In 2006, shortly after backpacking the world, I wrote a blog post about the future of travel.  I envisioned planes flying further and cheaper than ever before (in 2019, Qantas successfully tested their Sydney to New York route, which topped 19 hours).  Business class passengers would be able to fully recline (in 2006, those eponymous pods hadn’t been introduced yet).   Eye-controlled digital cameras, glasses with 10 terabyte media hard drives, implanted passports and nanobot powered self-cleaning clothing are still on the distant horizon.  Then along came a virus, and my future of travel could be derailed altogether.  There is hope that, given a year or two, everything will return to business-as-normal.  Cruise ships will be full, waterparks will be swelling, festivals will be heaving, and we’ll look to these tragic COVID-days as an unfortunate blip in our travel evolution.   On the other hand:  
 
Airlines Look to the Maritime Past
Have you ever flown in a private jet?  Me neither. And yet there are thousands of these birds, shuttling the rich and powerful wherever they want to go, bypassing the line-ups and waits.  Commercial airliners might well be forced to adapt to a less crowded model.  What if they turn the resulting empty space into rooms, transforming into flying hotels cheaper by the hour than private jets, but far beyond the reach of us unwashed masses.  Could airline travel return to the model of 19th and 20th century ships, with tiny pod capsules for the poor below deck and opulence above for the wealthy?  Business travel, long the profit centre in commercial aviation, is going to take a massive hit in light of the Zoom revolution. Digital video conferencing has long been around with Skype, Whatsapp, Facetime, but it has never been normalized for full time office use).   As the airline industry grapples for survival, I’m sure all options are on the table.
 
Don’t Forget Your Health Passport
I remember travelling up east Africa with a little yellow booklet confirming I’d had my yellow fever shots.  Just like my grey international drivers licence, not one person ever asked to see it.  But health passports will be upon us yet again, confirming our Covid-19 vaccine, and whatever else rattled health authorities want to throw in the mix.  Much like an e-Visa, you might have to confirm your health status online before being allowed to fly, and will be turned back at the gate if you don’t have one.  Alternatively, we might have to undergo quick blood tests at the gate, false positives be damned.  I predict our government certified health status will grow the divide between the haves and have-nots.
 
Air Bnbs and Vacation Rentals vs Hotels
Given the circumstances, this has been a hotly debated topic.  Hotels might surround you with more people, but they have a diligent process and history of sterilizing, certification and constant cleaning.  Lord knows I’ve stayed in Air Bnbs with pubic hair on the shower walls and sheets I hoped had seen a laundry.  Air Bnb have already brought in new processes for social distancing, including booking guests three days apart and vigorous cleaning…but that’s self-policed.  Do you trust a large corporation with their profits, reputation and brand on the line,  or Peter T. Schmuck Jnr, who may just be stock photo for an unscrupulous Air Bnb fixer?   This will be a personal decision and much will depend on the vacation rental in question.  Given my own experience with iffy Air Bnb properties, I think hotels will be better positioned to pivot towards our sterile-obsessed future.
 
Camping is Back and Better Than Ever
The great outdoors is a social distancing playground.  I predict a boom for campgrounds, RVs and holiday parks.  Travelling across Australia, my family lodged in cabins at a dozen Discovery Holiday Parks and much preferred it to hotels.  Beautiful space, playgrounds, waterparks, family-friendly amenities and a sense of community really worked for us.  It’s going to work for more families too.  Camping is not for everyone, which is why cabins and RV’s are going to have a real boost.  Glamping will hit the bulls-eye. If more people embrace the outdoor, campground lifestyle, sticking with it when Covid is over, those rustic holiday parks will evolve and grow into bigger resorts with even more outdoor attractions. 
 
Health Apps
There’s already a furor about the relationship between health tracking apps and privacy.  It’s not inconceivable for future apps to include temperature scans and biometric health data.  Much like the Health Passport, your entrance into resorts, clubs, attractions and destinations will depend if the app – hackable as always – gives you an all clear.  Dating apps might include this forensic data in their matches.  Cue Gattica, designer babies, leper-like colonies for the infected, bubbles over cities…and other dystopian sci-fi scenarios.
 
Stay at Home VR Travel
Want to kayak with penguins Antarctica?  Or stroll around Machu Picchu?  National Geographic already have a virtual reality experience which allows you to do exactly that.  We’re still in the infancy of this technology, which is growing exponentially.  Soon you’ll be able to slip on a headset and be thrust into realistic, cinema-quality worlds that respond to haptic touch gloves and your own sense of discovery.  Ready Player One, the book and movie, predicted a virtual world far more interesting, entertaining and stimulating than the real one.  I expect we will be able to visit the Pyramids, Venice, the Louvre, Taj Mahal, outer space and everywhere else without leaving our living rooms – and without spending thousands of dollars.  Google’s Arts and Culture App, coupled with growing lists of VR experiences, are a sign of what’s to come.  

Cruise Ships and Resorts
If you think banking is too big to fail, spare a thought for tourism.  It’s the third biggest economic engine after cars and oil, generating over 10% of global GDP, and is – was - responsible for one in four new jobs.  There’s too much money and too much demand for it to fold. Still, mega cruise ships, including the dozen 5000+ ships set to launch in the next few years, are going to have to claw back public confidence, with incentives that might border on the ridiculous (they can always upsell you at the bar).  Small ships and river cruises might have a better go of it, and be a trend for the future of cruising.  Resorts and theme parks will limit capacity, increasing the exclusivity factor, and the entry fee that goes along with it. 
 
Return of the Travel Agent
It’s easier to drive a chopstick into your ear than reach an actual human at an online travel agency, aggregator, or bucket shop.  Navigating the future needs a fresh look and sharper eye at insurance and cancellation policies, and new regulations.  We don’t need a travel agent to tell us where to go anymore, but we do need someone who can spot these evolving details and ensure all our bases are covered.  Travel agents are ideally positioned to pivot into concierge, administration, and troubleshooting services. They’ll have our back, and we’ll need them more than ever.  As they tool up and train for the brave new tourism world, agents will be worth every cent of their commission. 
 
