, one of four villages on the island. There is one road that goes around the island and as we walked we saw an abundance of fruit, vegetables and plants growing, much of which can be picked by passersby along the way. These included bananas, lychees, mangoes, salad vegetables and of course the ubiquitous coconuts.

It was good to see how nicely the villagers maintained their gardens and that there was no litter to be seen. Most of the houses comprised bungalows and many had an open view of the ocean. If someone wanted to build a new house, we were told that everyone on the island has to agree to it. It obviously pays to keep in with the neighbours.

Although it was warm during our visit the temperature can drop to 14 degrees Celsius in winter.

Our local guide was proud to show us some history and led us to the remaining tiki, a stone image that represents a goddess or an ancestor. Unfortunately, since the 1960s three others have been removed and sent to various museums around the world. There are different ways of looking at this situation of course. Local people may regret their loss, but historic items, left unprotected, are vulnerable to the weather at the very least, and the following illustrates an example of this.

During our next stop along the way our guide told us of some birthing stones nearby. We all headed to the area with much anticipation. The stones are located on, what is now, private land but permission had been given for tourists to view. The structure comprised a long flat stone upon which the pregnant woman would lie, with two higher additional stones where she would place her feet. It sounded pretty uncomfortable and one would hope that the birth wouldn’t be in the colder months. However, upon our arrival our guide was clearly upset. The two historic stones for supporting the legs had gone. This was a site of historic importance, and the stones could well have been taken to build a wall or some other structure. It was a loss for the community, archaeology, history and visitors.

Destruction is not uncommon on the islands and elsewhere. In the 1800s many people on the island converted to Christianity following the arrival of missionaries and sacred sites and artefacts were destroyed.

Our guide then took us to a marae (sacred site) within which lies a tomb, considered to be the resting place of a princess.

We also learned of women’s strength according to legend. In days of old men and women would compete on physical and intellectual levels. The tale goes that there was a competition to move a huge rock. The men, thinking the women would not succeed, slept overnight before attempting the move. Meanwhile, the women got to work and indeed did move the rock. We were even shown that rock. However, there are many versions of this story but, we were told, as a result of this old legend women on the island are highly thought of… and not to be messed with, no doubt.

And talking of the people on the island today, there are just less than 1,000, a level slightly increasing which is rare among many island communities which see inhabitants leave for the mainland. It has one school for 3-11 year-olds, after which time they have to travel overseas to finish their education. Since 2003 there has been a small airport, which is of course beneficial for taking islanders to Tahiti, the children to schools overseas, and especially for quick transportation to hospitals if emergencies arise and cannot be dealt by the island’s medics.

The island people were keen to show us their crafts which included using the island’s clam shells to make jewellery and other attractive items.

Before we left, the islanders had set up a food tasting which was delightful – all items were locally sourced. Can you imagine eating grapefruit harvested within yards of where you are consuming it, or the most delicious banana bread made from the fruit of nearby palms? So fresh and flavoursome.

Then it was time to leave, but not before more music playing and the donning of shell garlands around the necks of each visitor. Incredible.

Copyright: Words and photos Sue Barnard 2022

If you like the written word Tahiti could be the place to be. Writers have certainly made the words flow here, whether it be fiction, non-fiction or poetry. I didn’t know what to expect in Tahiti, but our foray into the South Pacific island, part of the Society Islands, involved visits to the homes of two prolific writers of the past.

These were James Norman Hall, an American writer who spent most of his life in Tahiti; and Robert Keable, a missionary turned wordsmith.

Hall’s home is now a museum and is very much as he left it (apart from the roof solar panels). Shelves ooze with books of all sorts, divided into subjects as far ranging as children’s fiction to history. There are even copies of William Bligh’s log of HMS Bounty. You would have to be keen to read this tome of hundreds of pages, the writing is really hard to decipher but I am told Bligh was most detailed in his daily reports of the voyages.

Hall was a prolific writer and is probably best known for his work with Charles Nordhoff, The Bounty Trilogy: Mutiny on the Bounty, Men against the sea, and Pitcairn’s island, published in the 1930s and subsequently made into films.

One of Hall’s books, Doctor Dogbody’s leg, had a sudden flush of interest a few years ago, which took the museum by surprise. When asked which book would you take with you to a desert island on the long-running UK radio programme ‘Desert Island Discs’, Keith Richards of Rolling Stones fame said: “Doctor Dogbody’s leg”. It certainly raised interest in author Hall and his works.

We were most fortunate to have a private visit of Robert Keable’s past home. He too was a prolific writer. He was once a missionary and priest, then turned his back on the ministry following what he witnessed in World War One. He later caused a scandal with his 1921 book ‘Simon called Peter’ about a priest’s affair during the war, with a young nurse. But there is nothing like controversy to sell books. This one sold 600,000 copies in the 1920s alone.

Keable’s life was full of upset. He left his wife for a young lady, Jolie Buck. They found an idyllic place to live in Tahiti overlooking the sea. She drew up designs for their new home. But then Jolie became pregnant and they returned to England hoping for a safe birth. Sadly Jolie died in childbirth at just 25 years old. Their premature son was not expected to live and considered too frail to travel. Keable returned to Tahiti and the house was built to Jolie’s specification. Sadly Keable died there just a few years later of kidney disease. He was 40 years old.

The house still stands without any changes. It is the most beautiful home overlooking the ocean, and has many beautiful plants that he introduced including tall, thick, red bamboo.

A one-time neighbour was Paul Gauguin, famed for his paintings of Polynesian women. Unfortunately, the Gauguin museum is currently closed.

