Chapter 9
Botanical Journeys
Himalayas calling
T
he perfect escape from the pressure and deadlines of New York was to
pack and fly with Quester’s World Nature Tours to somewhere exotic,
far away and well off the beaten track. When the company offered me
a trip to the Himalayas, at a discounted rate as the group botanist, I didn’t
have to think twice. I had treasured memories of a brief visit to Nepal during
my travels after leaving New Zealand. And Bhutan exercised a Lost Horizons
allure. And Sikkim? An exciting filling in the sandwich. This seemed to be
the best possible three-week trip.
Questers did their homework thoroughly; to research what would be going
on at different places, secure comfortable rooms, a near-new minibus with an
expert driver, and informed local guides with knowledge of plants and birds.
When Air India’s aircraft doors opened in Delhi, I caught a whiff of smoky
cow-dung fires and was wrenched back to my first Indian visit. On the flight to
Nepal I was glued to the window in happy anticipation of dropping into the
Kathmandu green basin within the fringe of giant white mountains.
On our short onward flight to Pokhara, northwest of Kathmandu, I recall the
pilot advising that he would circle while cows were cleared from the runway.
We crossed Phewa Lake on a fragile looking raft-like ferry, under the towering
6993 metre slab of The Fishtail, Machapuchare Mountain. I felt overwhelmed,
in total awe, to have arrived in the silent beauty of this other-worldly setting.
We climbed ancient steps through a giant bamboo forest to an outlook
where a small temple offered a panoramic view over simple houses and paddy
fields below. A smouldering fire, blood and chicken feathers indicated we had
mercifully missed a traditional sacrifice to the goddess Kali. Of more interest
to me, when I looked up, was an unexpected and exquisite cymbidium orchid,
nestled in the fork of a branch among lichens.
An adjacent ridge, across the valley, offered the distant silhouette of moving
figures, with drum and flute music wafting towards us; the guide said it was
a typical wedding procession. I was drawn to this monotone composition,
and while I watched, the mist beyond the ridge gradually cleared, a peachy
glow emerged, the screen of cloud slowly lifted and the lower slopes of
Machapuchare were revealed. Theatrical, magical and without having sniffed
anything; I was on a rapturous high.
Opposite: Prayer flags in Sikkim. © Liz Light
181
182
In Darjeeling we drove into the narrow streets of this steep British Hill
Station just ahead of the famous hill-climbing train, tooting and smoking its
way among the townsfolk, scattering farmers’ carts and chickens, to the very
proper Edwardian Railway Depot. I imagined a sepia-tinted picture of travelling
cases and portmanteaus being handed down, followed by the gabardine-suited
matron and buttoned-up father trying to corral their excited children, shivering
in the sudden coolness of the mountains. Not much has changed.
The period guest house had lace curtains, weak light bulbs, and beef and
Yorkshire pudding on the menu. At precisely four o’clock tea was served on
the veranda in fine bone china cups and saucers, with scones on matching
side plates.
The very word Darjeeling is synonymous with tea. The town perches on
a ridge surrounded by expansive tea estates — eighty seven of them to be
precise, covering twenty thousand hectares – with names such as Glenburn,
Happy Valley and Mission Hill. The white saw-tooth Himalayas stand to the
north and tea plants cover the steep hills all around in swathes of smooth
green velvet. Sari-clad ladies add dots of bright colour as they expertly pick
and toss tea tips into baskets strapped to their backs.
Linneaus named this member of the great camellia clan Thea sinensis. It was
introduced to Darjeeling by the British in 1840, with seeds secreted out of China,
as part of their plan to break the Chinese tea monopoly. Though Darjeeling tea
is less than one percent of India’s total production it is the undisputed jewel in
the tea-crown, and, always, Darjeeling gets the highest prices in tea auctions.
Fine tea, like wine, is a product of its place. In Darjeeling climate, tradition,
ecology and terroir come together to produce a superlative brew.
Clockwise from top left: Kanchenjunga, Sikkim,
India’s tallest mountain; Taktsang Monastery, aka the
Tigers Nest, Bhutan; Luculia gratissima, with fragrant
pink flower heads, is indigenous to the Himalayas;
This small bell-metal bowl found in Thimphu, Bhutan,
creates a resonant tone when struck.
183
We left Darjeeling on a narrow road zig-zagging down the slopes for some
1200 metres before beginning the climb to another summit, and another
switchback as the journey continued. The tea plantations were gone and these
foothills, in an area of abundant rainfall, were lush with new and different
species. Occasionally, I’d spot epiphytes unknown to me, including many
orchid species and what appeared to be epidendrum varieties. Absolutely no
stopping the bus I’m afraid. Drifting high clouds against mountain and blue
skies and pleasant temperatures welcomed us to Sikkim.
This small landlocked state of India, (until 1975, a kingdom) is bordered by
Nepal in the west, Tibet in the north and east, Bhutan in the south east, and
West Bengal, in the south. It was an absolute surprise to crest yet another hill
and encounter a famous but isolated monastery at Pemayangtse. The narrow
road brought us to the front steps of this brightly painted and prayer-flagged
three-storey structure where young monks and their elders were cleaning
184
house in anticipation of an up-coming visit of the Dalai Lama. The monastery
and outbuildings occupied the entire hill top. We were welcomed by a
young, bright English-speaking Rimpoche and led to the sparsely furnished
guesthouse behind the main buildings and amongst cedar trees.
Cedar, Cryptomeria japonica, it is interesting to note, is not indigenous but
was probably introduced from Japan. It’s extensively grown in forests around
Darjeeling and Sikkim, is valued for its light weight and is used in house
construction. It is a strong wood of a reddish colour and is pleasantly aromatic.
The shutters of our bunk room were closed to keep out insects, the chilly
night air and the damp cloud which settled over the area. Sleep came easily.