All these predictions result in a world that has more barriers, larger divisions, and an increasing separation between those who financially and physically qualify, and those who don’t.  I find myself hoping that society’s memory loss – the one that guarantees we keep repeating stupid mistakes – finally plays to our favour; that we’ll conquer this pandemic, and with a greater sense of appreciation and increased commitment to sustainability, continue on the path that brings us all together.  

​Be grateful you’re not a chef-owner who’s worked tirelessly to recently open a restaurant.
Be grateful you’re not a server at that, or any other restaurant.  
Be grateful you’re not a school kid hoping to improve your grades for college.
Be grateful you’re not a college kid, in debt, hoping to graduate into a hungry job market.
Be grateful you’re not a museum, aquarium, zoo, or tourist attraction.
Be grateful you’re not a tourist guide, tour operator, or concierge.
Be grateful you have nothing to do with the hotel industry.  
Be grateful you’re not a band on tour.
Be grateful you’re not a concert promoter.
Be grateful you’re not involved with a folk, arts or music festival.
Be grateful you’re not a sports professional.
Be grateful you haven’t spent your whole career training for the 2020 Olympics
Be grateful you haven’t spent your whole career training for the 2020 anything.
Be grateful you don’t work in a hair or nail salon.
Be grateful you don’t have lots of children to school, entertain and feed.
Be grateful you’re not single and alone.
Be grateful you don’t own a martial arts studio.
Be grateful you don’t own a book shop, gift shop, or boutique.  
Be grateful you don’t need to visit the Emergency Room.
Be grateful you're not a massage or physiotherapist.
Be grateful you’re not an artist who landed a big gallery break.
Be grateful you’re not a gallery.
Be grateful you don’t pay an exorbitant amount of commercial rent.
Be grateful you don’t have an unmanageable mortgage.
Be grateful you don’t live month to month, or week to week.
Be grateful you’re not supporting your family who live in another country.
Be grateful you’re not a refugee.
Be grateful you’re not completely invested in the stock market.
Be grateful you’re not caught up in a civil war, locust plague or ethnic violence.
Be grateful you’re not a filmmaker stalled in production.  
Be grateful you’re not a retail store.
Be grateful you’re not an event or wedding planner.
Be grateful you’re not in recruitment.
Be grateful you’re not working in media.
Be grateful you don’t work in the casino industry.
Be grateful you don’t work in the cinema industry.
Be grateful you’re not in the fashion retail industry.
Be grateful you’re not in the convention industry.
Be grateful you don’t have to sell advertising.
Be grateful you don’t work in a crisis-hit senior’s home.
Be grateful you don’t work in a stadium or venue.
Be grateful you don’t work in the oil industry.
Be grateful you don’t work in the airline or airport industry.
Be grateful you’re not neurotic or obsessed with conspiracy theories.
Be grateful you don’t own a gun, or see any reason to do so.
Be grateful you don’t have to worry about starving.
Be grateful you don’t have to worry about being cold.
Be grateful you don’t believe everything you read.
Be grateful you are not a professional speaker, or own a speaking agency. 
Be grateful you are not a travel writer.
Be grateful your wedding or family event wasn’t planned for spring or summer 2020.
Be grateful your graduation wasn’t scheduled in 2020.
Be grateful you’re not in theatre, dance, comedy, or public performance.
Be grateful you don’t work on a cruise ship.
Be grateful you’re not stuck on a cruise ship.
Be grateful your finances are not dependent on tourism or oil.
Be grateful you don’t work in catering.
Be grateful you are not in construction.
Be grateful you are not homeless.
Be grateful you do not live in a household with domestic abuse.
Be grateful you do not suffer from addiction.
Be grateful you are not a magician or a wrestler.
Be grateful you are not a professional busker.
Be grateful you haven’t had to lay anybody off.
Be grateful you haven’t had to shut anything down.
Be grateful you haven’t had to cancel the whole damn thing.
Be grateful you are not vulnerable.
Be grateful you have not lost a loved one to COVID-19.
Be grateful you are not a pessimist.
 
And while you’re at it, or even in it:
 
Be grateful you are physically and mentally healthy.
Be grateful you love someone, and someone loves you.  
Be grateful you live in a country with a social net.
Be grateful there are people that care.
Be grateful that there are adults in the room (most of the time).
Be grateful for science.
Be grateful for entertainment.
Be grateful for innovation.
Be grateful that level-headed, rational and empathetic politicians exist.
Be grateful for the global logistical supply chain.
Be grateful for technology.
Be grateful for fresh drinking water on demand.
Be grateful for streaming.
Be grateful there is food on the shelves.
Be grateful for your neighbours and community.
Be grateful there is a number you can call.
Be grateful there is help.
Be grateful there is soap.
Be grateful for online banking.
Be grateful for online shopping.
Be grateful you still have a job.
Be grateful for respectful discussion, critical thinking, and debate. 
Be grateful educators are figuring something out.
Be grateful for vaccinations.
Be grateful for the commitment and diligence of doctors and nurses.
Be grateful for people who show up for work when others don’t have to.
Be grateful for the weather. 
Be grateful for the things you have seen and done.
Be grateful for fresh air.
Be grating for deliveries. 
Be grateful for the tenacity of society.
Be grateful we will be better prepared for COVID-20.  
Be grateful the environment has had a brief pause to breathe.
Be grateful tourism will resume locally and more sustainably.
Be grateful there are more people who love than people who hate.
Be grateful the virus does not discriminate the way people do.
Be grateful we are in this together.
Be grateful for optimism.