Our visit to these two homes was part of a 72 mile trip around the island. The road, of which there is only one, does not quite encircle Tahiti as the south-easterly tip has proved too difficult to engineer.

The island is, of course, famed for its breadfruit. Captain Bligh was sent to Tahiti to collect this for transportation to the West Indies to feed the slaves. Breadfruit is still today a staple of the island and used in the same way as potatoes. Varieties can vary from sweet to not so flavoursome, so it pays to know what to look out for. Unfortunately, we did not get a chance to taste and compare, but these are early days.

Walking around Papeete (the capital) itself highlighted some interesting aspects. The parks were extremely busy, especially with the young playing one of their favourite sports, volleyball.

This was around 3pm. The day starts (and ends) early in Tahiti, due particularly to the huge traffic jams during rush hour. Public transport comprises the rarely seen buses (we didn’t see any). Therefore, people who live away from the capital start out, sometimes around 4am, to get their children to school on time. While there are primary schools in some villages (education is compulsory from 3 years of age), the secondary schools are in the capital and that can involve a long, slow, journey. As our guide told us, family time is often during those long drives each day.

We came away from Tahiti with much more than expected, especially viewing the two beautiful homes of the writers, but also with a booklist that will take us the whole of next year to complete.

Copyright: Words and photos Sue Barnard 2022

For our final few days we took a flight west to the Bayan-Ulgii province to see the Eagle Festival. Our first night was spent with eagle hunter Aiu and his family. After all the entertainment and ankle bones games of the night before, Aiu invited us to see his eagle in action. He had won many awards at previous Eagle Festivals, but due to family commitments would not be attending the two-day event. However, he was keen to show us up close the skills involved in this highly-respected Mongolian tradition.

We watched Aiu set off on horseback with his 10 kilo bird resting on his outstretched arm. Once we arrived at the mountainside his son took the eagle up the mountain. When there, Aio tied some (deceased) prey onto a rope to attract the bird back.

Then, calling out with a sound only his bird would recognise, the eagle came flying down from the mountain top to catch the prey. Aiu stayed on horseback throughout. It all happened so quickly and efficiently. Keep in mind that when not performing the bird would be used for hunting small animals and foxes, all of which is carried out for the family’s use with nothing wasted, and is not hunting for sport.

Aio explained that just one female chick is taken from a nest, and is trained by the hunter who will keep the bird for six years. At that time, it will be released into the wild so that it can breed. The hunter then attempts to find his next chick. Most hunters are male, but there has been a film made of a very successful female hunter, although she is a rarity.

The bird was flown from the mountain top on several occasions for us to get a close-up.

It was then time to leave our host and travel to the festival site at Sagsai. Here we would sleep and eat in gers for the next three nights. This, in itself, proved another interesting experience. The evening would end right after supper had been eaten within a communal ger, simply because it was dark! There were no lights at all outside so with a head torch we would make our way back to our ger, up and down the undulating ground, which was well trodden by cattle, who left their mark everywhere!

A fire in each ger was welcoming (well mostly, more of that in a minute), but the fire would burn out in an hour or two. Hence, the night was freezing, and all you could see of me was my nose poking out of the blankets. I wish I had a photo of that. Our guide would come in at 7am to relight the fire so we could start to defrost about 30 minutes later. The water for washing was freezing, literally. Even the liquid soap was frozen!

But what was that about the somewhat unwelcoming fire? On our first night our guide came into the ger to talk with us. I heard a swishing noise outside and asked what that was. “It’s probably some maintenance,” she replied. That was puzzling as it was 9pm and pitch black outside. I suggested we might take a look.

As we walked outside we found out what the swishing sound was. Some of the drivers were throwing water over our roof. The embers from the chimney had fallen down on the plastic and felt roof and caught alight.

We had been totally unaware of the fire – there was not a sound – and it was only by chance that it was found. A driver had been walking behind our ger, possibly to get firewood, and noticed it. The fire was at the rear of the ger where nobody would have need to walk, so we were most fortunate. Thankfully, we lived to see another day, and this was full of entertainment.

First up was a demonstration of the dismantling of a ger and the packing up of its contents, which were then taken by camel to the festival site. There, the ger was rebuilt. There is a special procedure for this, and it became apparent having watched an interactive demonstration a few days previously at a museum.

The rebuilding starts with the lattice walls being erected in a circle and the pre-made door added. Then the centrepiece of the ger roof is hoisted into place. This is a wheel with wooden spokes, to which wooden roof struts are attached. Fabric roofing and walls are added to the outside, before women decorate the inside. This whole procedure takes about two hours to take down for the experienced (two days for the inexperienced!) and a couple of hours to rebuild.

Once we arrived at the festival, nearby, we found there was a whole host of activities. This is serious stuff, winners receive prestigious awards. As we saw at the home of Aiu, his awards are proudly displayed on the walls.

First up was some eagle hunting, the fastest result is the winner. We watched in anticipation as, one by one, each eagle was taken up the mountain while his trainer, on horseback, waited on the flat ground nearby to us.

The hunter was ready, the eagle was ready, the audience was ready. The hunter made his call. It was mighty windy. The eagle was released. We watched intently as it rose to the sky. And it rose some more, and some more, circling high above us.

Unfortunately, there it stayed. That strong wind was making it difficult for the eagle to hear the call. Deflated, we waited. Just how do you get an eagle down from way up in the clouds? We were not to find out anytime soon.

