Globe-trotting B.C. journalist Andrew Findlay suffered from some of this same ignorance before his recent trip to Slovenia and Croatia. But the time he spent there opened his eyes. In a feature article in the latest issue of Westworld magazine, Findlay describes the charm and beauty he found in this unfamiliar land. He agreed to respond to some questions to shed more light on his travels in the Balkans.     

Many people hear the words Slovenia and Croatia and immediately think of the recent wars in the Balkans. Did you find much visual evidence of the conflict during your travels?

It’s true, just mentioning these countries to the average Canadian conjures up images of civil war. Slovenia declared independence early in the conflict and escaped the worst of the fighting. Croatia wasn’t so lucky. In Dubrovnik and other coastal cities, if you know where to look you can still see evidence of war–shelled buildings that were never repaired, bullet and mortar holes in the stone walls of ancient buildings. More compelling, however, are the emotional scars that are still healing among people who lived through these troubling times.
 
You begin your article with an account of a group ascent of Triglav, a 2,864-metre peak in Slovenia. How did this climb compare to others you have done in the past.
 
For me it wasn’t too hard, but I have a lot of mountaineering experience. That said, without the via ferrata, basically steel pegs strung with cable that are fixed on the more exposed and tricky sections, the climb would be much more difficult. This safety feature makes the mountain climbable by pretty much anybody with a reasonable level of fitness.

You mention the unusual Karst limestone formations that are found in Slovenia. What exactly did they look like?

Water does incredible things to limestone rock because of its solubility. Karst landscapes are characterized by vast cave systems, underground rivers, streams that seem to disappear and reappear magically from the earth, and sinkholes–strange-looking depressions that are almost like natural amphitheatres.

Can you give me a sense of what the people looked like in these places? How they dressed? Their character?

Slovenians strike me as a stoic people who pride themselves on hard work and athletic pursuits. It’s not uncommon to see groups of school kids out tramping around in the mountains on trails that back in Canada would have lawyers circling and school administrators fretting about litigation and liability. For such a small country, Slovenia produces a high number of world class skiers, mountaineers, rowers and now even hockey players. On the Dalmatian Coast, the ancient and modern co-exist. On the island of Sipan, I saw an elderly Croatian widow dressed in black and carrying a bundle of firewood on her back back. In Korcula Town I met a young, black-haired beauty strolling the promenade who could have stepped right off the fashion catwalk of Paris.

Did you see any Dalmatians on the Dalmatian Coast?

I looked, but not a one.

What sort of potential for future tourism do these places have? Do they have the infrastructure to support more tourism?

Slovenia is a compact country ideal for an active vacation, whether it’s easy walking or paragliding. Distances between destinations are short, it’s easy to get around and the country is well serviced by four-season mountain resorts. The only way to truly experience the Dalmatian Coast is island-hopping by boat. The history of the region has been defined by seafaring traders and adventurers like the Venetians and Romans who have left their mark on this long coastline. Since well before the war that saw the dismantling of Yugoslavia, tourism has been an important part of the economy here, but some of the islands have a deserted feel to them, as though they are still awaiting discovery.

How smooth has the transition from state-run socialism to a free-market economy been in this part of the world?

My impression is that Yugoslavia was never behind the Iron Curtain and under the rigid authority of the former Soviet Union in the same way that East European countries were. Under Tito’s rule, Yugoslavia maintained a degree of autonomy that allowed it to identify more closely with the west and its nearby neighbours of Austria and Italy. It hasn’t been perfect, and the experience varies greatly between Croatia, Slovenia, Serbia, Bosnia and Montenegro, and I’d say the transition to a so-called free market is still underway. Interestingly, many people I talked to who are old enough to remember life under Communist rule, lament some things of the past; few people were rich, but most people had work, health care and education.

Slovenia and Croatia are not exactly bosom buddies. They have an ongoing border dispute and recently Slovenian nationalists tried to block Croatia’s admission to NATO. Did you see any signs of this hostility?

Indeed. Slovenia determinedly clings to its 40 kilometres of Adriatic coastline between Italy and Croatia, while Croatia would prefer to see its northern neighbour landlocked. I heard more than one Slovenian suggest that Croatians resent Slovenians for not having suffered during the civil war the same way Croatia did. Of course this is a gross generalization and there are people in all of the former Yugoslavian republics with mixed heritage, however there is definitely residual animosity between Slovenia and Croatia that surfaces every once in a while.