​Travel bucket lists suddenly belong to another era, like a monocle, or camera film, or more recently, over-tourism.  After a decade of rampant tourism growth - buoyed by cheap flights, sophisticated marketing, digital, broadcast and print storytelling – it has all come to a crashing halt. Nobody is going anywhere.  It’s over folks, and life can not and will not return to normal.  We are slowly being conditioned into sterile states of isolation, detachment, and alienation. I took my kids for a walk in the forest – a legal activity at time of writing – and we watched a middle-aged lady jump into the trees to avoid crossing our path.  My 6-year-old thought it was funny, but it broke my heart.  For all the positive, heartwarming stories shared on social media, there remains deep Orwellian undertones beneath the phrase “social distancing” and the spectre of constant dread.   Next week, our neighbours are sticking birthday wishes on their doors for my daughter.  I’m going to walk her around the ghost town of our once thriving townhouse complex, and we'll wave to the faces behind windows.  It’s doubtful her cancelled birthday party would have proved nearly as memorable.   
 
As with many of you, I’ve been asking a lot of questions about the cost of social distancing.  There’s so much we don’t know about this pandemic, but a global narrative has emerged of the vital importance to “flatten the curve.” World-renowned scientists, economists and journalists risk their careers arguing otherwise, while an over-abundance of caution feels prudent.  Politicians are crushed between too many rocks and more hard places; damned if they shut down their countries, damned if they don’t.  A choice between economy and lives?  A disputed testing methodology?  Political opportunism?  The last stand of democracy?   So many questions, few answers, horrific fear-mongering, and of course ravenous media feeding our addiction for information relentlessly splattered across our bruised news feeds.   Did a viral cat spook our cultural elephant and make Dumbo jump off a cliff?  Did the planet figure out a way to make our political leaders act in a manner that will prove decisive when it comes to the real existential human threat of climate change?  Do I believe the frustrated Stanford epidemiologist who says we’re doing too much, or the professor from Wuhan who says we’re doing too little? How did Italy and New York not turn out like Germany and Washington State?  What crimes and disasters are flying under the radar while we obsess over mortality reports and daily infection numbers?  Meanwhile, there's Zoom drinks, Zoom dinners, Zoom classes, Zoom romances.  Zoom is no substitute for human connection, and humans are social creatures above all else.  Millions out of work, billions in emergency war-time aid, fights over toilet paper, and we haven’t even got to the social unrest yet, when the economic and social consequences really come home to roost.   It’s hard to think about anything else, which is why this opening is about six times longer than I wanted it to be.   Because I need to make one important point above all else:  amidst all this thinking, we need to start dreaming.
 
Bucket Lists are very special kinds of Dreams.  We stop thinking about money, time and logistics, choosing instead to project ourselves into an unspecified future to fulfill a personal longing.   When people tell me what’s on their bucket list, I often ask why.  What do you expect will happen when you finally stand at the foot of the Great Pyramids, jump out of a plane, or sail in the Galapagos?    Take it from me, reality is often too vivid – hot, bumpy, weird and overwhelming – to fully appreciate the moment until much later.  It’s the dream that counts, much like a lottery ticket.  One day…one day…one day, and now more than ever, we need as many “one days” as we can muster.  We need to identify, capture, and hold onto those dreams, for it is dreams that will shine a light into the dark days to come.   
 
Covid-19, and the measures that have been put in place to combat its spread, have ruptured society as we know it.  The notion of one people living in a global village, one that is already under threat from rising nationalism and a refugee crisis, is in tatters.  Our bonds have been sliced apart, our walls raised, our webs untangled. Success against the spread has been attributed to the kind of surveillance, control and social conditioning we'd read about in a dystopian nightmare.  What incentives do governments have to return such tools to the box?  Wait…I’m thinking too much again.  Weight is creeping up on my shoulders.  So, I close my eyes and dream again…of wild horses on the dunes of Sable Island; of sharing a purple fuzz sunset with my Dad in Algonquin Park; of floating with salmon as they swim upstream in Vancouver Island.  I dream of the mighty Rockies and golden prairies, of the Maritimes and Magdalen Island winds. I close my eyes again, and I dream of Canada.
 
Travel in the future might involve medical tests and health passports, banned countries and demographic restrictions. We will miss the freedoms we once knew.  Now we are confined to our homes, and soon, we we will be confined to our cities, provinces, and country.    If your dreams must be restricted to one nation, there are far worse places than the world’s second largest country, jammed with abundant resources, unique experiences, inspiring people and extraordinary space. To be in Canada is a stroke of undeniable good fortune, a winning geographic lottery ticket.  When we’re finally released, I hope we remember that people need hugs and handshakes.  That it’s perfectly safe to share a beer, campsite chow, a hostel dorm or dining table.  That large crowds at events and festivals are not dangerous, and that kisses were romantic long before they became viral weapons.   I hope we remember that we share a desire for adventure, experience, community, romance, history, culture and natural beauty. I hope we remember the dream that was once The Great Canadian Bucket List.
 
I’m relieved, reassured, and deeply grateful to live in this country.  Canada’s admired social, medical and economic net is being reinforced, emboldened, and strung up across all 10 provinces and 3 territories. No further evidence is needed to see that we live in a special country going through remarkable times.  My heart breaks for all the people I’ve met around the world who will not be nearly so lucky.     

Remember when times were just...interesting?   Ah, the good old days!  When quarantine sounded like an exotic nectarine and we didn't keep a running score on how many people got sick and died every day.  We're not going to beat this virus, but we will flatten the curve so our health services can cope, even if we have to drive the economy at high speed into a steel cliff to do it.   Of course, all this is good practice for the true zombie apocalypse, and plenty of anxious quality family time ahead.  Watching the world react has been the most insightful reality show ever produced.  Wouldn't it be ironic if Donald Trump was brought down by a virus from China with the name of a Mexican beer?   Wouldn't it be strange if a pandemic put the breaks on our excessive materialism, global emissions, and political absurdity?    It's certainly taken care of the Overtourism conversation...although I don't think Venice, Dubrovnik and Iceland will have to worry once the virus inevitably subsides due to media fatigue, vaccines and whatever virus awaits the next time someone gets kinky with a horny armadillo.  For this will happen again. And again.  