Eagle hunter number two arrived. The procedure began again. Up the mountain side the eagle was taken. All set, the eagle hunter made his call. The eagle set off. It rose into the sky. And rose again. Instead of heading to the eagle hunter, it headed to the first eagle on the loose. Both circled way above us, as if to take the mickey.

By this stage we were in fits of laughter. It brought back memories. We have an annual community event at a local park nearby us. We attended this year to watch the dog show, an event for residents’ dogs. Not one did as it was told – don’t work with animals and children comes to mind. The start of this eagle hunting competition seemed to be just the same.

A few other birds did fly to their hunters successfully but, because of the wind (oh, and a third lost bird) it was decided to postpone further flights until the following day.

Other events followed with riders having to pick up a small cone from the ground while riding at great speed on their horses. Not falling off their horses while doing this is quite an art.

On the second day the eagle flights were resumed which had 100% success as the wind had dropped. This was no consolation for the hunters whose birds had flown – keep in mind that it takes years to train the animals, and this was the first time they had flown since the outbreak of Covid.

But there were more interesting events to come. One included couples racing across the land together. The fastest couple won the event. However, there was an added twist. Each woman held a rope or stick with which she would beat her ‘husband’. Well the women seemed to enjoy it and the men were willing participants, as a win could earn them yet another award. The audience enjoyed the speed with which it was acted too.

But what about that ‘Tug of wot’ I have mentioned? This was actually called the Tug of War, but I think the title was ill-conceived. This actually involved a goat (dead I would add), and headless. Two riders on horseback would lift the hefty beast and attempt to pull it from the competitor while on the fast-moving horse. Some attempts were short-lived, but others went on for up to 10 minutes. At times, the uncontrolled horses (the riders were intent on grappling with the goat) would head straight towards the onlookers. On several occasions, with the fighting pair in my lens sight, I thought I was getting a really good photo, only to realise they were coming straight for me! Actually, I did get some very good photos, but looking at them I feel they are rather too graphic to include on this occasion.

All of this could seem quite shocking for some, but it is tradition and is carried out in a competitive way with skills developed from one year to the next. What was really touching was that the older, more experienced, hunters, apparently let a far younger hunter win the tug of war. This, we were told, was to encourage other young potential hunters to compete in future years. Without the newcomers, yet another tradition will be lost.

And there was more good news, at least for one eagle hunter. On the second day of the festival he returned to the site to look for his lost eagle. The eagle had landed. It was perched on the mountainside. Alas, the other two eagles had done a runner.

The following day we made our way back to Ulaanbaatar for our journey home, with great memories. Living with and interacting with the nomadic people gave us an insight into a culture we would not have achieved had we not travelled Mongolia in this way. The nomadic people appeared happy with their lives, although recognising that the young may not necessarily follow in their footsteps. One wonders, with all the trappings of the Western world, who is most happy with their ‘lot’.

Copyright: Words and photos Sue Barnard 2022

Ever played ankle bones? It’s very popular in most households in Mongolia, and might not be what you think. But more about that later.

Despite all our off-road travelling, eating and sleeping there was so much else to do, and looking back I don’t know how we fitted it all in. Our trip really was non-stop from morning to night.

We were in for a great treat on one of our days, when we were fortunate to witness a ger warming, which coincided with the owners’ 25 year wedding anniversary.

If there was ever a ‘right time, right place’ experience this was it. Our driver Tugsuu had 10 siblings, one of whom (a brother) was carrying out the celebrations. Our group (John and I, our new travelling companion Carolyn from the US, our guide Migo and Tugsuu) just happened to be in an area of the vast Gobi Desert when this ger celebration was being carried out and because of Tugsuu we were all invited to the happy occasion.

We learned that when a new ger is purchased it is tradition to ‘christen’ it by inviting friends and family along who bring gifts, such as alcohol, food or cash. These are presented along with blue silky sashes (we purchased ours from a local store). The sashes are also often seen at temples as part of worshippers’ offerings.

When we arrived the party was in full swing and we were made really welcome. Once seated among the guests we were invited to get involved with the customary sharing of snuff bottles with our host, each of us in turn.

There were at least 30 guests squeezed into the new ger, along with masses of food. So many of the guests were dressed in brightly-coloured deels and they lined up to present their gifts.

To illustrate the significance of the occasion some of the guests presented whole cooked sheep carcasses, each with their heads on top. I saw three, and there could have been more delivered throughout the day. This amount would be rare. Dishes of soup, breads, curds, vegetables, lamb, horse meat, salami and chicken were all elegantly displayed, along with the very expensive fruit, including apples, grapes and bananas.

Soup was our first course, then came the meats, pickles and vegetables. I tried the horse meat out of curiosity and politeness. I have to say it was particularly tender and flavoursome. It was not long before the vodka came out and was shared in a dish amongst guests, with gay abandon. Right from the start we were not looked upon as strangers, but accepted as the hosts’ guests, which was most welcoming.

There was also entertainment, and this was wonderful. I have referred to the throat singing we experienced earlier this year amongst the Inuit women who demonstrate a deep tone, in a playful, competitive way. In Mongolia this is quite different and something we had not heard before. It is the men who throat sing and use their voice in a much higher pitched way, as if it is an instrument.

Mongolian throat singing can be beautiful and joyous to hear and we were so lucky that our hosts had a professional throat singer to entertain us. The male singers study for many years to achieve their status as a professional throat singer.

When we left, our hosts and many family members came outside the ger to wave us off, having first enjoyed some photo opportunities.

