Basking in the amber glow of the world’s last sunset over the Pacific Ocean off the western tip of Savai’i, this is the only place on earth where you can see tomorrow, because Savai’i is so close to the International Date Line.

We are standingat thegateway tothe underworld, swept away by stories of spirits, myths and legends. Our reverie is interrupted by a four-yearold frightened by a creature of a different kind poking its claws out of a small shell.

“Crabbies are gonna hurt me!” the child screams, cno doubt scaring off any lingering ghosts.

Download full story Samoan Island that Time Forgot

I’m clinging to a rock face above a deep chasm in the Snowy Mountains. The view is breathtaking. But I am breathless, trying to wedge my toes into a fissure before the final thrust. The children mock me from below: “”I can see your bum Mum! It looks huge from down here!” I sincerely hope these are not the last words I ever hear. One last burst of energy and I’m on the rock shelf, exhilarated.

Our guide, Acacia, reckons I’m a natural. It’s amazing what the fear of death can bring out in you. Seriously – if you’ve never tried rock climbing, it’s great fun. And there’s no better place to do it than the spectacular Snowy Mountains, six hours drive west of Sydney.

Download full story Spring into the Snowies

It’s a word that strikes fear into the heart of the tropical traveller: barracuda. We’re snorkelling in Blue Bay, a magnificent marine park off the southeastern tip of Mauritius in the Indian Ocean. Five-year-old Taj and four-year-old Grace squeal with delight as hundreds of technicolour fish dance around them. Suddenly a young French boy screams,“Mama, je vois les BARRACUDAS!!!” Instead of walking on water like a cartoon character to get back to the boat, I swim down to find a battery of barracudas, each more than a metre long. Eyes darting and tails whipping, they swim slowly away. Turns out they’re not so dangerous after all – just rather unattractive. Laughing, we sail back to Shandrani, a five-star family resort on the shores of this breathtaking bay.

Download full story Taste of the Tropics

There’s a romance to train travel that you don’t get on planes or automobiles. Time stands still; gazing out the window, the worries of the world pass you by.

For a young boy, it’s a dream-come true. “We’re sleeping on a train?” Taj asks, eyes as big as saucers. Yes, we are. We’re catching the Westlander, an overnight train to the heart of ‘mulga country’, 777kms west of Brisbane. Our sleeper is cleverly designed with a foldaway washbasin, clip-on card table and mini-wardrobe. Like a five-star resort, the bunk beds are turned down for the night.

Download full story Outback Express

It’s like Pavlov’s dog theory. Every time I see a motorhome, I think of the scene in National Lampoon’s Vacation when the dead aunt is strapped to the roof. So the idea of driving an RV across the United States fills me with dread: what if we accidentally reverse over a national treasure? Are trailer parks full of characters from My Name is Earl? And why are my Daisy Duke denim shorts cutting into my thighs? The answer to that last question would be because of the food. You don’t go to the States to lose weight. Everything is supersized: the meal portions, the drinks, the tourist attractions – and the warmth, kindness and enthusiasm of the American people.

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I love beer!” my son Taj announces within minutes of arriving in Bundaberg. Our destination is Mon Repos – one of the few places you can see mother turtles lumbering up the beach to lay their eggs. (Actually that’s how I felt when I was pregnant: like a fat, wrinkly turtle. But I digress.) On the way, we taste Bundy’s other delights. Not rum, but ginger beer. Inside the Bundaberg Barrel( ) is a hightech lab where you make and taste your own ‘kids beer’.

Download full story Turtle Toddlers

From above, the pretty pearling town of Broome seems to shimmer – the impossible blue of the Indian Ocean, the blinding white sand of Cable Beach, the red soil rich with iron ore.

In this vast and ancient land, it’s easy to disappear, spirited away by legends of the Aboriginal Dreamtime. A new five-star resort, nestled behind the 22-kilometre stretch of sand, captures the mystery and mythology of this remote region. It’s called Pinctada, named after the shell that nurtures the world’s most beautiful pearl.

It is a dream come true for the owner, pearling doyenne Marilynne Paspaley.