A global crisis will either bring the world together, or tear us even further apart.  As I write, there are plenty of people and organizations working hard to make both scenarios a reality.   No sports, concerts, events, festivals?  No cruise ships, parades, parties, schools or restaurants?   No offices, no staff meetings, no touching, no looking, no French kisses or Italian hugs?  How much can the economy take?   Will it snap back with vengeance, or evolve into something altogether different?  When the curtains drop, and the Coronovirus circus ends, will humanity celebrate with a debauchery the planet has never seen before?  There's a scene in the prescient Kathryn Bigelow film, Strange Days, that shows a city combusting.  You're not quite sure if the masses are rioting, protesting, destroying or celebrating.   That's what we can look forward to when this is all over.  Business as unusual.  Meanwhile, as icecaps melt and forests burn, scientists are beseeching the world to do something already about climate change, a call to arms that mustered but a fraction of the response to the latest pandemic.  To use another entertainment analogy, I can't help but wonder if the coronavirus is akin to the politics of Kings Landing in Game of Thrones, while the larger existential threat of the White Walkers marches ever closer. Climate change won't just target the vulnerable elderly: it's coming for us all.  Forgive me,  I've just been streaming too much.  

Speaking of which, I'm delighted to share news that my show (the most misspelt title in the history of television) WORD TRAVELS is now available to stream on Amazon Prime.  That's all three beautiful seasons, filmed in 36 countries, visiting spectacular locations to tick off incredible adventures that will inspire dreamers of all ages and interests.    Since it's likely most of the world is going to be in quarantine for a while, I hope you'll continue to feed your travel bug, keeping that poor, battered creature nourished within the insulated warmth of your soul.  Rest assured, the planes will once again take off, the ships and trains will depart, the museums will open, and the world will be a better place soon.  I know this, because it has always been so. 

You can access all episodes of Word Travels here. 

Someone needs to just come out and say it:  We have full-scale pandemic of unprecedented proportions!  Scientists have now proven that if someone even looks at you askew in 2020 - and that someone happens to have neighbours with distant relatives in remote Pingxiang - it’s pretty much guaranteed your cranium will machine-gun mucous from your double-barrel nostrils and vaporize everyone within a fifty-two-mile radius. ​ Oh, how we look back fondly on Ebola, which conveniently only killed people in Central Africa, victims that never gave us anything remotely as delicious as Balsamic vinegar.  Remember how Zika deformed that entire generation of children?  No joke is it, sitting behind millions of kids at the movies with their ginormous, misshapen, screen-blocking heads.   Flus from birds and swine killed hundreds of millions across the galaxy, but somehow we endured, and let’s face it, waiting on hold for internet support is more manageable as a result.  Humanity is nothing if not tenaciously opportunistic. We endure and survive and thrive in the face of asteroids and dinosaurs and cancelled Series A football matches.  At least until the Coronavirus came along, this deadly contagion that spreads at the speed of light by sound, light, fluid, metal, thought, and more alarmingly, urine-hued Mexican beer.   

Vigilance must be practiced.  All schools must shut indefinitely so we can return to healthy states of stupidity.  All social, religious and trade events must cease so we can withdraw into fear-crazed paranoid isolation (don’t worry, Amazon deliveries will continue unabated, Jeff Bezos will take care of that).  It is necessary to close all the factories, shops, stores and businesses, because the virus can’t get us if we’re unemployed and starving to death during an economic Armageddon.  Ground all boats, trains and planes, which are the true super disease carriers, transporting viruses under the finger nails and poorly disinfected toilet seats.  And ban all Chinese nationals, I mean all of them, even the ones who have absolutely nothing to do with any of it, because although racism is a virus too, some viruses must thrive for others to wither. 
​There is now a 99.9% certainty that you will die within the next one hundred years.  There’s simply no escaping it: YOU ARE GOING TO DIE.  So please don’t judge imbeciles buying three tonnes of toilet paper and locking themselves up in quarantine because they sprained a toe.  Celebrate their vast concern for the community, even as they run you over with their overflowing Costco cart and water bottles on their heads.

​As an abundance of caution, urban surveyors are now scouting caves, preferably ones with smooth walls to hold the rock art that will replace Netflix and Disney+.  Anyone know how to scrawl a pangolin with a burnt stick?   Your career is looking a whole lot more promising than mine.     At least according to the media, which is doing a cracker job keeping the score charts ticking over.   Every morning I wake up and can’t wait to see how many more are infected, and how many more are dead.  Is South Korea threatening China’s dominance?  Is Northern Italy giving Iran a run for its money.  Europe v South America?  It’s the World Virus Cup.   As we count the beans, who has time to worry about gun deaths or drug wars or Syrian refugees or the Big Mango inviting oil and gas consortiums to drill for gold in the San Diego Zoo.    Cheetoh Mussolini is obviously taking this seriously, appointing a Vice Presidential robot in charge, a bureaucrat who doesn’t believe in science, evolution, the dangers of smoking, or women.  COVID-19 is just where we want it, shaking on its microscopic knees.  Over in China, doctors are incentivized to raise future health alarms with one-way tickets to hard labour Kashgar re-education camps.  In Russia, anyone claiming the weather is too warm is permanently Putin-dipped into frozen Lake Baikal.  Fortunately North Korea is quite content, as the more of its people who die of COVID-19, the less mouths there are to not feed.    As for travel?   Well, we’ve been freaking out about overtourism for a while, the impact of relentless masses descending on places that used be great when we went there, but now that you’re going there, isn’t so great anymore.  Since the only Chinese person still travelling is a mid-level pantsuit designer from Chongqing, overtourism has fast being relegated to history, along with other formerly pressing issues, like Rachel’s haircut, and Justin Trudeau’s fancy dress.      It’s a rough, tough time to be selling meaningful global interaction, or any interaction at all. 

