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To complement his photography, Bill has written dozens of travel articles which have appeared in the Concord Monitor in Concord, New Hampshire. They are all available for limited one time re-use.
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At the Ice Hotel there's no such thing as cold weather, just bad clothing. From what I understand, they quick freeze you in a cryogenic solution at midnight, tuck you in and thaw you out in time for breakfast. It's a kind of B&B. Brrrrrr.
This was my e-mail musing to a friend who had learned of my mid-winter trip to northern Sweden, but who wasn't familiar with the unusual, if not to say off-beat, accomodations found there.
When World War III broke out in the 1950's novel On The Beach by Neville Shute, the fictitious crew of the U.S. submarine Scorpion came to a grim realization: Nuclear fallout was enveloping the Earth. They calculated that the last place it would reach would be Tasmania. So to give themselves as much time as possible before the inevitable, they began their last voyage to this distant land.
Some fifty years later Tasmania fortunately has not had to play out its part in this doomsday scenario and now attracts visitors for reasons other than mere survival.
"Timbuktu or Bust"
Yes Virginia, there is such a place as Timbuktu. It's not the mythical destination that your mother threatened to wallop you to if you were a bad girl.
Everyone's heard of Timbuktu. It's one of those places that you weren't sure existed, but if it did, you wouldn't know where to begin looking for it on a map. It's become synonomous with the last outpost of civilization - the furthest one can get from anywhere. But why? What is it about this small village in the West African nation of Mali that has warranted this unflattering reputation?
Don't be surprised if you can't find Easter Island on your world map. A mere pin prick on the chart of the South Pacific, it lies in an area so devoid of other land masses that cartographers have routinely placed their legends and logos there.
Sometimes referred to as the navel of the world, it is 2,300 miles west of the Chilean mainland and 1,200 miles east of tiny Pitcairn Island. To the north and south lie endless miles of open ocean. It claims the dubious distinction of being the most remote inhabited island in the world and therein lies the paradox - that such a small and isolated place should house one of the world's great archaeological treasure troves.
"What's there to see in Roswell?" asked an uninformed observer of a newly purchased T-shirt I was sporting.
"A few aliens," I replied. "Some legal, others illegal."
It used to be that Carlsbad Caverns was the only tourist destination worth a stop in the desolate southeast corner of New Mexico. But recently, more and more visitors are including the city of Roswell in their vacation itineraries. While Roswell boasts a renowned art museum and an historical center, most visitors don't come for these mundane pursuits. They come to learn about something truly exciting - something the name Roswell has become synonomous with - UFO's.
"Man Jumps From Bridge!"
"It's like committing suicide, only you don't die," is how one person put it. "Throw your old lifestyle off a bridge and put some glide in your stride," is what the brochure said.
By now just about everyone has heard of bungy jumping, the thrill sport of hurling ones's self off high places attached to nothing more than a thick rubber band. To the uninitiated, it appears to be a bizarre, high-risk activity. But I'm here to say that bungy jumping has received a bum rap.
I had wanted to talk with someone who had seen the Monster. The innkeeper's polite smile and shifting glance, however, were enough to confirm my suspicions. "There's a local in the village who's had a sighting," she said. "But he keeps it to himself."
The message was becoming clear. The local lake community is grateful for the tourist dollars that their elusive creature has brought in. Just don't expect anyone to take the phenomenon too seriously. Now I understood why every "Nessie" replica and souvenir I had seen in the village had been humorously depicted and comically cartoonish.
As the story goes, when the Buddha died and was cremated more than 2,000 years ago in what is now India, a follower snatched one of his teeth from the funeral pyre. Over the centuries, the tooth was shuffled around from person to person and place to place before finally ending up in the city of Kandy, Sri Lanka, where it continues to be venerated by the Buddhist faithful to this day.
Madagascar is not for everyone. Due in no small measure to a corrupt and inept government; grinding poverty, squalor and environmental defliement is evident everywhere. Flight delays are routine, the roads are terrible and even the smallest of tasks (it took me 40 minutes to convert $50 worth of local currency back to US as I was leaving) is light years behind Western standards. Yet, for the seasoned traveler willing to look beyond these obstacles, friendly Malagasy people await and an enjoyable experience is still possible.
I knew the pig had only minutes to live. Squealing and hog-tied, it was carried upside down by four strapping men with bamboo poles, over the suspension footbridge to the village where its fate was sealed. As I was to learn later, it was only one of several dozen pigs to be slaughtered that day as part of an elaborate ceremonial tradition. Celebrating an event in Torajaland, a remote area on the Indonesian island of Sulawesi, is more than simply a barbecue with a few cold ones.