Enormous wicker chairs embrace you upon arrival in the stunning open-air foyer. The 72 ultra-modern rooms and suites are encased in classic corrugated iron that wraps around an asymmetrical pool. Next to the pool is Australia’s only Li’Tya concept Spa. Li’Tya means ‘of the earth’, yet the surroundings appear otherworldly.

The haunting sound of a didgeridoo wafts through the air, a reminder of the timeless healing treatments used by the indigenous people of this land for more than 40,000 years, but only recently discovered by the West.

Within this enclave is a lush, tropical courtyard filled with frangipani trees, custom daybeds and a private plunge pool. Sipping a herbal tea, wrapped snugly in a soft towelling robe, I choose the Mala Mayi exfoliation and warm mud wrap, Mirri Facial and Miji Kodo massage.

The organic ingredients are all sourced from Indigenous Australian Foods, which is owned and controlled by Aboriginals. Li”Tya’s founder, Gayle Heron, developed her own distilling methods to preserve the life force of these native plants.

I am presented with four choices for the exfoliation: the Lemon Myrtle and Desert Salt Body Polish (for balance and purification), the Mother of Pearl (to nourish and strengthen), Native Mint Sea Salt (fresh and uplifting) and Pink Desert Salt with Wild Rosella (for physical and spiritual healing).

As a tired old mother of two, it’s a tough choice, as I need all of the above, finally I settle on Native Mint because -well- it smells so lovely.

Then I choose the Detox Body Mud because I had one too many glasses of wine the previous night. Oops. The treatment begins, appropriately, with an Aboriginal smoking ceremony to cleanse the air. Smoke curls up from a wooden cradle filled with smouldering lemon myrtle and O’yarrorng moss.

The pungent scent blends with the tribal music, transporting me to the endless horizons of the Aboriginal Dreamtime.

By the time the mud wrap is painstakingly painted over every inch of my body, I am drifting off to sleep, totally relaxed.

A Vichy showers follows, then the Miji Kodo (‘melody’) massage. The therapist works rhythmically, using spiralling movements around pressure points to balance and realign energy flow. It is simply divine.

I feel a bit like shrubbery as various plants are placed on my face for the Mirri facial Lillypilly cleanser, Wild Rosella Hydrating Mist, Wattleseed Protein Polish, Macadamia Hydrating Cream, Boronia Eye Serum and a Tasmanian Kelp Mask. The clever concoction works wonders – my skin feels as soft as a baby’s bottom. And the Quandong Hair Mask seems to have softened what is usually described as a bird’s nest atop my head.

Indigenous tribes use Quandong fruit as food and medicine, while its kernels are crushed for hair conditioning oil. I float back to our luxurious suite a new woman, unrecognisable from the harried city slicker who arrived just hours before.

By journeying through the Dreamtime, you can rediscover what it is that you have 10st.Serenity. Peace. A deep, inner calm. Pinctada is one of the great destination Spas of the world. If Australia is your oyster, this is its precious pearl.

Bustling souks, sandy beaches, majestic mountains and endless deserts: Morocco is simply a feast for families.

Disneyland has nothing on the Jemaa El Fna.

Walking towards the marketplace in the heart of Marrakech, I’m swept away by the sound of throbbing drumbeat, the sight of snake charmers, and the smell of searing lambs’ head.

Our three-year-old crouches beside a fully fanned cobra, while our four-year-old kisses a monkey on the lips.

Fortunately, it’s safe: The cobras are devenomed and the kids are inoculated.

During our month in this mélange of Africa, Europe and Arabia, we discover Morocco is an ideal family destination.

Dar Away from Home

Framed by the snow-capped Atlas Mountains, the Red City is a postcard.

In the medina – the old fortified city – there are hundreds of dars for rent.

These are multi-story family homes, built around a central courtyard.

Ours comes with a housekeeper, child carer and cook – Hakima, who prepares superb tagines, soups and salads.

Every day we wander through the labyrinth of souks, as the kids practise their French haggling with shopkeepers.

We ride a horse-drawn cart through the Gueliz – the new city – dodging buses and taxis and women with olive jars on their heads.

Moroccan olives are bright pink, making for a colourful photo when piled high next to saffron and cumin in the souks.

In this gourmet paradise, a cooking class at La Maison Arabe is a must-do.