It’s a pandemic all right.  A pandemic of fear and ignorance.  A pandemic of media saturation and headline baiting.  A pandemic of economic uncertainty and distrust.   And while you have more chances of being stung to death by earthworms than dying of the coronavirus, I understand your feverish concerns, the media that fuels them, and why the economy must collapse so we can return to a simpler, more Stone-Age-like time.  A glorious age when it was normal and encouraged to spit in our palms and shake our hands in trust.  In the meantime, please don’t read this.  Your eyes on my words will make me sick.   ​

When I was a teenager, my parents gave me an “islands of the world” calendar featuring 12 months of impossibly turquoise water.  You know, the ones with coconut trees bending over a white sandy beaches.    I’d cut out the photos, taping them to the walls on my bedroom, dreamily staring at them long after the months ran out, and a new calendar arrived.  The islands had wonderfully exotic sounding names:  The Maldives, Tahiti, Seychelles, and my favourite, Mauritius.  Something about the way it rolled off the tongue.   

It was no short flight to get to Mauritius.  Located 900km east of Madagascar, it is a tear drop tropical island home to 1.2 million people, mostly descendants of Indians brought over by the British to work on sugarcane plantations.  Since independence in 1968, the official language of Mauritius is English, everyone speaks Creole, and reads and writes in French, a throwback to its French colonial days.  Not that I paid too much attention, soaking in my first warm summer night, and an all-night Creole celebration outside the capital of Port Louis.   At last, I was invading those dog-eared photos on my old bedroom wall. 

As one the most popular honeymoon and holiday destinations for French, German and British tourists, the island has around 100 resorts, primarily congregated in the north and west.  I headed south, a region that is slowly shifting away from sugarcane into exclusive golf courses and luxury villas.   Like other tropical islands, Mauritius is refocusing its resources on tourism to offset declining sugar prices.   The Heritage Le Telfair Resort is part of four properties developed under the same locally-owned hotel group, oozing  old world service.  Every night, I dug my toes in the sand watching a picture perfect sunset, as one is prone to do on island escapes.    A short golf cart ride away is the Villas Valriche, where foreigners can purchase luxury 4 bedroom villas overlooking a stunning 27-hole golf course.  While you can expect to shell out a couple million dollars for the privilege, it comes with handy Mauritian citizenship.   Sell your villa however, and you lose your passport.  

On a boat cruise to the nearby Ile de Coco, a pod of Spinner dolphins are practicing their aerial gymnastics.   In the distance, I see a mountain called Le Morne, where escaped slaves took refuge, and preferred to jump to their death rather than be captured.   The captain plucks spiny sea urchins off the shallow lagoon floor, cuts them open, cleaned them out, and hands them to me with a dash of white wine and lemon juice.   Seafood never tasted so good.  Like other Mauritians I’d met, the Captain was cheery and good-natured, sporting a white toothy watermelon smile.  He tells me about Snake Island (which is round and has no snakes) and Round Island (which has snakes and isn’t round).  That people here leave their religion at home, which is how Hindus, Muslims and Christians co-exist peacefully.   How 70% of the staff in the resorts springing up in the south are from neighbouring villages.   Creole pop music is blasting from the speakers.  I crack another cold Stag beer, knowing it can’t be that simple. A small white minority own most of the land, there are traffic jams every day inside Port Louis, and basic goods can be pricey, imported from as far away as Australia and South Africa.  

I took a break from the beach to visit a roadside attraction called Casela,  a bird and safari park, where I petted lion cubs and drifted amongst zebra on an offroad Segway.  Around me were honeymooners and families, the Euros loving their ultimate tropical island getaway.  I could drive from south to north in just three hours, leaving the mountains for the traffic of Port Louis, and the more developed north.    Here I found resorts with rows of couples facing each other over candlelight at poolside restaurants.   Fortunately, my wife was with me, because this is really not an island you want to experience on your own (nor does it appear to cater much to singles or backpackers). 

At this time of year, there are enough snowflakes falling in Canada to inspire a visit to any tropical island.  Unless you fly via hubs like Dubai, Paris or London, Mauritius might yet remain one of those elusive calendar dreams, brightening up an office wall. Perhaps, if we dream big enough, we might one day yet find ourselves under the shade of a coconut tree.    

From the Archives of Modern Gonzo:  A descent into conspiracy theory at the Fortean Times Unconvention in London.  

The Fortean Times is a highly entertaining magazine that features in-depth investigations into all things bizarre and wonderful, all creatures great and small, and the "World's Weirdest News". The term "Fortean" arises from one Charles Hoy Fort, a sort of Victorian Fox Mulder who set out to prove that all scientific data was biased and could not explain phenomena which fell outside its realms. His "I want to believe" dictum was "One measures a circle beginning anywhere" - but that doesn't quite have the appeal of tacky poster in a forgotten 1990's FBI basement. Still, the man kicked alien butt, and Forteana now refers to all the bits and pieces that those in control (pesky Illuminati!)would rather you didn't think about. Like a giant "Thunderbird" that was shot and killed in Arizona in the 1800's, or who (if anyone) really took out Princess Diana, and how they did it.  Split over the three floors of the University of London University Union, the Unconvention featured guests who write books that you always want to read but are too worried others will think you're being silly. Which is not to say they are silly. There was a renowned anthropologist, an internationally recognized biologist and a speaker named Peter Brookesmith who was so paranoid his picture was in silhouette. These are the people who I am told spend years dedicated to finding out what really happens in this magic show we call life. As Einstein said, "reality is an illusion, albeit a persistent one."

Paul McCartney is dead, and has been for decades. It's all there in the last few Beatles record covers.  Only and somewhat rather inconveniently, nobody told Paul McCartney.   The next speaker examined conspiracy theory from a media studies perspective, examining how facts can have a Medusa's head full of meaning. Semiotics, point's of view, changing ideologies, fake news. One man's abstract art is another woman's blood vial on the cover of the latest Metallica album. Conspiracy theory rests heavily on interpretation, and if you want to believe something enough, then the truth really is out there. Blogs and publications have content to fill, somehow, but as long as absurdity can nestle between the "Royal Family are Drug Lords" and the "Sex-god alien fathered my child", it will always be greeted with a certain amount of scepticism. 