Throughout our journey we were to find that singing is something many families do. If you are lucky, as we were at times, one person may just break into song with others joining in, often playing instruments. One evening when we were having our supper, an eight year old boy picked up a dombra (a long-necked lute) and started playing and singing, which was brave of the youngster especially being amongst strangers. Then other Mongolian people joined in. This is a tradition to be savoured, especially when it could be so easily lost with television and social media now being on tap 24 hours a day.

When not being entertained we tried our hands at a few other activities including kayaking, something John and I had not done before. The water was fairly shallow and freezing cold and in one area we had to get out and push, but I was determined to beat John to the finish line… I succeeded!

A camel ride too was in the offing. I wasn’t looking forward to that, and crikey it was a long way down. These were Bactrian camels, with two humps and some can be 8 feet tall. The benefit was that I could keep a firm hold on one of the humps as we meandered across the desert.

I was quite pleased when we got off (not looking forward to the time the camel would drop to its knees with us humans being tipped forward and then jolted back without any resistance). As soon as we got off we sauntered away rather like John Wayne, tipping from side to side – the camels were so wide. We were still aching from the uncomfortable seating arrangements after several days.

Another new experience was archery, which was a scream. So many times I tried to let the arrow go whizzing to a nearby target. Each time the arrow flopped to my feet, with no danger of me being speared. Gosh, those bows are hard to operate. One needs arms of steel, but once I got the hang of it, it proved to be rather addictive, and a source of so many laughs.

In a small area of the Gobi Desert we carried out tree planting – well Tugsuu did all the hard digging. This project was a worthy cause. The initiator, a lady named Byamba, purchased an area of land 40 years ago with the aim of trying to fight against desertification. This is where land degrades to such an extent in arid and semi-arid areas that it cannot sustain plant growth. It can be caused by a number of things including lack of rain, climate, grazing, and human activity such as felling trees. This latter point is a long term issue across parts of Mongolia. Gers are heated with wood, and forests can be seen across the country which have had swaths of pine trees cut down for this purpose.

Without plants, humans cannot feed off the land and animals cannot forage. Without trees, winds are also a problem.

In an attempt to redress this, even in a slow small way, Byamba has been growing native trees – the saxaul – from seeds and cuttings in greenhouses at her home. Then, working on her own or with small-scale help, she has been planting these slow-growing trees in the sandy dry land. In so doing, she is attempting to offset CO2 emissions and reduce greenhouse gases; reduce wind and dust (the tree roots help hold the soil together, thus reducing soil erosion); provide wildlife habitats; and preserve native Gobi trees.

During our time at the site we planted and watered in a few trees, and admired the work Byamba was doing, which is a hard task. Some of the trees planted in 1999 are still only eight feet tall. Another we saw, planted three years ago, was three feet tall. In more hospitable landscapes the saxaul tree can grow to 26 or more feet.

Then, having done a tiny bit to help with these matters, we were on our way again. A lot of hiking was involved on this holiday including so many climbs up to monasteries – they were usually locked or in a ruined condition once we got there. The vast majority of religious buildings were desecrated during the Communist regime, generally in the 1930s. At some, that did not involve a hike, we were able to view the monks carrying out their morning chanting. This was popular with local worshippers. Their sounds were rather soporific as we sat and watched, but seeing some of the monks on their mobiles, or being served their breakfast supply of mares’ milk during the chanting came as a bit of a surprise.

Of great historic significance in Mongolia was a discovery in 1923 at the Flaming Cliffs in the Gobi Desert. Fossils of 15 dinosaur nests containing 50 eggs were found which led to the understanding that dinosaurs were not solitary animals but they established colonies. These were originally thought to be nests of the Protoceratops. However, expeditions in the 1990s found further identical eggs, one containing an embryo identified as an Oviraptor.

Mongolia also has many petroglyphs, some considered to date back to 11,000BC. The images produced over the centuries illustrate the transition from hunter gatherers to herding and on to a horse-dependant nomadic lifestyle. They are so valuable for the insight they give to pre-historic ways that they are protected by UNESCO. While it is brilliant to see them in their original sites, they are open to the elements and graffiti addicts. It is surprising they are not better protected in some way.

But they are not easy to reach – they are sited high up steep, craggy mountains. Climbing the mountains was really hard going, but there was something that I had not expected on the way up. A Mongolian man offered his arm to help me up the mountainside – at a rate of knots I might add. It became more of a run than a climb! As we were heading up the sharp incline the gentleman asked to marry me. I was a bit perplexed and thought a while, saying: “Maybe that is possible, but you’ll have to ask my husband first.”

“But I don’t want to marry your husband,” he exclaimed. Hmmm, that was not what I was getting at. I then enquired: “Are you rich?” He rebuffed my question, saying: “You’ve got to be joking. I’m a tour guide!”

With that, and having a good idea of my answer, he dropped his arm and left me to climb the remaining craggy rocks on my own. Blast – I should have spun that out until we got to the top!

But there was another experience that will remain memorable. It was the ankle bones. Our eagle hunter host Aiu had two young sons who looked so excited to interact with us during our overnight stay, despite the language differences. I found just the opportunity when they showed me a bucket of ankle bones. Yes, this was indeed what was in a bucket they presented me with – hundreds of sheep ankle bones.

These are displayed throughout Mongolia in homes, restaurants and shops, whether they are used for games, decoration, table mats or jewellery. Most are in their natural cream colour, but some are painted. They can be played in a similar fashion to ‘five stones’ which we enjoyed as children.