What did you find most surprising about Slovenia and Croatia?

I guess the sheer physical beauty of the landscape and for somebody like myself who loves outdoor sports–skiing, climbing, biking–it struck me as this paradise poorly known by us Canadians. However, I was also intrigued by the enduring impacts of a civil war that ended nearly 15 years ago. I met an awesome guy working on a boat on the Dalmatian Coast who said he was part of a lost generation of Croatians who were young 20-somethings during the war, with no hope, no future. He told me harrowing tales of drug dealing and other nefarious pursuits just to stay alive. Thankfully these are different and much more hopeful times for Croatians.

Photo Credits:

 #1: coronn.com

#2: firstclass.com.au

#3: klek.info

Yet, despite its isolation and tiny size (22 kilometres long and 11 kilometres wide) Easter Island was the site of one of the most remarkable cultures in all of Polynesia. The people here had their own system of writing called Rongorongo, different from any other in the world, and so far undecipherable. No other Pacific Islanders knew how to write. It’s just one of the many mysteries that surround this remote isle. Where had the inhabitants originally come from? Why and how had they built the stone figures? Modern science is piecing together the story, but it is too late for the Easter Islanders themselves. They were virtually wiped out by a series of disasters–natural and man-made–that reduced a population of 12,000 down to just 111 in a few centuries.

The tragic story of the collapse of the culture of Easter Island is the focus of a thought-provoking piece by journalist Daniel Wood in the latest issue of Westworld magazine. Wood sat down with me to answer a few questions about his article.

How many stone statues are there on Easter Island? How large are they? Do they face the sea or do they look inward?

There are over 900 stone statues, most of them either fallen or still lying in quarries, unexcavated. About 100 of these moais are standing, having been raised in the past century by archaeologists. The majority are around three to six metres high; the bigger ones get to 10 metres or more, and, in one case, 20 metres. Most face inland since they served to protect the now empty village sites.

What sort of questions are the archaeologists who are working on Easter Island today trying to answer?

The place is one of the great archaeological mysteries on earth. Researchers now know the origins of the Easter Islanders—they came across the Pacific from Polynesia some 1,500 years ago, but the language of Rapa Nui, as the locals call it, the religion of the people, the purpose of the statues, and the culture’s link to the civilizations of western South America are all unresolved.
 
There was once great debate among historians about where the inhabitants of Easter Island came from. Why was Thor Heyerdahl so convinced that the island was settled by people from a pre-Incan society in Peru?

The prevailing view 50 years ago was that the original peoples of the Americas were Neolithic travellers who crossed the Bering Strait 12,000-plus years ago. But it was Heyerdahl’s contention that early people utilized boats and rafts to cross westward from the Americas to populate the islands of the Pacific. Thus, the famous Kon-Tiki expedition from Peru to Polynesia in 1947. Archaeologists later proved that Heyerdahl was wrong: the migration was from the west to the east. 
 
Do we know what sort of sailing craft the original settlers used to make the long voyage to Easter Island from Polynesia?

The best guess is large outrigger canoes, not so different from those that the people of Polynesia used until a few generations ago. If you think about the dimensions of the big Haida whaling canoes, you can get an idea of the size. It’s now known that the Polynesians regularly sailed throughout the Pacific a millennia ago. We have come in recent years to gain a new appreciation of the capabilities of so-called “primitive” peoples. They knew 1,000 years ago about the ocean currents and the winds and celestial navigation.
 
Are there any descendants of the original inhabitants still living on Easter Island and what do they look like?

Yes. From the original surviving 111 of 1,900, people have bred with the 20th century newcomers so that intermarriage has diluted the gene pool of the natives. But the people with strong Polynesian ancestry are quite distinctive–tall, barrel-chested, dark-skinned–much like the Maoris of New Zealand. 

Do these people have a strong sense of their own history or have they been totally assimilated by the Chileans?

No, the Rapa Nuians have a strong sense of self and have lobbied the Chileans for a fair amount of cultural protection. They have their own local government with some autonomy, as well as schools in the Rapa Nuian language, and they try to limit the excesses of tourism imported from outside by hotel developers and marketers. 
 