After a few beers and a Jesus-was-really-a-nasty-fellow-who-murdered- his-political-rival John-the-Baptist-as-proven-by-Leonardo da Vinci afternoon banter, I felt more settled. The scary characters were innocuous folk who seemed to go about their thing like anyone else. There was this one woman though, about 4ft 8, with oversize almond eye and stretched skin that looked like it belonged to someone else. She was no doubt, a representative from the notorious Grey alien clan. She fitted in well.

I almost trampled over the host of Who's Line is it Anyway in my rush to get to the Princess Diana Conspiracy lecture. I was not alone.  Everyone packed into the hall to hear what really happened.  All conspiracy theory has its roots in inconsistencies. There are "facts" that just don't add up. Like the JFK assassination, like CIA mind experiments, like Gulf War veteran sickness. Well, we are told, it just so happens that with Diana, there are loads of inconsistencies. Like why the 17 cameras in the tunnel weren't working that night. Like who were the other two paparazzi that no-one knew, and why were these mysterious photographers the only ones to escape being arrested?  Like, why was a braking mechanism in the Mercedes removed 6 weeks earlier?  Like why did the ambulance take 2 hours to drive through a 45 minute route to the hospital?  There were dozens more that ran the gamut between psychotic fascination and libel. I'm not going to get into how they did it (another cabal of CIA drug-runners altogether), but these are some of the ideas expressed as to who did it. 
1) The Royal Family: Diana was rumoured to be 6 weeks pregnant, marriage to a Muslim arms dealer by the future king's mother would destroy the monarchy. Diana was meddling in politics, an inconvenient time bomb. MI5 and the CIA assisted in the hit.  The paparazzi were a convenient scapegoat to divert attention to some blatant inconsistencies in the investigation.
2) The Chinese Arms industry:  Diana had just cost the biggest land mine manufacturers in the world billions. She was taking on a very dangerous industry, and had to be stopped, much like a car is stopped when it crashes into a concrete wall.
3) Drug lords:  Dodi was the hit, Diana was the message ("we don't care who you are"). A vial of cocaine was confirmed to be found in her bag. Bet you didn't hear that in the press, but it's in the police report (allegedly). Dodi reeked of Bad Karma with drug dealers, arms dealers, poker dealers, you name it. Not the kind of guy a popular princess should be running about with. 
4) Satanic ritual: The car crashed into the 13th pillar, on a site that has been a Satanic hot spot for centuries. She was the princess that had to be sacrificed, and the whole plot was organized by those drug-peddling Royals who are seriously into their black magic and witchcraft.  Yep. 
5) Elton John: his career was flagging. Candle in the Wind (the Diana version) was heard before her death! Someone, somewhere swears it. And don't forget the UK Floral Association. Yes, now it all makes sense.
There were other theories, most of which received a laugh. Even weird folk maintain some tennis grip on reality.

Outside, vendors were selling all sorts of alternative spew, from The Church of SubGenius to Satanic decor, alien coffee mugs to Druidic jewelry.  The Association for the Scientific Study of Anomolous Phenomena (ASSAP) hijacked a room and funnelled crowds through a range of experiments, testing ESP, remote viewing and water diving among other cool bar tricks. I tried to tip the scales with my mind, but all I got was a headache. And the image of a house that was telepathized into my brain was supposed to be noughts-and-crosses, but show me divining rods and I'll part the Red Sea. 
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If Conspiracy is really just Paranoia's girlfriend, aliens a muddle of dreams, and hallucinations the side effect of some haywire CIA mind experiment, then it's a pretty safe guess that life is far simpler than we think it is. We are born, and we die. We are awake, and we sleep. We never have dark, dangerous thoughts because it's wrong.  We never do bad things because that would be naughty. Angels are playing the harps up in heaven, and Father Christmas is ho-ho-ho-ing somewhere up North with the Easter Bunny. It all makes sense.  Unless you choose to believe the US Government has not told us a fraction of everything it knows regarding assassinations and aliens.  Unless you choose to believe it is all lies.  What if disinformation is a kind of phlegm in the froggy throat of our perceptions of reality.  Ignoring it is to be blissfully ignorant, and yet to fight it is to be labelled paranoid, crazy, and neurotic. Somewhere in the middle lies curiosity and awareness, which is what brought me to the event in the first place.  An old Greek proverb says it all: "When you hear there are plenty of cherries, always carry a small basket."   When you visit an Unconvention, always be sure to leave plenty of room in your head.

Another year and another decade have passed, another year and another decade we won’t get back. Despite all the indicators to the contrary (I highly suggest reading Stephen Pinker’s Enlightenment Now) it certainly feels like we’re living in particularly turbulent times. Brexit, Trump, ISIS, Facebook…the 2010’s have repeatedly been called the Decade of Crisis.   It was also a decade that took us into science fiction more than one would think.  Consider arriving in January 1, 2010, and telling a person on the street:

• My iPhone takes better studio portraits than professional studios
• I was hungry but my Uber driver had snacks
• Did you see the drone firework display in Shanghai?
• According to my watch/Fitbit, I took 8,912 steps today
• I’ll pay for that by tapping my phone
• It’s included in the magazine subscriptions on my iPad
• Let’s binge watching Season 22 of the Simpsons
• I feel like instantly listening to every hit from 1992
• I swiped right and now we’re married
• Hey Siri, remind me to take out the trash at 1pm?
• It’s one of the most popular bag designs on Kickstarter
• I’ll get someone to design that on Fiver or Upwork
• I love that influencer’s selfies on insta
• Hey Google, is it a catastrophic fire day in Adelaide?
• It’s fake news
• We’ve got a Whatsapp group, but I’ll Snap you
• Elon Musk reckons his re-usable rockets, Cybertruck and Hyperloop will help us colonize Mars
• Did you see a doctor went to jail for gene editing babies?
• I’ll have a Beyond Burger please, and a pizza with plant-based pepperoni

​What the hell are you talking about?   And this is just a fraction of the global fizzle-pop martini that has shaken and stirred over the past ten years. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.”  Charles Dickens wrote that timeless line in 1859.  There is always political, cultural and economic turbulence, although this decade frequent environmental disasters joined the party.   Unprecedented droughts (South Africa, Argentina, Australia), floods (India, Louisiana, Oklahoma), hurricanes (Bahamas, Puerto Rico), storms (Superstorm Sandy, Tropical Irene), heatwaves, wildfires (Australia, California, BC), the melting Arctic, city-sized icebergs breaking off Greenland and the Antarctic Peninsula.  And facing this global challenge are a bunch of world leaders not too removed from comic book villains.

