But the islanders are not standing still, with boutique cheesemakers and confectioners, holiday cottages, launch cruises and other small-scale, tourism-oriented businesses mushrooming. Bruny is a 15-minute car ferry ride from Kettering on the Tasmanian mainland. But it’s a journey too far for Avis Car Rental, which arbitrarily bans its customers from taking cars across. Other companies do not seem to have the same hang-up; Tasmania has plenty of back roads more remote or less well-maintained than those on Bruny.

I’ve asked why, but haven’t yet heard back. I’m sure the local tourism operators would be curious to know why a multinational car rental operator wants to cut them out of the loop. And ditto for Kangaroo Island, South Australia.

BTW, more pix of Tasmania are here.

At the Broadhurst Mall, Gaborone

I didn’t find the No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency (after all, it is a figment of the author’s imagination) but in Mochudi, the dusty overgrown village where our unlikely heroine spent her formative years, I took note of the Giggles Hair Salon, Nix Business Services (Company Formation, Biz Consultation, Funeral Programs) and the Club Triple Zero Nightclub, all doing business from tin sheds or mud-walled cabins. More entrepreneurs in the making… (and here are some more pix). And BTW, I did make it by hook or by crook up to big-game country.

Herat, Afghanistan (1974)

But you won’t find me in Yemen just yet. There are just too many reasons why not, including the suspicion that will surely attach to independent travellers returning from an apparent nest of terrorist sympathisers. I’d rather not build up a case file with hyped-up security agencies.

Nigel Brennan had no local contacts or expertise when he set off to make his name as a freelance photojournalist based in strife-torn Somalia, which has no credible government and a fearsome reputation for famine, piracy, conflict and kidnapping. One regional airline used to urge passengers to arrange their own armed escort before departure!  Within days, Brennan was abducted at gunpoint and subsequently spent more than a year held hostage.  His family hocked their farm and private donors chipped in the balance of the million-dollar-plus ransom paid for his release.  Now Brennan asserts that the Australian government didn’t care how long he (and his Canadian colleague) sweated it out in Somalia; the government, which refuses on principle to deal with kidnappers, retorts that it pulled together a whole team in Nairobi to work on the case.

There’s a long history of after-the-event complaints from former Distressed Australians, as the bureaucrats tag citizens caught short in foreign parts. Working with some of these cases was one of the most intriguing roles I ever had in my stint as a one-time consular officer in the Middle East. But I do think that even the most intrepid wanderer needs to accept that you just don’t try to go it alone in some parts of the planet. Lonely Planet thinks so: they’ve just pulped a guidebook to Libya, and their door-stopping Russian guidebook includes two pages spelling out why they won’t go to Chechnya.

I’ve been thinking recently about the ethics of giving to beggars.

A couple of days ago I was walking past an old woman sitting on the bridge outside a bus station, holding a plastic cup. So I reached into my pocket where I thought I had a 200 Rupiah coin and a 2000 Rupiah note, and was very generously going to place it in the plastic cup. Except that when I started to put it in, I was horrified to see it was a blue 50,000 Rupiah note, so I quickly pulled back and left just the 200 Rupiah coin (that’s 2c to you). Fortunately she was sitting on the ground, and I was mobile, so able to quickly walk away and hide my embarrassment, and presumably her scorn.

Shantytown, Pasar Ikan, Jakarta

What is a measured response to beggars? People here would very rarely give more than 1000 Rupiah and beggars usually don’t acknowledge the donation, which is a necessary routine to observe Zakat, a Muslim’s religious obligation to give alms. Many local people say the beggars are rounded up by by Fagin-type characters who give them food and board if they sit around all day and beg.

During Ramadan there was a bit of debate about the official announcement that 2.5% of annual income was the expected amount to be donated. The government actually maintains a fund people can put the money into – not very convincing with all the waste and corruption that goes on here.

Some Muslim scholars say it’s a motivation which must come from within, and government should butt out. Another argument against giving is that it results in a greater flow of rural people into the cities, creating more social problems. The two large Muslim organisations have their own social welfare arms at the local level, and if people are without support they can approach them and get sorted out, just as they do in the villages, so it may be better for donors to give to them. But only a hard hearted person could consistently ignore the poverty on the street.