Many games involve scoring against other players and this is what we did. We each threw four bones at a time, and according to the way they fell we scored points. Each of the four sides of the ankle bone has a different shape (one needs a keen eye to see that), and points were awarded for pairs, a full house, and so on.

The two young sons, their eagle hunter father and I all played. I tried my hardest, but the odds were against me. Each time I came last until father did some trickery and I managed to come second to last. He was the perfect host and we all laughed throughout.

There was never a dull moment in Mongolia, and we had so many new experiences. But there was one further experience to come, to be covered in the next posting.

Copyright: Words and photos Sue Barnard 2022

I put my nose against the small offering bowl a shop owner had presented to me. The contents comprised a white liquid. I sniffed. I didn’t recognise the smell but it didn’t smell good.

I was inquisitive. I sniffed again. It was at this stage I took my first sip of the cold liquid. It was definitely horse. How did I know that? I had never, knowingly, tasted anything horsey. I sipped again. This time I had a lemon fizz sensation. I sipped a few more times. The liquid was like a very light milk, with little fat and this was exactly what it was… only this was mare’s milk!

I had never given it a moment’s thought that horses could be milked, let alone have a desire to drink the produce. This was my first experience of drinking mare’s milk and surprisingly I willingly continued until the whole cup was consumed, which was much to the amazement of my travelling companions. That lemon fizz sensation turned out to be a small alcohol content caused by the fermentation process.

A visit to most nomad gers will show fermented mare’s milk in the making. At some sites, if the time is right (June-September), a visitor may be able to see the milking process being carried out. This we saw at Arkhangai, near the centre of Mongolia and on the northern slopes of the Khangai mountains, where we were lunchtime guests of a family.

It was a privilege to be invited to see the mare milking. Our guide had dropped in to a small collection of gers along our route. Travelling groups, presumably of a small size such as our own, had arrangements to call in to families if in the locality to see if they could provide lunch. That gives income to the families and helps the tour companies, as cafes are sparsely located outside the capital. It can also add so much to the enjoyment and education of the tourist.

In addition to a wholesome lunch of homemade noodles combined with meat and vegetables within a soup, we got an insight into the milking and fermentation process. Our hostess, Naraa, was clearly a busy lady. While her husband was away herding, in addition to the usual ‘housewifely’ duties, she was, at this time of year, milking the mares and processing the milk. Naraa was happy for us to look on, and was aided by our driver Tugsuu who had spent a lifetime working with horses as part of his growing up.

Not wishing to miss this experience, we rushed outside the ger to the waiting horses. Each foal is tethered along a rope, and then brought to their mothers one by one. The foal suckles and is then removed to its mother’s side. This starts the milk flowing and the hand milking follows. This is carried out every couple of hours for one to two days when the mother and foal return to pasture for a few more days, and the process begins again. The quantity of mare’s milk production is less than that of a cow.

The milk can be consumed ‘raw’, but fermenting extends its life. Fermented mare’s milk, known as airag, is produced on a small scale by pouring it into a cowhide sack, called an arhad, and adding yogurt as a starter culture. Over the following days the contents are churned thousands of times to aid an even fermentation process.

The mare’s milk is also used to produce butter (often combined with raisins), or a sweet, hard, curd eaten in a similar way to confectionery. Excess milk may be frozen or sold to local stores.

Mare’s milk curd. It can also be served in blocks. The longer it is cooked the darker and more intense the flavour – almost like very hard toffee

Research has shown that mare’s milk has many benefits, including low fat, and is a good source of nutrients. The biggest thing westerners need to overcome is the acquired taste.

Another acquired taste is the high level of mutton served in dishes for breakfast, lunch and dinner. At breakfast this could be a simple clear soup with lamb pieces and a few vegetables. At other meals it could be the main ingredient of dumplings. At one homestay we had the pleasure of a lesson making dumplings. Our hostess, Uka, having rolled circles of a flour and water mix, showed us how to simply place minced lamb in the centre and quickly pinch the pastry circle to contain the mix.

For the lunar new year (a day of celebration) female members of the family may make 5,000 dumplings. I think we might have got the hang of it by then, but forever willing we put our skills to the test. It has to be said our efforts were nothing less than outstanding – for all the wrong reasons! If they still contained the meat and vegetable contents after steaming it would be a miracle. Needless to say, they did not.

There were several other things throughout our trip that were new to us. A gift held in high esteem would be the cooked whole carcass of a sheep, together with head neatly placed on top. This would be provided when there was cause for celebration. It would come from the family or friend’s herd.

I shall spare you the photo, and I shall also spare you the details of something else we came across by chance. That was the gutting of a sheep immediately after slaughter. Father did the slaughtering, while mother separated the intestines into bowls according to use. It was interesting that the children looked on, or more precisely, played on, unperturbed. This was an activity of daily life. The herd was slaughtered as and when the family needed to eat. But as I looked on, I soon realised that the next unfortunate sheep had arrived for the same fate. I just had to walk away.

Another food we were served and unfamiliar with was horse meat. It was presented sliced (looking similar to roast beef) with gherkins and was some of the best meat we have tasted, and so delicately cooked. Serving horse would be a rarity and in this case was part of a celebration (more about that later). The horse too would be an important and valuable part of the herd.

On a different scale, a mainstay of cafe menus would be stir fried beef or lamb with rice or noodles. Unfortunately the meat would often be tough. Fat would be left on the meat, as this is still an important part of the nomadic diet needed to provide warmth and energy. I also soon learned that sheep tail is all fat and highly sought after. That formed part of the meals we ate as well.