The Galapagos Islands off the coast of Ecuador are famous for their unique forms of animal life. Are there any interesting ecological oddities on Easter Island?

No. Because of Easter Island’s distance from anywhere, it never received the drifting creatures—like iguanas or turtles—that got washed up and bred on many of the Galapagos Islands.
 
What does the island’s capital, Hanga Roa, look like? Is there any industry there?

“Hanga Roa,” one older tourist said to me, “looks like Hawaii did in the 1940s.” The highest building is two storeys, and most are one-storey, tin-roofed bungalows. The word “quaint” applies. There is no industry, just tourism.  Local people farm small garden plots, cowboys herd cattle and horses, fishermen use small inshore boats. 
 
Do you think that the Easter Island inhabitants’ isolation from the outside world was a contributing factor to the downfall of their culture?

Good question. The cause of the civil wars that ended in the society’s demise was, according to legend, the environmental collapse of the mid-16th century. The people could not escape—they had cut down every tree–so they turned on each other–finally cannibalizing their neighbours. So, yes, the isolation contributed to their tragic story because they couldn’t trade goods to reprovision themselves, or build boats to escape the chaos.

Photo Credits:

#1: philipcoppens.com

#2: msnbc.msn.com

#3: flickr.com

The Hmong are the second largest of six different hill tribes that inhabit the mountainous border regions of Laos, Burma and Thailand, an area popularly known as “the Golden Triangle.” Each of these tribes is distinct in language, dress and culture, but all share some basic traits. They subsist on a primitive, slash-and-burn agriculture. Their religion is animist. They sew and weave with genius. And they grow smoke and sell opium. The Thais have initiated educational programs aiming at weaving these mountain folk away from opium to other cash crops such as coffee, tea, cabbages and strawberries. In the process they have discovered something else about the tribes—they are a major tourist attraction.

Dozens of companies specializing in hill-tribe expeditions operate out of Chiang Mai, Thailand’s second-largest city, located 710 kilometres north of Bangkok. The tours, which can last anywhere from two to 10 days, offer such enticements as elephant rides, river rafting and overnight stays in rural villages. Our tour, arranged by the Tourist Authority of Thailand, was chosen with practicality in mind. It was the most convenient excursion available, a mere 20-kilometre drive from Chiang Mai, a viable option for travellers lacking the time or fortitude to spend a week dealing with mud, mosquitoes and tropical humidity.

We began our journey after breakfast, rolling out of Chiang Mai in an air-conditioned bus. The road wound sharply upward through a series of hairpin switchbacks leading to the 14th century Wat Prathat Doi Suthep, one of the most revered Buddhist temples in the entire country. The temple’s entrance is flanked by a pair of snarling nagas, mythical serpents whose ceramic tails undulate up 309 steps to the summit. At an elevation of 1,300 metres, near the winter palace of King Bhumibol, we transferred to a mountain taxi, a modified pickup truck painted in an array of kaleidoscopic colours. The mountain taxi negotiated the last leg of the rugged climb through the forest with us jolting along in back like a crew of combat soldiers.

It was 11:00 a.m. when we reached our destination, a sleepy collection of tin-roofed shanties perched on the rim of a mist-shrouded valley. As we disembarked we could see Hmong women in pleated black dresses and chunky silver jewellery appraising us from the doorways. There were a few barefoot children playing in the laneways and huge, grey pigs slumbering beside the houses. From somwhere in the forest came the sound of someone chopping wood.

Our arrival prompted an immediate change in the pace of village life. Shutters suddenly flew open revealing shelves lined with handicrafts-–vests, hats, dolls, jewellery and ceramic goods. Women wearing turbans festooned with beaten silver, coins, beads, feathers and monkey fur emerged from their homes to attend to the souvenir stalls. A refreshment stand with padded stools and a Formica counter opened for business, selling soft drinks, snacks and cigarettes.