On my way to work, I used to walk past a beggar who had a big smile but no hands, and I would just hurry past. (Yes, the black humour of “alms for the poor” did cross my mind.) I never gave but always got the big smile, as though he understood my awkwardness about how to give him money. One day I forced myself to look him in the eye and smile back, and put something in the plastic bag in front of him. Our eye contact that day was a deep connection for me: he seemed to have a serene and understanding look. Without a second thought I still walk past other beggars, who don’t pull the heartstrings so much, so I think the giving was mainly for me, not for him. However, if it wasn’t a reciprocal benefit, there probably wouldn’t be much giving anywhere in the world.

For more than two thousand years pious Hindus have come to Pushkar to worship Lord Brahma, the Creator, and to seek absolution by bathing in the sacred waters of the Tank. This is the only surviving temple dedicated to the Creator of the Hindu universe; elsewhere, his cult his given way to the worship of Vishnu the preserver, Shiva the destroyer and other deities.

Activity begins well before dawn in Pushkar, as hundreds of pilgrims step out on the Parikrama, the holy circuit around the sacred lake. Sadhus (and charlatans) camp overnight just above many of the lake’s steps, where I observed one applying his Tantric make-up: daubing swatches of cream and orange colour across his forehead, carefully monitoring the results in a hand mirror.

Dwarf sadhu in Pushkar, Rajasthan, India

Even this early, the narrow , bustling streets wear a carnival atmosphere. Tribal women, wide-eyed at this encounter with urban sophistication, wear their entire wealth on their bodies: bangles, beads – coral, turquoise, bone, silver, plastic, coloured glass, onyx – gold and silver jewellery, nose-rings, earrings and anklets. As always in India, women’s saris contribute generously to the colour of street life.

More images.

Rajasthan Tourism

It’s pure Abbott and Costello: Tiger Airways’ big bird is parked outside and would-be passengers watch as a pilot pushes open the cockpit window to poke his head out and gesticulate forcefully at the mechanics milling around.  It would be funny had we not been standing in the boarding queue for three quarters of an hour – no explanation, now or ever – waiting to take to the skies in the same aircraft.

Branded water tower identifies Melbourne's Tiger Airways terminal

You can’t help wondering about safety when maintenance appears to be so hit-or-miss fashion.  Nor is it reassuring to encounter cabin crew who can barely sell you a drink in English, let alone deal with any emergency.

If you thought Jetstar were mean in making you pay for dinner, wait until the Singapore-owned Tiger gets its claws into you.  “May I have some water please?… Two dollar.”

“Tiger disallows own food” the notice declares (once on board) and, amazingly, “don’t deprive our staff of their commissions”.  Since the cabin crew won’t accept correct money (such as the stated price of six dollars for a packet of sandwiches) or return correct change in the same currency, somebody is pocketing more than just commissions.

You want to fly out in January?  That’ll be two thousand and up, they said.  Time to check out the new kids on the block, the Asian-based budget carriers.  But how does the no-frills, point-to-point model stand up on long-haul flights across and beyond the Australian continent?

At Melbourne Airport, the Tiger experience begins by locating the new carrier’s bare-bones terminal out amongst the freight yards – look for the black-and-orange striped water tower.  Trudging across the tarmac between rows of crash barriers, we reach the Airbus A320 and squeeze into six-across seating.  In the aisle there’s barely room for two people to pass.  My knees are wedged tight (I am average height); the seat simply does not recline.

Darwin at midnight, four hours later: now the fun really starts.  We have just two hours to reclaim our bags, to join a lengthy queue and check-in yet again for the next leg, then clear the hand luggage inspection and submit to the scrutiny of one solitary immigration inspector.  Most passengers are continuing through from Melbourne, so how can the airline reduce costs by insisting on this double handling?  According to spokesman Matt Hobbs, the operational barrier between Tiger Asia and Tiger Australia makes it uneconomic to shortcut this process.

The cabin crew’s inexperience is palpable: departing Darwin, the three stewards includes two young Chinese women with hair flopping across their faces who are  far from fluent in English.

Melbourne businesswoman Grace Lim recalls the exhaustive induction she underwent to become a Singapore Airlines flight attendant twenty years ago, including three months 9 to 5 classroom training: these Tiger cubs were barely ready to leave the litter.

Oddly enough, Air Asia slugged us around A$30 to check in the same bags which would pass a Tiger Airways check-in without comment, three hours later.

There’s another trap for young travellers, too.  In many destinations the budget carriers utilise out-of-the-way terminals.  The Budget Terminal in Singapore lies some kilometres beyond the main complex used by Air Asia and Jetstar, so that to connect between carriers you wheel your baggage down the length of the terminal concourse, on and off a ‘skytrain’ then down into a basement to board a shuttle bus.  You feel pretty lousy…

Back in Melbourne, Tiger’s arriving passengers are channelled to an open-walled unloading bay with Portaloo toilets: welcome indeed to the World’s Most Liveable City.