Something our cultures had in common was the serving of tea when visiting a family. This was poured from big teapots, but with the milk already combined. I did not find out whether that was mare’s or cow’s milk. Salt was added to the tea when making, and butter could be added at the same time, or served separately.

Trying all these foods and seeing how they form part of the Mongolian and nomadic diet and way of life was a delight. Some elements might not be to everybody’s taste but trying the food of a nation and the ways in which it is prepared helps to get to the core of a culture, and it was a privilege to do so.

Copyright: Words and photos Sue Barnard 2022

If it’s light, duck behind a ger; if it’s heavy there’s a tent with a view.

I didn’t think my introduction to Mongolia would see me getting to grips with toilet etiquette and so soon.

Life with the nomads is uncomplicated. Hence there I was hiding behind a ger, hoping nobody would see me during daylight, and keeping far closer to our sleeping quarters at night in total darkness apart from millions of stars to accompany me. Ah, and not forgetting the inquisitive 200 goats, 50 sheep, a few cows and an excitable dog.

During our trip I became very familiar with the different toilet offerings, from ‘au naturel’ (often with not a single plant to hide behind), to the ‘long drop’ – work that one out for yourselves – and the ‘short drop’ once a ‘long drop’ but well passed it fill-by date. Occasionally there may even be a seat, but so low down one struggled to get up again!

One day as we were travelling off road in our UAZ Russian military vehicle we spotted what looked to be a large bird perched in the landscape. Perhaps it’s a vulture or is it an eagle? We drove closer – only to find it was a lady going about her ‘business’. She was lucky – we had not got out our telephoto lenses!

Our trip to Mongolia provided us with so many experiences we had not had before and likely will not have again. They were mostly good, apart from our ger catching fire one night. More about that in a later posting. A ger is a large round tent, known in other parts of the world as a yurt. They are seen throughout Mongolia and have the advantage of being transportable – deconstructed in a couple of hours and reconstructed in a further two hours, it is quite an art form. They are the very essence of nomadic life and all the family or community pitch in with this moving and re-building activity.

During the summer the gers are placed in grassy steppes where the nomads’ animals can feed. Father is the herdsman, assisted by his sons. A common sight is boys as young as four herding the animals alone and very successfully. In the winter the ger may be moved to the shelter of the mountains, or packed away while the family moves to a more permanent house the father may have built, where his penned herd will be fed on hay.

Within 24 hours of landing in Mongolia we were in the heart of nomadic life. Our itinerary included three homestays with nomadic families and a lunch visit. Looking back, these were the most enjoyable, unforgettable and educational experiences of all. Other nights we stayed at ger camps, some marketed as eco-friendly, others plain traditional usually without en-suite facilities.

Our first stay was with a park ranger who, along with his family, lived outside the Khustai Nuruv National Park in his ger. His job, when not herding, was to enforce the law within the park and guard against frequent poaching, particularly marmot and deer hunting. One of the biggest crimes in Mongolia is livestock theft. He was involved with research as well, which included recording plant life. A further role was to ensure tourists were not camping off road, which was a tall order considering the park stretches across 200 square miles. All of this he achieved on his motorbike.

It is etiquette for visitors to bring a gift for the family agreeing to take in tourists. They do, rightly, get paid for the guest stay. We arrived with gifts of vodka and biscuits. Never have I seen a bottle of vodka go down so quickly, but it was shared between hosts and guests – neat, mainly.

We all sat around tables to share the food Pyamba, our hostess, had prepared for us. Generally, everybody eats with their fingers. Our host, Sanjaa tore off meat from the sheep’s cooked carcass for us. This was one of his own flock, as is the norm. This was accompanied by succulent potatoes and what we would describe as homemade coleslaw. Meat is cooked in one large pot (at least 18 inches wide) with onions, carrots and potatoes. The resulting stock at the end of cooking is served as a soup. The meal cooked in this way was very tasty and real comfort food, providing a feeling of ‘just like mum makes’. Homemade yogurt is often served as well, along with fermented milk (more on that another day). Vegetables are sparse as the growing conditions in some parts of the country are not suitable, and all fruit is imported and at eye-watering prices such as £3 for one apple, which is prohibitive for most families.

The Mongolian diet of the past had been wholesome. Herders needed a high fat diet for warmth and energy which they got from a predominantly mutton diet. Today, more sugar is available leading to diabetes and dental decay not previously seen.

Covid incidence in Mongolia, we were told, was very low, but vaccination was mandatory if a person wished to be employed in any job. Just as well really as vodka, or milk, is passed around in a small bowl for each person to drink from.

Another tradition is the sharing of snuff bottles. This is an honour. Our host shared his snuff bottle for us to sniff and pass back to him, each of us in turn. All gifts or items are passed with open hands from one person to another whether it be in a ger, restaurant or shop.

In a traditional nomadic home the males herd the animals, taking them away from the ger to graze by day and returning them by night. The men are also responsible for maintenance of the home and surroundings. Meanwhile the females take on what we might know as a ‘housewifely’ role – rearing the children and grandchildren, cooking and decorating the inside of the ger. Following changes in recent years women were given equal rights. This has enabled some to be employed, but they still carry out the ‘housewifely’ tasks.

It is interesting that the contents within the gers are limited. There is not a lot of space. Cupboards are filled with clothing the women have made for the whole family, and kitchen utensils. This is because, when the gers are taken down and moved – often by camel – the contents of the house must move with them, and this is done at least twice a year.