​There have always been high season and low season, but overtourism – best represented by  poster children like Barcelona and the Louvre, Venice and Dubrovnik -  proved canaries in the coalmine for the onslaught of travellers benefitting from cheap airfare, growing middle classes and an obsession with social media validation.  I’ve had to question my own role in all of this, as this decade saw me transform from a freelance writer and television host into the bestselling author of a half dozen “bucket list” themed books.  Not to mention a husband and father. What hasn’t changed is the core of what set me off fifteen years ago:  an insatiable curiosity, and the desire to share what I discover with others in the hope that it inspires them as much as it has inspired me.

My latest book is about the joys, trials, hilarity and wonders when travelling with kids across Australia.  Gone are the days of intense budget travel, and I’m a little long in the tooth to be sharing dorms in hostels (plus kids under six are not the best bunk mates).    But they do demand and instigate new adventures all the time.   We’re kicking off 2020 with a true bucket list road trip adventure, visiting three incredible BC ski resorts to learn – as a family – how to embrace the Canadian winter, and make it down a mountain on skis.    Having warmed up for a recent Vancouver Sun story about Whistler, we’re kicking off on the powder of RED Mountain, revving up for Revelstoke, and with any luck we will get a thumbs up from Olympic legend Nancy Greene on the slopes of Sun Peaks.  As usual, I hope to inspire other families to do the same, and at the very least, avoid visits to the hospital (my ER visit in Whistler to saw off my wedding ring was enough, thanks).
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Whatever happens in the year and decade to come, may the weather prove fair and your health fairer.  May our challenges be met and our smiles frequent. I hope we continue to appreciate the incredible benefits of our privilege, and empathize with those who want nothing more than to share a piece of it.   Every year that passes is a year we won’t get back. Regardless of what we might be telling ourselves in 2030, let’s continue to make them count.

It was important to stay awake on the overcrowded night train to Dharamshala. If I missed my stop I would end up north at the Pakistani border, where there are enough problems without a confused hack stumbling about.     I was scheduled to arrive in a small town called Chakkebank at 3am, which, translated into Indian time, meant anywhere between last Wednesday and the coming of the messiah.   Due to a festival, the train was steaming with people, but my sticky-vinyl top bunk afforded some distance from the disjointed beggars, the transsexuals who bring luck for a buck, and the tea guy who somehow managed to get through the throng every ten minutes screaming “Chaaiiiii!!”  without inflicting third degree burns with his thermal.   I dozed off and awoke to discover two guys had scaled my upper bunk and somehow positioned themselves between my open-scissor legs. When a third tried to join them, I put my foot down.  Literally, on his head.    I made my station, waited two hours for the bumpy dawn bus into the mountains, and finally arrived in Dharamshala, home of the Dalai Lama and the Tibetan government-in-exile.   Like cigarettes, I’m convinced this journey took years off my life. 

It felt like I had arrived in another country, and in a sense I had.  A traveller today can experience more Tibetan culture in Dharamshala than they can in Lhasa, the capital of Tibet.  Along with Tibetan refugees, thousands arrive monthly from all over the world to study Buddhism, get involved in various Tibetan movements, catch a glimpse of the Dalai Lama when he is in town, or just enjoy the tranquility and beauty of the surrounding mountains.  The cold, wet narrow streets were lined with restaurants, hotels, clothing stalls, internet cafes, offices of Tibetan institutions, and too many westerners wrapped in blankets as opposed to their usual Gore-Tex jackets.     

“It’s not so much a question of ‘Free Tibet’, so much as ‘Save Tibet’,” explains Tenzin from the Central Tibetan Authority.  The Dalai Lama was in town and I was trying to arrange a camera permit, in the process learning something about Tibet’s current status.  Decades of Chinese investment and migration has fundamentally changed the face of Tibet, so the Tibetans are now focused on preserving their identity as opposed to regaining independence.  Like other world hotspots, religious and political boundaries are blurred in the conflict, and at the centre meditates the Dalai Lama himself – the political and religious head of a nation.  His non-violent “Middle Way” solution continues to make Tibet a popular Western cause.   Whatever happens, I am told it is all karma. 

​I did manage to see the Dalai Lama, and sat in on a Buddhist class. I walked the lovely Lingkhor path around the temple, spun the colorful mani wheels, chanted mantras, ate traditional dumpling-like momos, and lost my breath at sunset, staring out at the mountains and valley from the peaceful confines of the Tsuglagkhang temple complex.   In lower Dharamshala, the Indian community gathered for the annual Dusehra festival, in which giant effigies were blown up to rid the year of evil.   Huge fireworks lit up the snowy peaks, as crowds of happy Indians shook my hand and wanted me in their photographs.  I could have soaked up this atmosphere for weeks, but my time in India was just about up.   There was just one more thing needed to complete my Indian experience, and fortunately, it did not involve dysentery.

​The Taj Mahal is the world’s most breathtaking and romantic mausoleum, built in 17th century to honor a sultan’s second wife, who died at childbirth.  It is located in Agra, about three-sorry-four-oops-five hours by train from Delhi, and is India’s busiest tourist destination.  It took me three hours just to arrange my return ticket, but by now I had learnt the most crucial lesson for successful travelling in India.  Never be in a hurry to get anywhere!   Certainly I wasn’t in a hurry to get back to my roach “hotel” - a prison cell with a crusty Hello Kitty bedsheet, creating a colorful, if disturbing touch. So off I went to the Taj, where tourists are happily fleeced and touts, taxi drivers and beggars jostle for pole position.   When I arrived in India for my month of travel, I dreaded this scenario.  Now my skin is hardened, my wits sharpened, and it’s just paneer for the course. 