I awoke at first light, dressed in my warmest clothes, eased open the heavy
shutters and gasped. Over the trees, across the void of valleys and steamy
ridges, miles away, floating on the bluest screen, yet close enough to expose its
glaciers and ice fields, was the awesome Kangchenjunga, all 8586 metres of it,
filling the window frame in a totally perfect composition. Another moment
to hold onto forever.
The roads swept from deep valleys and forested slopes to cultivated fields as
we approached Gangtok and although I was told to restrain my horticultural
outbursts, I demanded my moment. I saw a plant familiar in New Zealand’s
northern gardens flowering on banks along the roadside, at around 1500
metres: Luculia gratissima, a refined bushy shrub, native to the mountains of
this part of the world, which bears terminal heads of fragrant soft pink flowers.
The blooms stood out prominently among the surrounding herbage, which
happened to include sturdy clumps of cardamom. Besides luculia everybody
wanted to see the cardamom plants, a relative of the ginger family, and the
world’s third most expensive spice by weight, after saffron and vanilla. The
stop was applauded.
Gangtok, a hill town 1870 metres above sea level, was once on the principal
trade route between Lhasa and Kolkata, and remains a centre of Tibetan
Buddhist culture. The road was impressively dressed with high bamboo
arches, aflutter with banners and prayer flags in every colour, especially red,
and house doors wore bunches of flowers. His Holiness the Dalai Lama was in
town, and it was obviously a very special holiday. The streets were crowded
with visitors from the surrounding area, kids were weaving through the mass
and dogs and chickens were all out for a good time. Our driver, with quick
thinking and hints from locals, parked the limo on a bend and we watched
His Holiness proceeding slowly up a long ramp to the temple gates.
Down on the plains in India, mounted on elephants, we plodded through
dense elephant grass and swampy river beds in Jaldapara National Park. Our
morning run offered wild elephants, varieties of deer, and a remarkable series
of successful fish eagle dives, as well a mother and baby rhinoceros. After lunch
185
and a snooze in the lodge, as the sun lowered, our elephant safari headed out
in another direction and stopped quietly to see what might emerge through
the trees and high grasses. Two roughly armoured rhinos plodded indifferently
through a stream bed ahead. In silence we moved deeper into a wooded
area and surprised a tiger with his fresh catch, a small deer. The size of the
tiger, the intense golden-orange of its coat, its white belly, and the startling
brilliance of its eyes were terrifying even from the safety of this elephant-high
observation deck.
We then drove to the remote kingdom of Bhutan, changed from the limos
to Land Rovers and, once over the border, made the eight-hour haul back up
into the Himalayas. The day was mild, the sky lightly overcast, as we drove up
and in and out of deep valleys, ever climbing. The plains disappeared in haze
and I noticed unfamiliar plants and shrubs on the rocky slopes but no forests
here, just spiny shrubs and low herbal ground covers.
We passed isolated farmhouses on the roadside, some with gardens of wild
roses, salvia and canna, lean and windblown. By the end of the day, the long,
winding potholed road brought us to a widening valley with grain crops and
stone walls between houses, long vistas to snowy peaks, and the town of Paro.
Isolated in this remote region, Bhutan has been successful in preserving its
Buddhist culture, while cautiously drawing on Western know-how in areas
such as environmental conservation, public health and education. Much of
the land, some sixty percent, is still covered with forests of broad-leafed trees
and conifers. Bhutan is on the same latitude as Morocco yet, with the annual
monsoon, there is a huge diversity in plants that grow here.
The mountain slopes of the central area, where Paro and the capital,
Thimphu, are found, are widely planted with fields of such grains as barley,
wheat, millet and buckwheat, and abundant rice paddies. I was not prepared
for the impressive buildings, the Dzong, the bulky fortress monastery, as well
as the seat of government, which dominated the city. Dazzling whitewashed
stone foundations several storeys high support the wooden temple complex,
painted in dark red with gold and blue ornamentation, and gold finials on
rooftop domes glittering in the sky.
Questers had secured simple rooms in a state guest house, usually reserved
for visiting Buddhists; clean, of course, but with few extras, along with two
bright young English-speaking guides. I was intrigued with their gown-type
garments, which all the village men wore. Called a gho, this is a long robe
wrapped like a dressing gown, hitched up to knee height and secured with a
woven belt. Knee-high socks, usually in an argyle pattern, and shoes complete
the outfit. Once the sleeves are folded back they reveal the wide white
lining cuff. The cloth is a coarse-woven wool plaid, in many bright colour
combinations, predominantly in the red and orange range.
186
In this sky-high wonderland Questers had organized expeditions. We were
driven up the north-facing valley to a ruined sixteenth century fortified
monastery, the great gates standing open with empty chambers and ancient
stables. What a perfect movie set!
We picnicked on a high bank looking up to the snowy summit of Bhutan’s
highest mountain, Chomolhari, 7315 metres sharp against the sky.
Without doubt Taktsang Monastery, aka Tigers Nest is one of the most
recognized and impressive sites in the Himalaya. We climbed steadily upwards
for two hours on horseback, through scrubby growth, to a level where the
woods began. The track narrowed and we continued on foot, on an uneven
rocky path that twisted through dripping pines draped with grey lichens
and silver strands of usnea. On the trail sides cheeky pink-faced primula
and lavender bell flowers demanded an admiring pause. In a clearing I was
surprised to find lavender-pink Pleione orchids, almost a ground cover among
leaf litter and clumps of bun moss. Further delights included berried sorbus
and cotoneaster, and varieties of slender toadstools.
High on the mountain we reached a prayer-flagged ledge, and from this
eyrie we looked across the deep ravine to where the monastery clung to the
cliff-side, as if by magic, among drifting mists. The wind shrieked through the
faded prayer flags, a flight of snow pigeons circled and though we had reached
a celestial point, the monastery was still another hour away.