The 71-year-old teacher used to cook in the palace of King Mohammed VI, the country’s leader.

My chicken and olive tagine doesn’t have the same velvety texture as hers, but the zaalouk, or eggplant salad, is perfectly piquant.

The following night we devour a seven-course degustation at Dar Yacout, a restaurant inside a former palace.

The waiters, clad entirely in white, shuffle silently in babouche slippers curled up at the toes.

The chicken is so tender it’s carved with a butter knife.

Hoping to learn more about the cuisine, we hire a car and driver to go an hour south to Morocco’s food bowl – the Ourika Valley, in the foothills of the Atlas Mountains.

Rock the Kasbah

The ritual of tea is as old as time itself.

We duck our heads to enter the mud-brick home of a local Berber woman, who performs tea ceremonies for tourists.

The previous week she’d hosted British actor Jude Law, who owns a holiday home here.

A huge chunk of sugar is put in the pot, followed by green tea leaves and fresh mint.

Once brewed, it’s poured from a great height. This aerates the tea, improving the flavour.

The result is sweet, sticky and addictive.

An hour later we drink more tea at the Tnine Saffron Farm, where they quickly pick the stamens of the crocus flowers at dawn before they wilt.

This king of the spices is worth more than gold.

Perched majestically on a hill overlooking the farm is our accommodation, Kasbah Bab Ourika.

In the past, kasbahs were high-walled castles used as a defence when the city was under attack.

But this monument has all the mod cons: soft leather lounges, feather down pillows, fireplaces, a bar, pool, library, and restaurant.

The menu is mix of old and new, with an entrée of pear and blue cheese salad, followed by beef and prune tagine then a flourless chocolate cake.

They also serve chips, pizza and spaghetti bolognaise for the kids.

The piece de resistance is the owner’s daughter Lourdes, a five-year-old who speaks seven languages.

She captivates our son, who follows her around like a puppy dog.

We take a donkey ride down the cliff-face through the Berber villages, where kids call out to practise their English.

Even in remote areas, Moroccans speak a smattering of English as well as French, Arabic and Berber.

Sun, surf, sand and sea

Three hours drive west, on the Atlantic coast, is different world.

The long crescent beach at Essaouira is a family playground, with kids playing soccer, kite surfers, horse riders and the odd camel.

Cafes, restaurants, swings and parklands line the foreshore.

A few minutes’ walk along the cobbled streets brings you to the historic fortress town, built in the time of Portugese rule.

No cars are allowed within the walled city, so our luggage – including the kids – are bundled into a wheelbarrow and pushed through the narrow laneways.

Our self-contained apartment is bright and sunny, painted in the blue and white typical of the area.

Essaouira is also known for its Argan oil, a rich antioxidant used in cooking, skin and hair products.

The kids are transfixed as a tribe of goats climbs a tall Argan tree to reach the nuts.

We all have a go at grinding the inner nut, the oil of which has become one of Morocco’s biggest exports.

Ships of the Desert

From here, many tourists drive four hours over the mountains to the Sahara Desert.

But that’s too arduous for small children.

Our guide, Carol Prior from Morocco by Prior Arrangement, suggests an oasis in the desert at Agafay, an hour from Marrakesh.

La Pause is ‘glamping’ at its best.

The mud and straw huts are simple but luxurious, filled with candles, artefacts, fluffy pillows and Egyptian cotton sheets.

Every night you follow the candlelit path to your private dining tent, for a sumptuous three-course meal.

During the day, there’s mountain bike riding, desert golf, horse riding and, of course, camels.

I take the bumpy elevator up to Jabul, clutching onto Taj; hubby hops on Mohammad with Grace.

Suddenly, our ships of the desert run aground.

It seems Jabul has developed a taste for Mohammad’s buttocks, nipping at them repeatedly.

The latter responds by sitting down – his human cargo sliding inelegantly off his back.

“That camel doesn’t like me,” Grace protests while rubbing her bruised bum.

We laugh about it while exploring the sand dunes, to the soundtrack of clicking scarab beetles.

Later, I ride to the top of a razorback ridge on a magnificent Arabian stallion.

To my left are the snow-speckled Atlas Mountains; to my right, a blazing orange sun hovering on the horizon.

