James Galvin

Aurora Borealis

2023-11-13T16:25:24-08:00

I don’t have a bucket list. But if I did, then the Northern Lights would surely be on it. After all, it is by far the most common bucket list item of all (ahead of #2 “skydiving” and #3 “getting a tattoo”).

Well as soon as I set foot on Icelandic soil, it started to shake. Multiple earthquakes on my first day in Reykjavik. A massive volcanic eruption predicted, within hours, or days.

Friday night: I was advised to postpone the Northern Lights trip to Saturday, due to cloudy conditions. I later learned that the forecast was wrong. There had been a vivid display.
Saturday night: Clear skies and a rare Aurora Forecast of 6, indicating a “solar storm”, for only the second time this season. Expecting a solar flare, promising to be fantastic altogether. But unfortunately there was not so much as a glimmer of green in the sky. Some people in Ireland sent me photos of a spectacular display of northern lights… in Donegal, Ireland. The country that I left… in order to go and see the Northern Lights in Iceland (where the sky is now black).
Sunday night: Third time lucky. I brought one of those Nordic runes from the Viking museum for extra good luck. Three hours later, still nothing to write home about. Until the clock chimed midnight. The “Happy Birthday” text messages arrived at 00:00. The green lights appeared right on cue.

Not exactly the breathtaking symphony that I had been hoping for, but a fascinating phenomenon, a memorable experience.

Sunfish

2019-11-21T00:57:56-08:00

I wanted to go spearfishing, but they wouldn’t allow it because I’m not experienced enough. I tried to tell them that as a kid I used to catch Mackerel using Tayto packets and bent wire, and I would pull 20lb congers out from under the pier with a clothesline. Still no dice.

At least they let me get on the boat. I wanted to go to New Ireland. Mainly because I liked the name. And because I remember finding it on a globe 30 years ago and wondering about it. They told me it’s more beautiful than New Britain. I told them that’s no surprise. I could see its silhouette on the horizon but it was too far for this boat, a handy little craft with a canopy that kept the sun off. They had to be back to bring out some Japanese tourists in the afternoon.

Within a couple of hours, we had landed a sizeable barracuda and a few snapper. Mission accomplished. As we turned to head back, the skipper noticed something on the horizon: “mola mola”. Sunfish! I recognised the binomial because it was on my poster of Irish species that I used to stare at for hours a day, along with “scomber scomber” and “conger conger”. Vietnamese people call it “cá mặt trăng” which means “moonfish”, more apt given the appearance. Better still, the Germans refer to it as
“Schwimmender Kopf” (“swimming head”).

Most Irish people don’t realise that this strange fish - 3m long, literally weighing a ton - is a regular visitor to the waters around Ireland. Here it was, off the coast of New Ireland, flopping back and forth with a peculiar rhythm. None of the grace of a whale shark, but not exactly jerky and rushed either. More of a laboured hobble; like an old man having to answer the door while the news is on. We watched it for a few minutes but when I tried to get close it disappeared under the water and didn’t resurface.

I bumped into the skipper in the restaurant that evening and asked him again about the sunfish. He was pleased by the encounter and said he couldn’t remember the last time he saw one. He told me that the Japanese group came home empty handed. I was pleased that my snapper would be the highlight of the evening’s menu.

Eagle Hunting in Kyrgyzstan

2019-10-11T12:03:21-07:00

It’s cowboy country, Central Asia’s answer to Wyoming or Colorado.

From the rocky shore of Issyk Kul lake into the Tien Shan mountains the scenery is diverse and stunning. Apricot orchards near the lake, proud ranks of birch trees and clusters of ancient walnut lead towards red sandstone canyons with warped martian columns. Clay hills, forests of juniper and spruce open up to reveal the famous grassy steppes, dotted with horses for miles.

Continuing upwards, the air becomes cold and harsh along with the terrain. Up, beyond the raging white rivers teeming with trout. Beyond the last of the cattle, grazing horses and the occasional bactrian channel. Past forgotten glaciers lodged in the folds of the mountains. Going up, until there’s nothing left for sheep to eat. Grey, featureless, windswept, barren and bleak. It’s a different kind of beauty, and this is where the eagles live.

Tian Shan mountain range appears to be endless. Especially today. Two days on a horse, trying to ignore the excruciating pain in my knees. Looking forward to my next break, but also dreading it, because it means I’ll embarrass myself getting back on the horse.

We put the eagle down on the grass and he waits patiently, still wearing his leather cap because there may be sheep nearby. What a beast. Adamantium beak and talons like a Gurkha’s knife. Heavy as a 6kg bag of rice.