Following a damp and narrowing path into the ravine, we crossed a
waterfall and began the final ascent to reach the sacred spot where, it is told,
Padmasambhava arrived on the back of his flying tiger, bringing Buddhism of
the Tibetan kind to Bhutan. I finally arrived at the monastery entrance and,
light-headed, settled on a balcony porch to survey the world below, breathe
deeply, and accept the gift of this day as one of my life’s most memorable.
Bromeliad bounty
The gardens of my childhood, in Dunedin, in that cooler climate, were
exactly what rhododendron, camellia and primula enjoyed. Hardy perennials,
helleborus, meconopsis and peony thrived, and gooseberries as well. Orchids
might bloom in conservatories, but other exotic flowers were only a fantasy.
Half a life and half a world away, in Manhattan in the 1970s, I discovered
exotic flowers and tropical foliage in the flower market, splendid displays in
foyers of grand hotels and enhancing floral window displays. I enjoyed sculptural
anthurium blooms shiny as lacquer, outrageous heliconia in jungle reds and
golds and wildly coloured torch ginger flowers all artfully arranged together.
I was able to order huge dramatic leaves of specie philodendron, some up to
a metre long, palm fronds in great variety and trailing liana vines. All superscale, all just right for certain New York occasions, more than a little brash,
teetering on the edge of vulgarity, shocking and perfect.
187
Atlantic rain forest, Brazil, with giant bromeliads Alcantarea and Vriesia species, 1996.
The exotic flora coming to the New York flower markets from Hawaii, Puerto
Rico, South Africa and Ecuador found eager buyers, with customers looking
for new, exciting and unusual blooms for their clients. Of course, cymbidium
orchids from New Zealand, the flower that launched New Zealand’s current
multi-million dollar flower export business, joined orchids and anthurium
from Holland along with California’s reliable shipments of sturdy garden
flowers; stock, carnations, protea and gorgeous delphinium.
Roses, in over 25 varieties, with stems from thirty to ninety centimetres
long, came in daily from Ecuador and other South American countries.
I spent many early mornings making decisions as to what to buy and grew to
know the 28th Street market, the bosses, the salesmen, the traffic police, the
parking, and how to dodge getting towed away.
188
I was contacted by Jean Irwin Smith, an artist living in Sao Paulo, who
wanted me to see her newly published book Flowering Trees of Brazil. She
had undertaken to produce this illustrated guide, in English, for visitors to
Brazil and, since there are so many different and colourful arboreal surprises,
her book was in demand. I was glad to meet Jean and question her about life
in that dense city, and her horticultural connections in the homeland of the
celebrated Roberto Burle Marx, a world-renowned landscape architect and
garden designer. Rather than answer all my questions, Jean simply said, “You
must come down and visit.”
I was grateful to follow her suggestions of how to pack my dreams into this
twenty day break. She assumed I would be interested to visit David Miller, a
South American orchid specialist, living in the high mountain rainforests to
the northwest of Rio? Emphatically yes.
David, an Irish escapee, was committed to conservation and sustainable
development and was an eighteen year resident of the high altitude Macae De
Cima region, which ranges from twelve hundred to sixteen hundred metres
above sea level. He was indeed a specialist in the study of some two hundred
and thirty species of orchids among fifty six genera, mostly small epiphytes found
perched high among the forest canopies of his four thousand hectare backyard.
David was waiting beside his ancient Land Rover and was pleased to see
me; not too many people just drop in, way up there. Before we left we had
a slug of local vodka with fresh lime juice at a bar, then roared off up the
red clay trail, around windy bluffs, across burnt slopes, then into dense forest
before driving into a clearing. There sat a slightly incongruous black-andwhite half-timbered villa on mown green lawns, snuggled among beds of blue
hydrangea, daylilies, roses and geranium, the predictable garden of a displaced
Irish gardener. Four boisterous labradors welcomed us and David’s wife Izabel
smiled and announced lunch was almost ready.
Sudden silence, looking over rainforest, with only the crackle of the fire
and squeaks of hummingbirds crowding the feeder, banished memories of the
Long Island expressway even more thoroughly. Near here there are several
mountain top areas of undisturbed climax forest, containing a vast and rich
flora including bromeliads, orchids and aroids, notably philodendron, as well
as a diverse collection of gesneriads. This subtropical alpine rain forest has
extraordinary ornamentation.
There was an overwhelming variety of melastoma, (the purple-flowered
tibouchina family) along with ground covers among the palms, bamboos,
ferns and mosses. Wild impatiens colonised the roadsides. All of this was
pointed out by David as we walked down a trail to explore the crashed crown
of a fallen tree. I helped save a variety of tiny epiphytes, exquisite oncidium
and pleurothallis, in full bloom, to be resettled in David’s yard. These and
189
many other subjects, were gathered into his book Orchids of the High Mountain
Rain Forest in Southeastern Brazil.
Next morning I awoke in the clouds and heard kitchen sounds below. There
was no electricity, just a great wood stove to warm and dry the house and heat
the water. Without power there was no jangle of telephone and no television.
An awesome breakfast of coffee, fresh papaya, melon, toast and marmalade
set us up for the day’s adventure.
The house man, Marco, led us into the jungle with a machete, using the four
labs as beaters to scare off any lurking snakes. We were out for five hours on
a leisurely circuit that included a couple of steep hilltops on the ridge high
above the house. We followed stream beds, then contour trails across wooded
slopes, climbing to a sub-alpine level with a lowered canopy and vistas out
over the infinite green beyond. On one ridge bromeliads clustered densely
on mossy branches overhead while the ground cover consisted of terrestrial
Quesnelia lateralis with bright red flower spikes, tipped with electric blue
flowers. Other broms, in more light, showed crimson undersides or metallic
shadings as they piled along branches in huge colonies.