Within the hour, half a dozen more mountain taxis had joined ours in the clearing at the edge of the village. A stream of tourists began to filter through the streets, transforming the remote outpost into an international bazaar. The English, the Germans, the French, the Americans and the Japanese were all here. The collision of cultures resulted in some odd exchanges. Rounding a corner I came across two American women fussing over a dozing hog. “Look at this pig thang, Ella,” said one in a thick, corn-pone drawl. “Gawd, it’s ugly! Y’all got to get a picture of this with me.”

The Hmong children proved even more popular photographic subjects. A battery of cameras followed their every move. Most of the youngsters were unfazed by the attention; some actually posed. They were not all as innocent as they first appeared. No sooner had you taken their picture than they demanded payment. I watched an embarassed Frenchman, trying to beat a dignified retreat from a gang of young money-seekers. “Baht! Baht! Baht!” they chanted, clutching imploringly at the man’s trouser pockets.

Everywhere we went we accosted by Hmong salesmen. One man carried a satchel full of tin hookah pipes, another guy in a newsboy cap sold sapphires. “Smuggled in from Burma,” he claimed. He carried the coloured stones in a velvet-lined folding case. To prove a gem’s authenticity he would club it with a rock. If you remained unconvinced, he would douse the gem with lighter fluid and set it aflame.

One home in the village attracted more attention than the others. A gaunt man in a rumpled grey fedora, loose cotton shirt and sandals, squatted outside puffing on a bamboo pipe that had the dimensions of a small bazooka. A gaggle of wide-eyed onlookers debated his brand of smoking material. “It cannot be opium,” insisted a portly German in flowery shorts. “Opium is illegal.”

The pipe-smoker’s wife stood behind him in the doorway, collecting 200 baht a head from the tourists lined up to view the interior. It was a short tour; the house consisted of a single room. Out on the porch, cameras continued to zoom in on the man with the pipe. With each shutter click, his hand would slowly uncoil and extend forward, palm up. He accepted the proffered coins wordlessly, his features set in an impassive mask.

The Hmong with the crossbow approached our party just as we preparing to depart. Unlike the other men in the village, we wore full tribal regalia—an embroidered black waistcoat, leggings, a tasselled skullcap and a beaded shoulder bag. As he launched into his sales pitch, I heard someone behind me say, “I think he’s the chief. He’s the only one wearing Nikes.”

Chief or no chief, the man was a consummate showman. To secure our attention he arranged a demonstration, propping a discarded Pepsi can against the rear tire of a nearby truck. Retreating 20 paces, he tethered one of his tiny arrows and let fly, neatly puncturing the soda can, while miraculously sparing the tire. “Only 600 baht,” he intoned, offering me the bow. “You try.”

The Hmong were masters of the hard sell. Everyone in our group bought something: toys, beadwork, story cloths, carvings, phony sapphires. One fellow even purchased the can-killing crossbow. The irony was inescapable. Here we were, supposedly sophisticated western travellers, exchanging cold, hard cash for useless trinkets in a complete reversal of stereotypical roles.

Clearly, this Hmong village had discovered a viable alternative to opium. Foreign tourists were the new cash crop, and an apparently lucrative one at that. Later the same day, while cashing our depleted stock of traveller’s cheques at a bank in downtown Chiang Mai, we came upon one of the Hmong families from the mountain. They were parked outside in a shiny yellow Toyota truck. The children were happily eating ice cream. Their father was inside making deposits.

Photo Credits:

#1: flickr.com

#2: goseasia.com

#3: flickr.com

#4: freenc.biz

Hollywood star power created Puerto Vallarata as a tourist destination. The transformation of the sleepy fishing village of 2,000 souls began on November 11, 1954, when Mexicana de Aviación airline inaugurated its Guadalajara-Puerto Vallarta flight. One of the first visitors was American movie director John Huston, who built a home here in the small cove of Las Caletas where he lived until his death. In 1963, when Huston was hired to direct the film version of Tennessee Williams’ play, The Night of the Iguana, he changed the story’s setting from Acapaulco to his adopted home. The famous cast, headed by Richard Burton, Deborah Kerr and Ava Gardner, and the exotic locale soon attracted a swarm of international media, especially after Elizabeth Taylor arrived to join Burton. Both married, the two created a major scandal with their illicit romance. In addition to generating reams of gossip, the media, and later, Huston’s film, showcased the primeval beauty of the place. From then on, Puerto Vallarta ceased to be a secret hideaway waiting to be discovered. Today, the resort is one of the world’s most visited beach destinations, attracting 2.5 million tourists each year.

