Recently, I interviewed artist and teacher Nyunmiti Burton. She is based in Tjala Arts in the Anangu Pitjantjatjara Yankunytjatjara (APY) Lands, in far northern South Australia. What was striking was that the interview was conducted in English and Pitjantjatjara, the most commonly spoken of Australia’s few surviving indigenous languages. Our translator, Skye O’Meara, is the general manager of Sydney’s APY Art Centre Collective.
In the conversation, Skye and Nyunmiti pointed out that we know more about where our coffee and eggs come from than our Aboriginal art. Ethically produced art means the artist being paid appropriately, being created in a safe environment and sold by a business that has full financial transparency.
To read more about buying Central and Western Desert art, you can read my column in the Sydney Morning Herald and The Age’s Traveller section. Click here, and thanks for reading.
For more links:
See desart.com.au the peak body for more than 40 such art centres in Central Australia.
See tjalaarts.com.au Tjalaa Arts art centre in Amata, SA
See apyartcentrecollective.com APY Art centres
I’ve been poking around the back alleys and the big-ticket drawcards of Cairo for a decade now (How did that happen? One minute I was setting up this blog on a tiny little Juliet balcony in a pensione in downtown Cairo, the next minute, it’s 10 years later!)
In that time, Cairo’s fortunes have flowed, ebbed, and are now flowing again, after revolutions, currency flotations, elections and a whole vortex of world events that have shaped the old traditions and new fashions in this maniacal city of 20 million (give or take a few million).
It still blows me away, every time I visit. There’s the City of the Dead, which may be home to as many as a million undocumented (living) souls, the rock-carved cathedrals of Mokattam, the wild nights of horseriding around the Pyramids beneath a full moon, and the Nile. There’s always the Nile.
It scratches only the surface, but here are 10 of my tips on visiting the City that Sleeps In Shifts, published in this weekend’s Traveller section in the Sydney Morning Herald and The Age newspapers.
Business class is out of reach of most travellers, and I had to hit my third decade before experiencing the delicious sensation of turning left on the plane.Some, however, are far luckier.
Recently, my seven-year-old daughter put Etihad Airways’ business class to the test en route to Abu Dhabi.
We’ve flown Etihad many times before, we’ve been scarred by its kids meals, most notably a long-haul economy nightmare of reoccurring cheese macaroni and UHT banana milk that comprises the kids menu – with no water served with their meals. I’ve ranted about it in the past – why load children up with a tray full of sugar, then complain when they turn into sugar-fuelled screeching monsters?
This time, in business, it’s a whole different ball game…
To read the full story on the Sydney Morning Herald and The Age’s Traveller website, click here
Some people have an ancestral base – it might be a castle, a city or a family home that has been in the family for generations.
Coming from a family that was always on the move, and now spread to the four corners of the earth, the closest I can come to is our beach house on Victoria’s Mornington Peninsula, which my grandfather built in the 1960s. It’s seen five generations holidaying here, and while it’s not a hunting lodge or a town that with streets named after us, the beach is at the end of the street and dolphins play in the waters: it’s not so bad.
Decidedly daggy (read: unhip) for decades, known only for its beachhouses and fish & chip shops (which are, still, very good), it’s now got its mojo on, and in a massive way. In just five years, we’ve got five-star hotels, artisan gin distillers, we’ve got fabulous cafes and our great coastal walking paths have been mapped out.
I wrote my 20 reasons for the Sydney Morning Herald and The Age’s Traveller section, which you can read by clicking here
The Balkans are literally the land of honey and blood, named by Turks who netted the peninsula – from Slovenia to Albania – into the Ottoman Empire, where it remained ensnared for five centuries until 1912. In Turkish, “bal” is honey, “kan” is blood. And as they learned, the riches are sweet, but come at a price.
This summer, I spent a couple of weeks on a tour with Intrepid Travel, from the Albanian capital of Tirana through to Kosovo and on to Macedonia, before returning back to Albania.
It was my first time in the western Balkans, though I’ve skirted around the region, in Greece, Croatia, Romania and Bulgaria, at different times of my travelling life.
So some things were familiar – using bears as novelty drawcards at restaurants, the Cyrillic alphabet – but there was plenty of new ground – seeing little red-roofed villages, the symbol of Middle Europe, clustered around a mosque, instead of a church, or the sheer beauty of the Accursed Mountains.
Beautiful and blissfully ignored by the mass tourism that pervades such European cities as Barcelona or Paris, I almost don’t want to share them, to preserve their purity.
My story was published in the Traveller section of the Sydney Morning Herald and Melbourne’s The Age newspapers, and you can read it here