Sanjaa, our host, shared with us his thoughts on the future via our interpreter guide. “For the older generation the nomadic way is peaceful, but for the young it is different,” he said. All children must attend school, these are state and privately-owned, taking youngsters up to the age of 18. From there they will often go on to higher education maybe in the capital Ulaanbaatar (or more familiarly UB) living with relatives, or travel overseas. Once the children experience the life in UB and the influence of social media they do not wish to return to herding. Many move on to the US, especially Chicago and LA. Those males who do want to go back to the family find it difficult to find wives who are willing to return to nomadic life. The nomadic way is declining.

This is a concern for the older generations who see this way of life diminishing – bear in mind that the herd is used as a source of meat and milk and for selling on to others. The goat wool is sold for very soft garment making and the sheep wool for felting (a frequently-used product). The decline in herding would not only affect the family, but the country as a whole.

The nomads also have a great sense of community. Our host told us that he only goes into the capital perhaps twice a year. This is because other community members take it in turn to purchase items for their neighbours. If someone might need to go to Ulaanbaatar for a longer stay, hospital for example, other community members will look after their herd.

Nomadic life seemed very safe for Mongolians and tourists. We were frequently told how there aren’t locks on the doors and a passerby could call at a ger for an unannounced visit and stay overnight if in need. In fact, in one remote area our guide called at a ger to see if we could have lunch within the community. This was readily granted, and we had some incredible experiences, but more about that later.

Copyright: Words and photos Sue Barnard 2022

We ventured out to the blustery ship’s decks this morning and found, unusually, we were not alone. Three medium-sized fishing boats were not far in the distance. They were looking for what the guests on board our ship were looking for… Narwhals. Unfortunately we had rather different reasons. 

Guests aboard wanted to seek out these beautiful creatures with their unique tusks, rather like unicorns of the sea. The fishing people on the boats wanted to seek them out for lunch, and their tusks for decoration. It is not what we wanted to see but we have to appreciate we are of different cultures and have different needs. Perhaps it is something we should not delve too deeply into, especially when later we will be tucking into our chicken or beef dinner with shrimp starter.

Instead we turn to those mariners’ community living in Arctic Bay where we are moored. It is the third most northerly community in Canada, a hamlet housing less than 1,000 people. It’s location is nestled into surrounding peaks and has the Inuit name of Ikpiarjuk, meaning ‘pocket’.

Nomadic Inuit inhabited the area over thousands of years, but in 1959 a schoolhouse was built which led to the slow move to Inuit permanent residence. The oldest building is a joint Canada-US weather station erected in 1941.

Our trip to the town was via the Zodiac and a rather wavy, splashy, sea. At the shoreline was a welcoming committee… dozens of children, mainly boys, who excitedly showed us part of a daily catch – two seals. I too wanted to see seals, but not in this fashion. And we never did see any Narwhals.

The children were clearly delighted to see us and rushed over to each Zodiac as it came up to the shoreline. The area does not have too many visitors, let alone a small cruise ship. The roads here are tarmac-free which results in the throwing up a lot of dust as vehicles pass by, much of which had landed on the children’s hands, legs and faces.

The town’s adults too were excited to see us. Just as in Pond Inlet they wanted to entertain us with singing and drum playing, and to feed us with bannock – a flat unsweetened cake tasting rather like doughnut without the sugar coating.

We were given a front row seat which was great for photographers and we settled down to hear some more throat singers and drum players, but also two guys playing guitar and singing. They had performed for many years in different parts of the world and were hoping their music would get onto Spotify. Inuit towns may be remote but as one of the throat singers pointed out, “We got internet connection a few years ago and now everyone has a mobile phone!”

After the performance we talked with the entertainers and the young throat singers spoke of their traditional outfits, the amauti (parka). Those of the two ladies were made of Caribou and Seal skin. The different coloured skins are cut in shapes and mixed to produce a pattern. The makers, in this case their grandmothers, do not use scissors, but instead a ulu, which is a multi-purpose crescent-shaped blade. One young lady showed me the inside of her parka which comprised minute stitching of multiple pieces of skin. 

We were then off to our ship again, but the day did not end there. In the evening, the Expedition Leader had arranged to meet and bring on board a real life modern day explorer. This was Borge Ousland, a Norwegian Polar explorer who had carried out incredible feats including being the first person to cross Antarctica solo, covering 1,864 miles, and using kite and skis for assistance.

Borge had started his career as a Norwegian Navy Special Forces Officer and later as a deep sea diver for the oil industry. He clearly likes adventure. In 1990 he, along with fellow explorer Erling Kagge, were the first to reach the North Pole unsupported. The 800km (500 miles) trip took 58 days. In 1994 he made the first solo unsupported trek to the North Pole from Arctic Cape, Russia. 

As if that didn’t already fulfil his dreams, he holds the record for the fastest unsupported journey to the South Pole taking 34 days; and in 2006 he, together with fellow explorer Mike Horn, took two months to travel to the North Pole in Arctic darkness.

He has many other trips and successes to his name, and during his talk told us how he was planning to ski across the world’s 20 largest ice caps with French explorer Vincent Colliard, during which time they will be looking at various aspects of science, climate change and the importance of ice to the planet.

Asked what drives him, Borge replied: “I grew up in the 1970s and 1980s. Everything was possible. I had two hobbies – nature and diving.”

Regarding the trips to the Poles he said: “They are completely different. The Antarctic is a mental challenge because of the landscape. It all looks the same from when you wake up to when you go to sleep. In the North Pole region there are boulders to look at.”