In the latest issue of Westworld magazine, Vancouver journalist Jeff Topham writes about his recent visit to Puerto Vallarta, where he explored the resort’s historical underpinnings and its modern evolution as viewed from the perspective of an eco-conscious green theme. Topham sat down with me to answer some questions about his experiences there.

1. Was there anything that surprised you, or that you didn’t expect to see in Puerto Vallarta?  

Honestly, I was a bit stunned that the place was so beautiful–and that it actually felt like Mexico. I have to admit that prior to this trip, Puerto Vallarta meant big hotels, parasailing and bad sunburns. I would not have considered it a place for a cultural experience. But I was genuinely surprised to find otherwise.  

2. Puerto Vallarta makes a big deal about director John Huston and the American movie stars that originally put the town on the tourist map. Is there any of that old Puerto Vallarta left to see, or is it simply dusty nostalgia?

Actually, the authenticity and charm of the old town was also something that surprised me. I really arrived expecting just generic hotels and happy-hour bars, but the old part of Vallarta still has a very real feel. And if you go just a few miles north or south, life probably isn’t that much different from the way it was 40 years ago. It’s easy to see what Huston was drawn to.  

3. How did your experience of Puerto Vallarta differ on this excursion from your previous visit to the resort. When was that and was it a vacation? 

From what I can remember, I think it was a spring break trip when I was in university maybe a dozen years ago–which was obviously the source of some of my prejudices surrounding Vallarta. I sure didn’t recall all the high-end art galleries or five-star restaurants. And I didn’t do any Jell-O shots from a waitress’s navel this time around.

4. Did you get the feeling that ecotourism and going green is a major theme in Mexico, or is it merely a sideline aimed at the gringo tourist trade?  

I might not say ‘major theme,’ but you can definitely see it is becoming part of the local collective consciousness. I think even seeing basic stuff like the recycling of plastic water bottles is an indicator that there has been a genuine shift. Sure, there are definitely a lot of ecotourism operations where the eco stands far more for economy than ecology–there are a lot of 4×4s and big powerboats taking people to experience the “pristine nature”-–but I’m hopeful both travellers and tour operators will evolve.

5. What was your dominant impression of Sayulita, the beach town north of Puerto Vallarta? 

I’d hop a cheap flight to Puerto Vallarta and take the $2 bus ride for a surf weekend in Sayulita in a heartbeat. I think it would be about the same cost* and travel time as a Vancouver to Tofino trip–and the water is a little warmer… (*carbon offset credits not included).

6. The Hotelito Desconocido, which is located south of Puerto Vallarta, sounds like a very interesting eco-conscious place. What sort of tourists does it attract? Was the hotel busy? Is there anything else you can relate about it that you didn’t include in your article? 

It really was beautiful–just so thoughtfully planned out. But really just so simple. I always find it amazing how much we will pay for simplicity. It’s not a big place, so even at full capacity I don’t think it would seem busy. Funny, but maybe not surprising, that the hotel guests I met there were Canadian, from Vancouver–from my neighbourhood.

7. How much courage does it take to ride the zipline through the jungle canopy with Vallarta Adventures? 

I think as long as you’re ok with heights, it’s actually not quite as extreme as you might think. It also depends on the quality of the tequila you were drinking the night before, and the magnitude of your hangover. (Don’t get me wrong, there’s still plenty of room for hedonism in Vallarta.)

8. On my last visit to Mexico I bought a piece of Huichol Indian art, just as you did on your trip to Vallarta. What it is about their art that appeals to you, and did you do any additional research on the Huichol?  

I’m going to go with the attention to detail. The effort the artists put into this work is staggering. There’s a lot of stuff that’s pumped out just for tourists, but ask around and you’ll quickly see the difference between the real artists and the manufacturers. I had planned on visiting a Huichol community to see where all the tourist money goes, but it didn’t pan out. One of the Huichol artists also offered to show me the artistic inspiration that peyote provides for them the next time I was there, but that would be a whole other trip.

Photo Credits:

 #1: z.about.com

#2: vallarta.blog.wexico.com

 #3: discoveryvallarta.com