Hanging below were trailing begonia family members, pendant scarlet
flowered gesneriads, orchids in bewildering variety, mainly small zygostachys,
miltonia, oncidium and gomesa species, all new to me. I spied a flash of
orange overhead and pointed out a mistletoe. We descended from the saddle
to pass one of David’s surprises, a spectacular variegated vriesia, creamy, white
striped, differing from blade to blade. I was happy to be finally sliding down
the muddy trail home; my legs were aching. A cold shower, a beer and Izabel’s
baked chicken and plantain soufflé revived me until, in the warmth of the
room and soft lamplight, I began nodding.
The following morning an expedition was on hold while the rainforest rain
splashed down. I looked over David’s library and read about the pumas, the
anteaters and deadly vipers which shared these woods. I had no idea mountain
lions are alive and well up here in the cloud forest. David did, however, find
a wondrous large land snail with a great brown oval shell sixteen centimetres
long, lured out by the rain. I photographed this resident alongside a ruler, to
emphasise his handsome proportions.
As the day improved we set off to investigate a colony of vast bromeliads
clinging to a sugarloaf shaped mountain. The strong forms of these monsters,
Alcantarea imperialis, a most regal member of the large vriesia family, thrive in
this specific alpine zone. There were groups of them in a seeming monoculture
clinging to this slick mountain cone, defying gravity.
This north-facing slope lies within forest that is often burnt, either
vindictively by juiced-up locals, or by small farmers clearing land for crops.
I gathered David had written and published a story in the Bromeliad Journal
about the risk to this endangered collection. David, up ahead, cleared a rough
trail while Izabel and I followed, complaining, through this wet and jagged
190
obstacle course. Then we began climbing, slipping on the slick rock, grabbing
tussocks growing in fissures or trunks of burnt bushes.
I’d spotted another variety of giant alcantarea up ahead, in full flower so
we climbed for another fifteen minutes to reach a folded contour in the rock,
which offered an easier path to the next level. Our first prize was a mature
specimen of Alcantarea imperialis, the lime-green form. With a rosette of
foliage over a metre across, the yellow green flower spike rose to two metres
above the leaves. On the tips of many of the horizontal flowering branches of
this Christmas tree display were individual waxy cream flowers with extended
stamens offering their sweet temptations to larger hummingbirds and bats.
Aware of the altitude, my age, and the descent ahead, I still decided the
large colony above was too important to pass up. David shouted advice and
directions from below, while Izabel nervously followed me, urging caution.
I stopped often to catch my breath, not daring to look back, until, all of a
sudden, I was on a level with several giants, standing on a rock shelf. This
showy colony of almost yellow plants, without any leaf markings, had vibrant
red flower stalks and red side shoots which were being visited by brilliant blue
hummingbirds. I crouched, amazed at this unique cliff-face garden.
The winding red road lay far below us while, in the distant valley, clouds
drifted through green peaks, the precisely perfect illustration of the cloud
forest of the high mountains of east Brazil.
I descended, basically on my backside. Wet, muddy, but triumphant, we
stopped at Jose’s Bar, a chicken-coup-sized shed on the side of the road, for a
double shot of the good stuff; raw distilled alcohol blended with nine different
herbs. Cachaça cures everything. Cheers!
storage in the onboard florist’s walk-in cooler. In the sudden peace of my
air-conditioned stateroom I pulled a chair to the window to gaze down the
Hudson to the Twin Towers glinting in the mid-afternoon light, and across
the river to the ever-welcoming Miss Liberty. I experienced mixed emotions,
thinking that, after twenty five years, but still an immigrant, I felt strongly
about all Miss Liberty represented, and grateful to this extraordinary country
for all the opportunities it had presented me.
Promptly at 6 p.m., the reverberating blast from the Queen’s horn
announced we were casting off and reversing cautiously into the Hudson; my
first serious maritime adventure had begun. Sailing past the Statue of Liberty
and the monuments on the Jersey Shore was stirring, but the prospect from
the port side with Manhattan skyscrapers surrounding the almost ethereal
Twin Towers was the unforgettable image for that day. The sun was warm; a
picture perfect evening to celebrate the beginning of our journey, beneath the
awesome Verrazano-Narrows Bridge and out to the ocean ahead.
I received a message from the head purser inviting me for morning tea in
the lounge and was introduced me to the crew members I would be working
with. Two eager young ladies led me on a familiarising tour of this floating
city, to confirm our particular dining area, the theatre and lounge where my
presentations were scheduled, along with floor plans and detailed programs of
activities for the voyage. The Queen Elizabeth’s interior, in the grand tradition
of her predecessors, had superbly panelled walls and carpeted stairways,
spectacular chandeliers, deep, comfortable leather chairs, and mirrored foyers
and, as one would expect, a thoughtful, helpful and friendly crew.
Cruising my way
I was delighted with an out-of-the-blue telephone call, in 1994, asking if I
would consider joining a group of horticultural luminaries for an advertised
summer garden holiday cruise, from Manhattan to Southampton, aboard
the Queen Elizabeth 2. I thought I could possibly consider such a delicious
offer! As Cunard’s guest I would travel in first class accommodation, enjoy all
meals, entertainments and services on the four-day crossing from Manhattan
to Southampton, and bring a guest of course, in return for delivering two
illustrated travel lectures, and two flower arranging demonstrations; a perfectly
agreeable arrangement.
Jan Thompson, my long-time friend in Seattle, dropped the phone in her
excitement when I invited her to accompany me. Yes, she’d love to come but,
“What will I wear?” A versatile wardrobe for cool ocean days and travel wear
and formal dinner clothes for those glamorous nights, I advised.
I packed the slide carousels, containers, and props needed for my
demonstrations into cartons and had flowers delivered to the purser for
191
Have flowers will travel. Lecturer-guest of Cunard aboard the QE2. An unlikely group in an old watering can.
192
long silk dress in a subtle grape shade that complemented her slender figure,
and won an approving nod from the captain, along with smiles from admiring
guests. Mary McFadden was surprised to recognize one of her signature gowns
descending the staircase. Only Jan and I knew of its discovery in a Seattle usedclothing store. We chuckled often, trusting these wealthy and competitive
cruise veterans would never need to know of our modest origins.