Black sheep of the family

Am I the last person in Australia to find out the hard way that Jetstar charges each passenger $30 for the privilege of making payment for a round trip – double that for two pax paying together? For this short-hop journey, that’s almost a 20% loading on the base fare. (And no, for many passengers there is simply no other way to pay, depending on their bank). Their only serious competitor, Virgin, does it for $9 each or $18 for two – less than a third. It’s a kind of Basil Fawlty business plan; why would any customer come back for more punishment?  Possibly because the only remaining alternative is even worse.

Arrivals area, Tiger Airways terminal, Melbourne

I say ‘serious competitor’: Australia’s third budget carrier, Tiger Airways is now slowly rebuilding its network after several weeks’ grounding by the safety regulator. In any case, I swore my first experience of Tiger would be my last; here’s a pic of the passenger amenities at their makeshift terminal out in the freight yards of Melbourne Airport.  That’s a subject for a post in its own right.

Panmunjom, Demilitarized Zone

Visiting odd corners of unloved nations can be rewarding, if onerous, but this may be the nearest I’ll ever get to North Korea, a hair-raising experience in itself.

Inter-island freighter, Solomon Islands

Indonesian shipping operators come pretty close in the comfort states, too, as this pic from Lake Ranau, Sumatra, suggests.

Ferry on Lake Ranau, Sumatra

Waiting for the bus in Blok M, Jakarta

Kevin writes: ‘‘Twas the night before Christmas…” well, actually not, but it feels a bit like it. It’s the day before Idul Fitri here, and probably more like Lent but more serious, because most people have been fasting from dawn to dusk for a month, and it finishes tomorrow. Not everyone of course, there are all sorts of exemptions: kids, pregnant women, sick people and so on. About 13% of people are not Muslim, so the food places around where I live (next to a big shopping mall, with lots of Chinese Indonesians who are Buddhist or Christian) are still open at lunchtime. A lot of people are not strict about it anyway; when I went to the desk downstairs at my apartment today, as I was talking to the receptionist I suddenly realized there was a young guy sitting under the desk with a bowl of soup, hiding from view.

Dawn to dusk is a big ask, no water, food or sex during Ramadan, and people definitely walk more slowly; shop assistants flop over their counters, it’s also the hot season and many people look lethargic. But people are usually just as friendly, polite and dignified, and some of them are quite proud of the annual Ramadan ordeal as being a character-building exercise.

Work hours are shorter for many, as they work during their “lunchtime” and those who don’t sometimes can be seen lying down in the boot of cars sleeping at lunchtime; they’re mostly small people. And “buka puasa” the breaking of the fast at about 5.30 pm means food joints are jam packed. The last few days have seen lots of big sales, as many people buy new clobber to show off when they go home to the village to visit the parents or the family (the trip is called “mudik”), and prepare for the big celebration of Lebaran on Sept 1 with gifts. Most businesses and schools close this week, and apparently 6 million of Jakarta’s 12 million head off so the roads and the trains become very clogged.

I’ve been invited to Lebaran festivities in the past – special foods are served, and people hold open house where they invite the relatives and neighbours around. Many practice saying “mohon maaf lahir dan batin”, meaning “sorry if I’ve done anything to offend you over the last year”.

As usual, debate continues in the newspapers here as to whether it’s a hypocritical ritual, or whether fasting makes people gluttons at night, and why should I apologise to that idiot next door when I’ve done nothing wrong? But I think it’s a nice gesture of humility which might mend some fences. Sorry is the hardest word as we know.

Grilled fish sandwich coming up

I suspect this piece was probably as much about ‘style’ as about travel, ‘style’ pre-digested for the sort of people who prefer to carry their universe wherever they go, like a tortoise with its carapace.

Then along came a state administration fixated on hydro power projects, intent on developing the Island State as a hub of energy-intensive industry (which never happened).  A protest campaign sprang up to challenge the planned transformation of the Southwest. Photographers like Olegas Truchanas and Peter Dombrovskis led the way in capturing images of the wilderness at stake, but the battle was lost.

Ironically, the first stages of the Gordon River power scheme brought the Lake within easy reach of a newly-constructed road, and so it was that more Tasmanians trekked in to see what would soon be drowned. Amongst them, Sidney Game and his eldest son, whose Easter weekend hike in 1968 was recorded in these colour slides (remember them, kiddies?).