​After dealing with massive lines, corrupt guards, confiscated cameras and a hefty foreign tourist entry fee, I finally got into the complex.  The late afternoon sun glittered across the white marble of the Taj Mahal, silently reflecting in the ponds and floating like a fairytale palace.  Was the day’s journey not a symbol of travelling in India itself?  The frustration, the stress, the scams, the sweat, and finally, the magic that somehow made it all worthwhile.    The Taj Mahal is truly as magical as it looks in the photos.    
 
Back in Delhi after another completely eventful train journey (there’s no other kind in India), I packed my bags and headed for the airport.  India, this world within a world within a world,  had won me over.  I remember what a traveller told me when I first arrived.   “No matter what you've read, seen or heard about India, wherever you go, it is nothing at all like what you expect."   

It’s been a tumultuous month in the world of bucket list experiences.   The New York Times art critic ran a story about the sheer and utter disappointment of seeing the Mona Lisa, glassed away from the masses of crowds expecting something more...transcendent.  Asked on national radio about my own experience with Leonardo’s masterpiece, I recalled seeing it many years ago, and feeling distinctly underwhelmed:  “I thought there would be God rays and confetti, and angels would be singing with harps.”   If I didn’t know it was regarded as the pinnacle of artistic expression, I would have walked past it, marvelling at plenty other works in the Louvre that would better match that description.   The subject moved onto travel experiences that are disappointing.   Each to their own, but there’s really only a few factors that will make an activity or destination disappointing:

1. There are too many people and the crowd overwhelms the experience.
2. It is too expensive and you feel jilted by the cost.
3. The wildlife didn’t turn up because, you know, wildlife.
4. The weather sucked, so you’re too busy focusing on how great it would be if the weather didn’t suck.
5. You were robbed, fell ill, got hit by a bus, or were press-ganged into slavery aboard a Thai tuna fishing vessel. 

All this to say:  The experience did not live up to your expectations.   The higher your expectations, the higher the chance that the destination or activity will disappoint you.   Reality simply can’t compete with your imagination.  And I can’t blame anyone for having an imagination stoked by the most perfect of all scenarios.  On television shows, in travel articles, in books (ahem), you rarely see or hear about crowds, costs, and crap weather.  The sky is mostly blue, and the animals always show up.   It is very rare that everything comes together exactly as it does in the brochures, and yet the marketing of peak experience does no favours to your expectations.  You’re being set up for disappointment, so better to have no or limited expectations to begin with. 

One of the tools proposed to combat the scourge of overtourism is Responsible Marketing.  This would require tour operators and destination marketing organizations to use real people in real situations, not models beneath a Photoshop sky.   Imagine if casinos were restricted to responsible marketing?   Instead of hot couples smiling as they win at the roulette table, you’d see leathered alcoholics flushing away next month’s rent. Any activity that depends on good weather is particularly vulnerable to unmet expectations.   Nobody wants to visit a beach in a hailstorm, ski on a mountain without snow, or get rained on during a parade.  My biggest disappointment is the northern lights – a dreamy bucket list experience that is particularly weather dependent.  Ten times I should have seen a magical natural fireworks display in the sky, and ten times the sky was overcast, or the solar ions weren't firing, or the sky lit up the day before I arrived, and the day after I left.  Ten times in the freezing northern winter, including trips to Whitehorse and Yellowknife during peak aurora-watching season.    Eventually I did see the northern lights,  but compared to all the alluring photographs and stories, witnessing a slight pulsating green fog in the frigid, early morning sky (few people know that the best time to see the lights is well after midnight) was a let down. At least I hadn’t flown in all the way from Japan, unlike the disappointed aurora-watchers around me. 

​The global bucket list took another hit this month with the chaos surrounding One Ocean Expeditions.  I’ve worked with this Squamish-based company for several years, having visited Antarctica, crossed the Northwest Passage in the high Arctic and more recently taken my mom and daughter to remote islands in the Atlantic on their wonderful boats, guided by their wonderful crew.  I’ve recommended the company at dozens of talks and in my books, and was shocked to hear they’ve been shipwrecked with financial difficulties.  Passengers were left stranded shortly before an Antarctica sailing, most support staff have left the company, and information from the permanently closed head office to hundreds of out of pocket clients has been cryptic and scarce.   The source of the issue appears to have been the damage that occurred to one of their Russian leased vessels in August 2018.    There are competing claims as to who was responsible and should foot the bill, and as a result the Russians withdrew their ships from One Ocean’s service.  This sent the company scampering to fill exist bookings on their single remaining ship, and in all likelihood broke the sea camel’s back.   The company’s mysterious restructuring has been devastating for their amazing staff and crew, many of whom are owed tens of thousands of dollars in wages.  It has been devastating for passengers around the world who have footed up to $14,000 per ticket, and have no travel insurance recourse to get their money back.  It has been devastating for the Royal Canadian Geographic Society, who benefitted from One Ocean as a major sponsor, and it has been devastating for polar tourism.  One Ocean did vital, generous and important work for the Arctic and Antarctica, supporting scientists, educators, communicators and students.  I remember telling passengers that One Ocean did not just help us tick Antarctica off our bucket list, the company had helped us become ambassadors for a truly incredible, vulnerable and oft-misunderstood eco-system.  Despite hope that a new financial partner will save the day, the damage to the brand and betrayal of trust of both clients and crew is, in all probability, fatal.  Despite some wild rumours swirling around, I do believe One Ocean had a wonderful heart. Operating at the mercy of the roughest of natural elements, it just needed a better business brain.  Here's hoping for smooth waters and easy sailing ahead for passengers, crew, company and the polar region itself.