And Polar Bears. He explained that while he can keep an eye on the bears during the day, that is not so at night. One morning he woke to three Polar Bears around the tent. Quite a wake-up call, and in smelling distance. It is said that bears can smell prey from 1 km away.

He said the solo expeditions especially taught him a lot. “I grew and learnt, and was inspired to be a full-time Polar explorer. It is great to do something that has not been done before.”

Needless to say, we won’t be joining him on the next trip. A step too far, I think.

Copyright: Words and photos Sue Barnard 2022

Our next high point was a Zodiac ride to Low Point, on Baffin Island, a little further north than Pond Inlet our destination yesterday. To ease congestion on the various land and sea trips we had been divided into four groups to leave the vessel, which were all named after ships. 

Our group was the MS Fram, a ship launched in 1892 and used in Arctic and Antarctic expeditions, one familiar name being Roald Amundsen. Other groups were the Gjoa (1872), the first vessel to pass through the Northwest Passage taking three years to complete; the St Roch (1928), a Royal Canadian Mounted Police schooner, the first ship to fully circumnavigate North America and the second to successfully pass through the Northwest Passage; and Maud, named after Queen Maud of Norway launched in 1916 and built for Roald Amundsen’s second exploration of the Arctic.

On this occasion, however, to cater for passengers’ stamina, aching muscles or preferences, we were divided into the ‘chargers’, those delighting in running up the peaks; the ‘medium fasts’, the not so energetic, but liking a fast walk; the ‘medium slows’ (just my cup of tea, although no tea provided on this occasion); and the ‘contemplatives’, a polite term for the plodders.

Being in the ‘medium slows’ I did at least get the chance to take some photos of what I was trying not to step on – the plants and attractive-looking rocks and stones. But we were also looking at history.

Our other historian and Polar expert was Scottish-born Laurie Dexter who served for 13 years as an Anglican Minister in the Diocese of the Arctic, the most northerly parish in the world. During this time he learned to speak fluently the Inuit language (Inuktitut) – a most complex of languages. He has since travelled the Polar regions hundreds of times and taken part in extreme sports.

Our two hour hike, which was a little rocky under foot, but a gentler climb compared with our previous exhausting experiences, enabled us to appreciate just what we were walking around. Laurie pointed out that the rings of rocks around us did not arrive naturally, but were the bases of cool places (literally) for storing the meat hunted by the Dorset or Thule people.

As he took us higher up the landscape we staggered over loose and shifting rocks to view inside mounds of stones, pyramidal in shape, about four feet high with an open top. These were fox traps, or rock cairns, in which pieces of meat would be placed as bait. When the fox came sniffing it would enter the cairn at the top opening, get its prey, but would not be able to get out again. Ingenious, but not for the squeamish.

There were several more rock outlines nearer to the shore indicating that these could have been houses or other buildings. 

As if this wasn’t enough excitement, in the afternoon we went looking for icebergs passing the tiny Adam’s Island, off Baffin and Bylot Islands. On the map above, this is located by a tiny dot in the channel to the left of Cape Hay, near point 10.

Adam’s Island lies in the Lancaster Sound where Franklin’s ships would have passed on their way through the Northwest Passage. The island is uninhabited, but small rock cairns on the top of the rocks showed that human life had clambered onto it. From this point we sailed around some beautiful and huge icebergs.

When we returned to the ship we had the greatest sighting of Orcas (Killer Whales) which swam alongside us for at least an hour and comprised an estimated 40-50 Orcas. 

But our day was not to end there. We had asked if we could meet with the Captain during our voyage. Due to Covid, passengers were not allowed on the Bridge so we were unable to visit him in situ. The Expedition Team did not disappoint, however. The Captain came to see us. 

Ah, of course this was my opportunity to ask… is it a ship or a boat? “IT’S A SHIP!”, he bellowed as he pointed to the four gold stripes on the epaulettes of each shoulder, indicating he is of the highest rank of a cruise ship. “A ship can carry a boat, but a boat cannot carry a ship!”, he added. 

Well I had heard that before and I had done my research which didn’t really give me the definitive answer. I was expecting something in more detail than the boat-on-ship description, hence my questioning. Now I know that our world-circumnavigating sailing friends Nicole and Jeremy (who also read these words and I am sure will be sailing at this point) would be able to enlighten me, but in stepped our Aussie friend Eric (who we first met in Vietnam many years ago) who sent me a WhatsApp mid-sailing to put me out of my misery. So I share his words of clarification:

Eric advised: “Ships are big. Boats are little. In the old days, any vessel over three masts was a ship. A boat becomes a ship after it exceeds 197 feet in length.

“With me so far? Then I shall add some more…

“A ship has a commander [or in our case a captain] and crew. But beware. Explanation from an old pusser [naval slang for purser] will leave you bewildered. To explain, they call a submarine a boat, although it has a commander and crew and is flat bottomed. Then there is a landing ‘ship’ with a flat bottom.

“Get my drift? Good. Then I will give another example. President Kennedy’s WW2 craft, the PT109, was a boat. That had a commander and crew and a pointed hull. 

“So I hope that has made it clear, and you are not still at sea – pardon the pun… well, hmmm, I hope you are still at sea!”

Thanks Eric, that has cleared it up nicely!

If truth be known I was actually seeking a photo opportunity with the Captain and Ted in his new Franklin outfit his mummy had made him specially for the trip. I am pleased to say the Captain did not disappoint.

Copyright: Words and photos 2022 Sue Barnard