Reality returned on our cool and showery last morning as the Queen moved
up the English Channel, past the great cliffs to enter the Solent and her home
Southampton waters. Predictable English weather to welcome us to this port
of long history.
Bali bound
Staff from the Sea Goddess serve post-snorkel champagne and caviar, Komodo Island, on route to Singapore.
The Queen Elizabeth 2 was simply the most luxurious and well planned floating
resort hotel of her era. Of course, there were also the people, around 1750 fellow
passengers, and to take care of them and run the ship, 1040 crew members.
While this was an all-expenses-paid trip, I had a job to do. The purser’s
office provided Katrina, a personal assistant, to take care of any and all
questions I might have, and to summon staff to set up the lounge where my
flower demonstration lectures would be held.
While entertained by the variety, the outfits, and unlikely pairings of guests,
I was thankful I also had a job to do. I’m uneasy in crowds, and on a prolonged
cruise, the novelty of luxury would soon wear off. Some of the other presenters
were already friends; the retired director of an up-state arboretum, a founder of
the famed White Flower Farm’s Litchfield nursery and a young woman grower
of indoor tropical plants, and, a wild card, the fashion designer Mary McFadden.
My two flower sessions were offered on a morning and the following afternoon,
and attracted more guests than I would have imagined, including many men.
My book was on show, was available in the book shop, and I was happy to
secure orders, to be shipped from Oyster Bay. My two slide presentations, sadly
before the days of easy DVDs, were early evening events, in a theatre lounge,
with cocktails served. I offered Footsteps in the Himalayas and The Face of China
1982, different in every way, other than both being plant-oriented.
Jan and I were invited to dine at the captain’s table on our second night at sea.
We both enjoyed the delicious miracle that placed us among the elite, in the
middle of the untroubled Atlantic, all expenses paid. Jan wore a striking pleated
193
I received a phone call from Cunard. The captain and guests had enjoyed
my lectures and the floral arrangements and the shipping line was eager to
have me join them as guest lecturer for another gratis tour. Where, the caller
asked, would I most like to go?
I indulged in picturing exotic, unvisited destinations to discover rare plant
species, fantastic birds, and maybe some crumbling ruins. Somewhere like
Bali, perhaps? One of the company’s new smaller liners, the Sea Goddess would
travel from Bali to Singapore by way of the spice islands, Java and Sumatra,
the following February. With the Winter Antiques show over for another year,
snowy weather in February still likely, Greenacre Park sleeping soundly until
mid-March, and no weddings booked, this new gift winter getaway seemed an
inspired idea. I decided I would happily take up this opportunity to explore
more faraway places, an archipelago that tempted with names like Borobudur,
Sulawesi and the dragon island of Komodo.
When I called Jan, in Seattle, to suggest an encore engagement with
Cunard Cruise lines, her excitement at the prospect settled the matter. A
comprehensive travel package informed me that the Sea Goddess was one of
two ships built in 1985 as the ultimate boutique cruise liners; more a private
yacht than a floating city, with crews of 95 taking care of 110 passengers,
an agreeable balance. While Bali was reported by some visitors, to have
passed through and beyond its prime time, most returning travellers insisted
it was still a fascinating and beautiful island, with much to discover beyond
the overcrowded tourist towns. With images of temple dancers, gamelan
orchestras, terraced paddy fields and lush rain forests in my Lonely Planet
handbook I knew I wouldn’t be disappointed. I planned to arrive at least a
week before our sailing date to get acquainted with Bali.
In the last days of January 1995 I flew in from cool Sydney to steamy Kuta,
with reserved rooms in Poppi’s Guesthouse; a garden setting with the pool just
steps away. Jan arrived the following day and while she rested I engaged Hanafi,
who had perfect English, and a Toyota four wheel drive to take us on tour.
194
Away from the noisy chaos of the city we went inland, passing temples of
aged brick with curious split-entrance gateways, some with moats and sacred
courtyards. Our introduction to Bali had begun. Hanafi explained there are
over twenty thousand such typical temples on the island, sometimes three to
a village, and that life for Balinese is intimately tied to concern for the gods.
Offerings of food and fresh flowers are left at village temples and on the front
steps of most houses; just a small dish of palm leaf, a token of rice with flowers,
with incense drifting.
Hanafi proved an excellent guide, a careful driver who appreciated that we
preferred back roads away from traffic, driving slowly enough to absorb this
new world. We arrived in the hilly environs of Ubud, on a hot and humid
afternoon at the romantic old Hotel Tjampuhan. Its detached bungalows are
built in layers terraced into the sides of a forested ravine, high above the
river. Two swimming pools on lower levels were reached by steps and winding
paths among trunks of enormous trees. From our deck the vista encompassed
cascading terraced rice paddies on the opposing mountain side.
Next morning, while I floated in the pool, puffy clouds above palm tree
plumes turned from palest peach to gold as the sun fingered its way into
the day. Roosters woke the village and darting swallows flitted against the
sun’s first rays. I was told to beat the wooden gong hanging from the deck to
summon breakfast, and Jan. We had trays of fresh fruit and banana pancakes
with ginger tea, toast and marmalade. Breakfasting on this balcony among
enormous trees, below hanging Alamanda vines, with the joyful calls of
unseen birds, was to sense Nirvana.
Hanafi and his wheels collected us to explore the markets; wooden furniture
makers, fruit of the tropical kind, flowers and plants, baskets and cooking
pots along with traditional cotton batiks old and new in abundance. Slender
women in bright and contrasting colours balanced towering mountains of
fruit and blossoms on their heads, and drifted through the narrow streets with
offerings for local temples. This feat is accomplished by carefully stacking
fruit in ascending layers, plugged with blossoms of ginger and hibiscus, onto a
double compote shape, to fit the head, fashioned from wood or ceramics. Some
women appeared to steady the weighty offering, while others confidently
sailed through the busy thoroughfare with perfect posture and hands free.