Eventually the last of the lonely farm houses disappears behind us, and we enter a new territory. It feels like a Tarkovsky movie up here. And it’s freezing. The stiff wind numbs your ears, sounds are distant and muffled so you don’t feel like talking. Or maybe that’s the solemnity of the landscape having an effect.

The hunter goes up to the top of the ridge and rides along. He knew I didn’t have skill to get my horse up there, and I was glad that he didn’t encourage me to try. He set the eagle loose, using his own binoculars from time to time. For the first hour, not so much as a mouse. I found it hard to believe. We could see all the way to China from here, how could there be nothing moving?

Until a fox made an appearance. The eagle swooped with such ferocious intent that it felt like there was no way it could miss, and its target would surely be obliterated by the impact. The hunter gave chase but didn’t find anything. He spent the next 30 minutes zigzagging the ridge, baffled, looking for the body of a fox, dead or alive. I sat down on the least uncomfortable chunk of frozen rock I could find and stretched my legs, thinking of the long descent.

Old City of Dubrovnik

2019-06-19T08:24:58-07:00

The medieval city of Dubrovnik is a warren of narrow, cobbled streets and “alcoves”. It reminds me of something from Raymond E. Feist books, Jimmy the Hand would love the place.

Game of Thrones tour was disappointing, it was mostly pointing out filming locations and how the Red Keep was inconsistently positioned. The ship in the photo is the Karaka Dubrovnik, replica of a traditional 16th century carrack ship. There’s so much history here.

Kumari

2019-05-10T09:43:28-07:00

I did not prepare at all for my trip to Kathmandu. I didn’t even have local currency for the visa on arrival, the credit card machine didn’t work, and the ATM didn’t work. Not the first time I’ve had to beg and barter with strangers to get cash for a visa stamp, but hopefully the last!

I should have done my research. Last year I set myself a goal to read a book about each country I visit, in advance. But in the case of Nepal, “House of Snow” was just a collection of short stories about Mount Everest.
So I had no real agenda and didn’t know what to expect. Wander around, get a feel for the place. Check out some gemstones, maybe pick up a piece of aquamarine for the collection.

There’s a lot happening in the City Centre. Palaces, temples, statues, monuments of various times and creeds. I couldn’t get my head around all the information. The destruction caused by the 2015 earthquake was apparent everywhere. Buildings that had been standing for hundreds of years were now propped up by wood.

There was one hotspot drawing a crowd, a small palace made of red brick and black wood. People told me “the Kumari” would be appearing soon. I don’t know why, but for some reason I thought it was some kind of bird that pops its head up this time every day. Something like a Tower of London raven or Punxsutawney Phil.

We gravitated into the courtyard and a man walked around to warn us that we must not photograph the Kumari. Then she appeared. Not a raven but a little girl, about 4 years old. Apparently, she has a neck like a conch-shell, eyelashes like those of a cow, body shaped like a banyan tree, hair-whorls turning to the right, and 28 other signs of perfection. She was brought to the window by her handler to gaze upon the crowd of tourists below for a minute, then she was gone back into the room where she must spend her days, isolated from her family until the Goddess vacates her body.

Blue Poppy

2019-05-10T08:46:21-07:00

The blue poppy grows at an altitude of 5,000 metres. My guide gestures triumphantly, congratulating me on encountering the rarest of Himalayan flowers. For a second, I believe him. But we’re only at 4,000 metres and I’m fairly certain that the little purple plant is just some kind of primrose. Does he know that? He has told me several times on this trip that he is a real Bhutanese, therefore he doesn’t lie. But I’ve already caught him out a few times. I crouch down and snap a photo with feigned enthusiasm. I don’t let him know that I know, but I think he knows.

I’ve experienced this before. Deep in the Sundarbans of Bangladesh, gliding on a slipstream off a slipstream, the stifling silence of the swamp was violently severed by a guttural roar. For a second, we all froze. The ranger, who had spent his day dozing on the deck, snatched his rifle: “Bagha!”. The nature spotter bolted upright and sharply uttered the one word that had been on our minds all week: “Tiger!”.

I glanced at my Dutch travel companion, and from the quizzical look in his eye I knew he shared my skepticism. The man-eating tigers of the Sunderbans are the most bloodthirsty in the world, in the olden days killing up to 50 people per year, mostly seasonal workers from the city who come to the jungle to harvest honey (I guess they drew the short straw). But unless this tiger had laryngitis, this was clearly a barking deer in distress. Nonetheless, we played along. We touched down in the mangroves, mud crabs skittered in all directions, and we marched resolutely towards the source of the roaring which became more and more cervine as we approached.