Drifts of fragrant blue smoke hung in the air mingling with spicy market
smells of cinnamon, white ginger blossoms and vanilla. The latter, Hanafi
explained was used in powder form as a body fragrance.
While lunching at The Blue Yogi, in a seeming jungle wilderness, the
clouds opened, and torrents gushed off the palm-roofed porch, cooling the
air while bumping up the humidity. The perfect Maugham-like setting for
chicken curry. Later, back in Ubud, I followed Hanafi to a temple dedicated
to Ganesha, the popular elephant-headed god, set deep in a ravine among the
encircling roots of an ancient banyan tree. Shades of Buddhism in a largely
195
Hindu country were intricately explained by my tolerant Muslim guide.
Before supper Hanafi had another surprise. High above terraced paddy fields
in scarves of fresh green, in the village of Petulo, we watched circling white
herons dropping into the trees to sleep for the night. Squawking, fluttering,
circling, and feeding their young, these hundreds of birds fly in from all over
Bali to this natural sanctuary.
Hanafi drove us through the central mountain region of volcanoes, crater lakes
and mountainsides of glittering paddy terraces, through plantations of clove trees,
cinnamon and cacao that earned this extended archipelago the name the Spice
Islands. Today, coffee is grown and at a small market we were offered saffron at
a ridiculously low price, along with ginger, turmeric, and other familiar spices. I
was drawn to piles of exotic fruits including mangosteen, cherimoya, pineapples,
jackfruit and Lady Finger bananas. I tasted rambutan for the first time, a softly
prickly red chestnut-sized fruit, easily peeled, with a central stone with a flavour
and texture similar to lychee. I kept a bag on hand throughout the trip.
We dropped down to the north coast beaches and a hotel in Singaraja where
the purple mountains of Java were suspended across the ultramarine horizon,
the beach was deserted and the water a perfect temperature. In the early
morning I watched fishermen heading across the still bay, with nets in their
bright outrigger canoes, and an occasional flurry of tiny silver fish broke the
surface and darted off ahead of an unseen pursuer.
Later in the day, high up the mountains, with a crack of thunder, the skies
opened and biblical rain fell. A river rushed downhill picking up everything
before it; I expected to see dogs carried by on the brown waves. As the deluge
eased tourists emerged from shelter and sloshed barefoot through the racing
streams. On our descent we were amazed by the hillsides of terraced rice
paddies for which Bali is famous. After the rain every little waterfall, from
tier to tier, was in full roar, while the land seemed to move. We stopped to
wonder at these manmade sculptural works of art, some reflecting the sky,
some with sprouting lime green shoots, others lush in emerald green growth
while the russet beige of others showed the crop ripening. With these terraced
plots, abundant water, and the climate, three crops a year are produced by the
families that work these fields.
Our adventures on the back roads, the hot springs, the empty beaches, the
spice gardens and the moody charm of Ubud, captured the essence of the Bali
I had hoped for and dreamt about. Out of the cities, away from the discos, it
was all still there.
Back to reality and back in Kuta, I needed to source flowers and containers
for the Sea Goddess trip. Wonderful Hanafi knew where to find everything.
In a back alley antique shop I found an old, gently beaten-up, bronze-footed
stand of the kind that Balinese women use to build their towering temple
offerings. A once-loved large green pitcher was acquired for small change and
there was an abundance of beautiful hand-made baskets in infinite variety.
196
I located blocks of Oasis foam and plastic liners from a flower seller, and
the flower stalls offered exotica in several unfamiliar varieties; tall stems of
spider and vanda orchids, three different heads of ginger flowers, tuberose
and brightly patterned leaves of maranta and trails of smilax. Our last stop
was the quay where Sea Goddess had just tied up and before Hanafi departed
he helped bring everything aboard. Luckily, there was an empty stateroom
next to my suite, closed for repairs, where I could store my flowers with the
air conditioning running cold. Jan and I said grateful goodbyes to Hanafi,
without whom Bali might have been a less idyllic experience.
The world’s largest flower
The world’s largest flowers, orangutan, head hunters, and teak forests lured
me to Sarawak, Borneo, during Christmas 2011. Along with travel buddies
Richard Cadness and Geoff Haughey, we flew into Kuchin, on Borneo’s
northwest corner for a few days’ independent exploring, before connecting
with Pandaw, a river cruise boat to explore the Pajana, Borneo’s largest river.
We organised a trip to a forest area where rafflesia are found. Described as
a fleshy, rank-smelling forest dweller and the world’s largest flower, it had
a perverse yet unusual appeal. An area within this national park was one
of the few places where this species was found. Rafflesia was named for Sir
Stamford Raffles, the founder of Singapore, who, after an expedition in 1818,
discovered it blooming in the Sumatran rainforest. The plant is a parasite
without stems, leaves or true roots, and lacks chlorophyll. It exists through its
absorptive thread-like roots within the tissue of its vine host, members of the
tetrastigma family, and develops a five-petalled flower up to one metre across.
Rafflesia tuan-mudae, the world’s largest flower.
197
Titan arum, a rank-smelling giant.
We drove two hours to the reserve and followed the guide on bush trails
through the forested flanks of a dormant volcano, into an area of liana-draped
giant dipterocarps, a significant timber tree, to see this rare and amazing
organism. We first spotted a few round chestnut-sized buds, barely above
the ground and caught the scent of a decaying flower. We saw it among the
tangle on the forest floor, collapsing, after its four to five day cycle, into a
brown slime.
As the bud swells and begins to slowly open to full size, with fleshy red-brown
petals, often cream-spotted, it presents an open inner bowl, beneath which
male and female flowers are arranged. The flower gives off an appalling smell
of decaying flesh, attracting blowflies, which enter the lower chamber and
fertilize the flowers. Our guide didn’t spare the details once we found the fully
opened flower. Here was Rafflesia tuan-mudae, a species native to Sarawak,
on the last days of its flower cycle, sinister and unreal. The experience was
exciting but not recommended for the squeamish.
After the biggest flower we were on the lookout for the world’s tallest flower,
the Amorphophallus titanum, or as David Attenborough more modestly prefers
to call it the titan arum. This notorious aroid relative, listed as endangered,
also grows on these limestone hills, and while it was not yet in flower, single
towering leaf-trunks over two metres high, with spreading canopy, green with
purple blotches, indicated where the grotesque flower would appear. Because
of its odour, again of a decaying corpse, the titan arum is known as the carrion
flower. The inflorescence, which can reach up to three metres, has its spadix,
or central column, surrounded by the spathe or sheath, like its small relative
198
the calla lily, but here presented on a grand scale. The bizarre spathe is a
deep green on the outside and a crimson red on its textured interior, with
the appearance of rotting meat. As in other aroids, monstera for example,
the base of the spathe enclosing the actual small flowers warms to body
temperature as it develops, accelerating diffusion of the stench, attracting
carcass-eating insects. Because male and female flowers grow within the
same inflorescence, female flowers precede the male flowers, in nature’s
endeavour to restrict self-pollination.
Looking more like a flower produced by Weta Workshop’s designers
than one found in everyday conservatories, the plant has been in demand
from botanical institutions around the world since it first flowered at Kew
in 1889, drawing enormous crowds. It was not until 1937 that New York
Botanic Garden exhibited its own display, which increased attendance
and membership substantially. Because of its great size and extraordinary
appearance, not to overlook the formidable smell, it continues to draw crowds
whenever its appearance is announced.
After the flower collapses and dies back, the single leaf grows from the
buried corm to as high as six metres tall, and stretches 1.5 metres across.
The remarkable corm is equally enormous, weighing in at above ninety one
kilogrammes. It’s a unique member of our diverse plant kingdom, a one of a
kind, a curiosity and a bloody marvel!
Lord Howe Island
Lord Howe Island is a singular dot in the Tasman Sea lying between New
Zealand and the Queensland Coast of Australia. It remains very much as its
creator intended. As a botanist, I discovered a perfect tropical Pacific Island
getaway without hula classes, high-rise apartments, fast-food joints, neon
signs or casinos. It doesn’t depend on mass tourism to survive; it exports palm
trees instead.
Most everyone can recognize a decorative palm, with bright green drooping
fronds, that brighten doctors’ waiting rooms, airport lounges and gracious
hotel foyers. It seems to be everywhere you look, once you start noticing. This
is what is known, to plant people, as the Kentia palm, or Howea forsteriana,
and it is native only to Lord Howe Island. In recognition of these palms and
its other unique flora, Lord Howe Island was registered on the World Heritage
list in 1982.
About eighty percent of the island is protected as a permanent park
preserve. Beyond the green stuff, there are quiet lagoons, cabins to rent, a
good restaurant or two, ocean beaches, exquisite birds, bikes for hire, hiking
trails, as well as two dominant volcanic peaks to challenge climbers. Word
from a trusted friend suggested it was my kind of place and, with some days to
spare over a holiday weekend, I packed the bare essentials and headed for the
inviting unknown.
199
Lord Howe Island, volcanic remnants across the lagoon, Mountains Gower and Lidgbird.
We drop through the cumulus clouds to see the crescent-shaped island
with its smaller attendants, jewel-like in an intensely blue Pacific, with its
vividly turquoise lagoon and sandy beaches. Forests are bisected by the airport
runway, below two impressive mountain peaks. The island is a small treasure,
a mere 10 kilometres long by 2.5 kilometres at its widest point, and it has a
stable resident population of only 350. Visitor numbers are restricted to no
more than 400 at any one time.
It was uninhabited when the British discovered it in 1788, and it was not
until 1834 that three New Zealand men with Māori wives and children
arrived to settle and begin farming. Passing vessels, especially whalers, called
in to replenish their stocks of water, wood and food. These courageous and
entrepreneurial early settlers set up a trading post selling meat, fish and
vegetables. While the population slowly increased, it was not until 1913 that
the Lord Howe Island Board of Control was established under the jurisdiction
of New South Wales. In 1954, the present island board was set up, principally
to develop and regulate the palm seed industry.
In the 1880s the lowland palms of this island were admirably suited and in
demand for the fashionable conservatories of great estates, in Britain, Europe
200
and the United States, where they became known as Kentia palms. The trade
flourished, providing income at a time when there was no longer a demand for
fresh supplies from whalers or others. This carefully controlled trade continues
today with sprouted seedlings being shipped by air. Of course, I was excited to
visit the home ground of this ubiquitous parlour palm.
My self-contained cottage was surrounded by palms and hibiscus, with a
kitchen and a tree-shaded bedroom. Palms in variety grew everywhere but,
sadly, no coconuts this far south. Cocos nucifera needs an altogether more
tropical island. The store keeper asked what attracted me to his island, and,
hearing I was a plantsman, recommended I seek out Ian Hutton a celebrated
local author, botanist and guide, whose field guides are up-to-date, pocketsized and comprehensive.
The tranquil water of the lagoon was my first stop, and I surveyed this
enchanting prospect. Dominating the view, the serious peaks at the far end
of the island, mounts Gower and Lidgbird, at 875 and 777 metres, spoke of
ancient, violent, volcanic origins.
The enclosed lagoon is bordered by the world’s most southerly coral reef,
and I snorkelled among colourful tropical fish, turtles and other marine life.
The water, bracingly cold, was so clean and clear it was rather like swimming
in an aquarium and pursuing striped angels and tiny brilliant blue darters in
their different world.