Does the blue poppy even grow up here? Or is there some divine madman in a mountaintop monastery planting a few specimens for a laugh. Are there still tigers in Bangladesh? Or do the forest rangers carry around a stuffed tiger foot to stamp in the mud every now and then. Does it even matter?

In my youth, as an oft-emptyhanded fisherman, I was well trained in self-deception. “Clearly a pollack on the line, seaweed cannot produce such a jerky motion”, I told myself a thousand times. And yet, every chance I got I was out there on the rocks, my eyes glued to the rod tip as it slowly nodded its approval, catching kelp.

And I can still feel the lump in my throat that day, in the mangroves, and the grip of anticipation that tightened as we edged closer towards a man-eating Bengal tiger.

And I can still recall the stiff Himalayan breeze, the smell of mossy heather and musky mountain pikas that scampered under the rocks as I passed, my eyes scanning intently for an invisible blue flower.

Cordyceps

2019-05-09T09:05:26-07:00

Forget about werewolves, asteroid collisions, killer clowns and demonic possession. The scariest thing on the planet is a fungus. It grows high in the Himalayas. It is a parasite that latches onto a caterpillar. It slowly infects the body of the caterpillar, then eats into its brain, and begins controlling its movements. When the time is right, it directs the zombie caterpillar to the surface of the earth, finds a prime location to release its spores, and then eats through its host from inside out until, having sapped the corpse of all its nutrients, nothing remains but a dusty exoskeleton. Then rich Chinese men pay up to $50k per kilo to consume this exoskeleton as an aphrodisiac. I can’t think of anything more horrifying.

Archery in Bhutan

2019-04-27T01:45:31-07:00

I’ve done archery before but not like this. Each person shoots two arrows that disappear into the horizon, at least as far as I can see. Then they set off on a long journey to the other side of the field to see if any of them hit the ridiculously small target. Then they turn around and shoot two more arrows back in the direction they came from. A winner is declared when a certain number of points are scored, or when they all stop codding themselves and agree to go home for dinner.

Bhutanese people also like a game called khuru, which is similar to darts but more heavily weighted and again played at an unreasonable distance from the target. I won’t talk about how I embarrassed myself in front of a bunch of kids. I’ve never been any use at darts anyway.

But I did find the archery intriguing. When the tour guide challenged me a game at half distance, I was happy to accept. Tour guide was a brash young guy by Asian standards and claimed he used to be a very good archer. With a stroke of beginners luck, I managed to hit the bullseye. The game went on a lot longer than it should have, because neither of us could get close to the number of points we needed. Until my fingers had had enough and I declared it a draw. Tour guide was not happy.

Sigiriya

2019-02-28T11:45:16-08:00

In a Tamil village, I heard loud music as a truck passed by. The truck had a palm tree protruding from the front at a 45° angle. The palm tree had a shirtless man hanging from it, hooked through the skin of his back and his legs. I thought the hooks would break through the stretched skin.

He swung back and forth continuously, a long piece of cloth tied to his feet pulled by a guy on the truck. It’s a form of praying. Look liked agony, but somehow his features were calm.

The soles of my feet were ballooned with blisters from walking barefoot on the hot stone of the hilltop temple the day before. My ankle hurt from a few weeks back. But after seeing the hanging man, I was embarrassed by my discomfort, ashamed by the doubts I had about climbing 180m Sigiriya. Sure there are 90 year olds climbing Croagh Patrick barefoot every year, or so I’ve heard.

We stopped for lunch before arriving at Sigiriya. A hefty buffet: 7 different types of curry, and I ate them all.

When I travel, I sometimes joke about how badly prepared I am. When I arrived in Sri Lanka, I thought I looked funny wearing shorts with black Oxford shoes; “oops forgot my runners, haha!” It didn’t seem so funny anymore at the base of a vertical rock face.

Walking on my tip toes to avoid the blisters, I began the 2 hour ascent. The driver wanted to join me on the hike; a leisurely stroll for him, no doubt. He seemed to enjoy the conversation. He was certainly talkative. But at the base of the rock, he got some bad news on the phone, his dog is dying. He seemed sad, but it didn’t make him talk less.

At 200 steps, I considered that it might not have been a great idea to do the climb in the early afternoon, with no hat or sunscreen.

At 400 steps, I realised that I had forgot to bring water. Driver didn’t bring any either, and no, there was no shop on the way up. The sun was hot.

At 600 steps, I remembered that I was afraid of heights. Driver kept pointing out landmarks on the horizon. Sometimes my gaze would instinctively follow his gesture and I would feel like puking.

At 800 steps I read the sign: “do not make noise or you will be attacked by killer wasps”. I started to wonder if I was in an Eli Roth movie. Where am I supposed to run to if these wasps come after me? I asked the driver to stop talking. I pretended it was because I didn’t want him to wake the wasps.

At 1000 steps the stench hit me. It took me a few minutes to figure out that it was this rock was drenched in monkey piss. 7 curries churned in my stomach.

At 1200 steps, the driver’s dog died. I wanted to pass on my condolences but was too parched to speak, and too intent on each careful step of my blistered feet, in their stupidly inappropriate shoes. Worried about stumbling again on my bad ankle because who could carry me down from here if I can’t walk?

I wish I could say that I felt victorious when I reached the summit, but the only thing that mattered was finding some shade. There was one miserable tree, casting the most miserable mid-afternoon shadow. And every square centimetre of it was taken up by Chinese tourists preparing for selfies. Not that they needed any preparation, because none of them had a bead of sweat on their brow nor a hair out of place. I wondered if they had been dropped off by helicopter. When they saw the state of the creature hobbling towards them, they took pity and cleared enough room for me to collapse on the shady grass. I closed my eyes, imagining that there was music playing, and I was suspended from a palm tree, gently rocking back and forth in the breeze with a smile on my face.

Brno

2018-06-16T08:55:15-07:00

I got off the train at Brno. Grabbed a hot dog and I waited for a taxi. The second biggest city in Czech Republic, surely there are taxis, right? At the train station? The hot dog turned into a cup of coffee and a kastany bar. Still no taxis nor any form of public transport.

So I started walking towards the city centre, dragging my luggage (which hopped and staggered awkwardly due to its missing wheel). It’s times like these I miss having a smart phone. No taxis along the way, in fact, the streets were practically deserted. No families waiting on bus stop benches. I don’t know what I was expecting from Czech Republic, but I kind of assumed there would be loads of silent bearded old folk smoking outside newsagents wearing flat caps and drinking pilsner while pondering existentialism or life as an insect.

I’m not a nervous traveler, but on these empty streets the question of personal safety did cross my mind. This country has provided filming locations for a lot of movies in recent years. But they do not film romantic comedies here. This is where you come if you want to make a movie about cannibalistic serial killers, kidnapping and torturing tourists, hunting vampires. Hannibal Rising, From Hell, Van Helsing, The Brothers Grimm, and, of course… Hostel. (Which must have been a set back for tourism in this part of the world?) I picked up the pace. But my crippled luggage struggled to keep up: its wheezing, bumping, and scratching echoed off the cold medieval stone walls. I felt like a surfer with an open wound wondering when the sharks would arrive.

All travellers know, as a rule, if you need to find someone who speaks English in Central Europe, you should go to a kebab shop. (Or maybe that rule didn’t exist and I just wanted an excuse to eat a kebab, despite still being full from hot dog and kastany bars?) In any case, the kebab vendor I found could manage a few words of English, but was not from around here. I told him to ask the ladies in the kitchen. They are Russians and can’t even speak Czech, he assured me that they know nothing. But he was generous enough to pull up Google Maps on his phone and send me on my way with a vague set of directions. Find a big church and turn right. I soon learned that there are many big churches in Brno. By the time I reached my destination, I had given myself a thorough tour of the town centre.

Brno has a number of popular tourist attractions, most of which are literally underground.

The Ossuary under Church of St James, where you can see the skulls and bones of 50 thousand people arranged for display in an orderly manner.

The 10-Z Bunker, a nuclear fall-out shelter, where you can explore tunnels used by Nazis, see furniture used by Hitler, view cells where they kept prisoners, check out some gas masks.

Labyrinth Under the Vegetable Market, where they detail the many methods of execution and torture that were used here. Including the “madman’s cage”, designed for discomfort (cannot stand up, cannot sit down), where people with mental disabilities or illness would be locked up and displayed in the town square.‘

The Capuchin Crypt, where you can see the mummified remains of friars lying down, head resting on a stone pillow, boney arms folded over their chest. The chilling inscription warns “Tu fui, ego eris”; What you are now we used to be; what we are now you will be.

By the time I got to my hotel, I was well primed and resigned to the fact that I would soon be getting tortured and butchered. Apparently I was the only guest, and the check-in experience would have made Eli Roth proud. I got to my room and my luggage collapsed onto the floor, exhausted. I took a shower to wash off the stench of death. The hotel towels were neatly arranged, but stuck together somehow. With two hands, I unfolded the towel… only to find that it had been soaked through with blood.