On the road that follows the bay I spotted a sign for bike hire and, with the
seat lowered and helmeted, I wobbled off to explore. Who needs a car for
getting around when the trusty bicycle takes me everywhere on mostly level,
mostly sealed, roads? Thompson’s General Store, the absolutely-everything
emporium in the village, steadily in business for eighty five years, supplied all
my needs along with fresh baked bread, just-roasted ham, fruit and vegetables,
surf boards, sun hats, children’s toys, swimwear, stamps and postcards.
At the end of this first day, I sat below the giant Norfolk Island pines
watching a Wagnerian sunset with towering cumulus in shades of creamy
salmon against the ink-blue night sky, with a fiery wash of light against the
mountains across the silver lagoon. Miracles still abound for me.
I decided to climb Malabar Hill for a great overlook of my kingdom. I began
climbing through wind-carved scrub, grabbing for handholds, pausing to turn
and take in the panorama spreading below me, while overhead, wheeling and
calling, red-tailed tropicbirds were white against the bluest of skies. When I
reached the summit these large white seabird, with distinctive long scarlet
quill-like tail feathers, were nesting below me, on the sheer cliffs. I have seen
and admired these handsome aerialists over Tahiti, Fiji, and other South
Pacific islands, and I was delighted to find them here, en masse.
To the north the islands of the Admiralty Group were highlighted, glittering
on the ocean. The largest island has a wave-cut tunnel slicing through the
bizarre massif. Scanning the ocean expanse to the southeast, I spotted the
201
incredible Ball’s Pyramid, 23 kilometres offshore, a fantastic rock spire of 550
metres rising out of the submerged volcanic plateau. It appeared as a mirage.
I decided, since it was only mid-morning, to continue along the trail west,
parallel to the cliff edge, among tough juniper and other robust native shrubs,
some of which I recognized as members of familiar New Zealand species:
notably Dodonaea viscosa, locally known as hopwood, a tall bush or small tree
with distinctive three-winged papery fruit capsules. This Gondwanan species is
widespread across the Southern Hemisphere, occurs in India, South America,
and one day surprised me hanging on a cliff in Mauritius. Other discoveries
included passionfruit, jasmine and smilax vines, and distinctly New Zealand
relatives such as sophora (kowhai) and muehlenbeckia, as well as a familiar
dendrobium orchid in the cleft of a tree. Ferns there were in abundance.
Finally, back at the cottage for a late lunch, I realised this exhilarating climb
had been a serious workout for my hips and knees. I rethought my fantasy of
climbing Mt Gower, 875 metres, even with a guide. I would just experience
it from a distance.
On a later afternoon I cycled to the Clear Place, a pleasant walk through
heavily forested slopes heading northeast to the rugged east coast. The
track traverses an awesome stand of thatch palms which shelters the islands
largest nesting colony of flesh-footed shearwaters, known in New Zealand
as muttonbirds, a favourite Māori dish. A giant banyan tree guarded the
entrance to the forest trail, leaning on its aerial root support pillars. It was
a dark presence and architectural wonder, theatrically lit by low afternoon
light. In the deeper reaches of the forest, on a soft leaf-littered path, I was
among Kentia palms, from knee-high seedling to canopies ten metres above
me, their multiple fronds creating the tracery patterns of a Tiffany ceiling.
Birds chimed with an avian chorus of squeaking and chittering that had
me whistling along. I descended into a valley and encountered a grandfather
banyan that looked like a fantasy creation; so vast, so ancient, and although
motionless, ominously alive. I felt it might pick up giant feet and move slowly
off into the gloom.
Appropriately the trail map said my next destination would be the Valley of
the Shadows. I glided on quietly trying not to make a sound that would disturb
the genius of this mysterious place. As the trail dipped down towards the cliffs
above the ocean I saw the most amazing living thing I’ve ever seen, another Ficus
macrophylla (subspecies columnaris). Here was a monstrous tangle of trunks and
limbs, aerial roots and buttresses that appeared to hang over the defile leading
down to the cliff edge. A bench had been thoughtfully placed here. I sat in
reverent amazement and admiration, but no, the creature didn’t speak.
My next botanical adventure was the Boat Harbour trail. I followed a
boarded track over marshy ground and was soon climbing a superbly beautiful
forest path through palm and fern, to amazing clumps of huge pandanus
supported on their prop-like roots with spreading heads up to ten metres
202
high. Though pandanus is found widely through tropical areas, this species,
Pandanus forsteri, is found only on this island. The ground was littered with
its scimitar-shaped leaves, the raw material widely used for basket making,
floor matting and weaving, the tropical equivalent of our New Zealand flax
(Phormium tenax).
I encountered several other heroic ficus, whose ancient nobility demanded
attention. On this sheltered side of Mt Lidgbird there are few sounds, no
people and no breeze ruffled the leaves of this enchanted forest. There are
no jumping, lunging or biting nasties in these woods, just an occasional tiny
skink zipping across the leaf litter and, to my delight, a small indifferent
green-backed dove who wandered out onto the trail, turning his white-ringed
eye to survey me.
With a final day, I was able to walk to another beach, on the wilder eastern
side, and follow a trail through the now familiar combination of delicate,
almost feminine Kentia palms of all sizes, among remnants of ancient forest.
The cliff top was clearly a favoured nesting place for muttonbirds, their
burrows were everywhere. The sound of the sea grew as the forest thinned,
and behold, a cliff-top panorama of endless ocean and a crescent of golden
beach, below cliffs of volcanic and scoria seams, exotically eroded into
fantastic shapes.
While flying out over Lord Howe Island, I caught a long last memory of
the white-fringed reef protecting the luminous turquoise lagoon, the roofs
of cottages, the blankets of forest, the landing strip and the shadowed twin
mountains all diminishing in the surrounding deep blue.
Far from television world news and the computer, this was the holiday I
most enjoyed, out in the field looking at plants in their own unique settings.
“Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, and waste
its sweetness on the desert air.”
Thomas Gray, Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.
Howea forsteriana, Kentia palm, is unique to this island and sold to the world.
203
204