The Heritage of Humanity

As the sun sets on our African adventure, we return to the smoke-filled square where it all began.

UNESCO has listed the Jemaa el Fna as a “masterpiece of the oral and intangible heritage of humanity”.

We listen to the slave songs of the Senegalese, the stories of the soothsayers, the snake charmers and the charlatans.

It is a magical and mystical place – one that your family will never forget.

Travel & Living

The Djemaa el Fna – a sprawling square at the heart of the red-walled medina in Marrakech – throbs to the slave songs of the Senegalese; the young acrobats desperate for dirhams; the soothsayers and the bards; and the haunting melodies of the snake charmers as their cobras perform a dance of death.

Hawkers flirt, cajole and entice you to buy their wares: succulent dried apricots and fresh-squeezed orange juice from the fruit trees lining the boulevards.

A smoke haze hangs over the heads of thousands of tourists, as stallholders sear row upon row of pigeons, snails and merguez sausages.

Surrounding the square is a labyrinth of souks selling everything from ‘natural viagra’ to flowing kaftans and babouches (traditional Moroccan slippers).

It’s no surprise that this 11^th century site has been listed by UNESCO as a ‘masterpiece of the oral and intangible heritage of humanity’.

This recognition has attracted hordes of tourists, amid increasing scrutiny of animal welfare and environmental issues.

La Police Touristique is clamping down on the monkey handlers who beat their chained Barbary Apes, and the drivers of horse-drawn carriages who vigorously whip their whimpering equines.

At the same time, a United Nations of ex-pats is slowly turning this desert nation, green.

An hour’s bus trip southeast of Marrakech lies Morocco’s food bowl – the Ourika Valley.

Ancient Berber villages dot the foothills of the snow-spotted Atlas Mountains, where locals live much as they did hundreds of years ago.

The Berbers created the tagine, a spicy stew cooked in a glazed pot with a lid shaped like a witches hat.

Each meal is preceded by a mint tea ceremony, where the thick, sweet liquid is poured from a silver pot a metre above a tiny glass.

We wander through a bio-aromatic Saffron Farm to discover that the ‘king of the spices’ is still harvested by hand.

The stigmas of the crocus flowers are only picked by women, before sunrise, to avoid damage.

Lunch at the Ourika Garden Restaurant begins with a rainbow of salads, the carrots, cucumber, tomatoes, eggplant, potato and beans grown in the  ochre soil of the veggie garden.

The cuisine is influenced by Senegal, Spain, Portugal, and France, which occupied Morocco at the end of the 19^th century.

High on a hill overlooking the village of Tikatert is an imposing kasbah, styled on an Islamic fortess.

Kasbah Bab Ourika is the vision of banker-turned-builder Steven Skinner, whose father set up Britain’s Travel Foundation, a charity for sustainable tourism.

The Foundation has joined the Moroccan National Tourism Office to launch the Every Drop Counts campaign, which has seen hotels and guesthouses save 25 percent of their average water consumption.

With 360-degree views of the mountains, the majestic kasbah is the progeny of a simple Berber home and a luxury country estate.

It’s made entirely from rammed earth, providing natural insultation: warm in winter, cool in summer.

The exquisite furniture is made by artisans in the souks of Marrakech.

The water is solar-heated, and Steven has ordered a bio-digester unit to convert waste into methane gas for cooking.

“I want to give something back to the villagers,” Steven says with a shrug. “It breaks my heart to see the elderly women, hunched over, carrying wood for their fires.”

Two Sydney girls, Cassie and Marilyn, created the kasbah’s fusion menu, featuring local ingredients with an international twist: think witlof, feta, tomato and walnut salad, followed by a beef tagine and orange poppy seed cake.

Organic produce is sourced from another ex pat – an Aussie called Murray who lives down the road.

Forty-five minutes south of Marrakech is another eco-haven.

The landscape morphs into desert, with undulating plains and plateaus dusted in shimmering sands.

Suddenly we see an oasis – a campsite next to a ribbon of river.

Camels, horses and donkeys lie languidly in the shade of olive trees to escape the baking heat.

This is La Pause, a simple but luxurious resort built by eco-conscious Frenchman, Frederic Alaime.

He spent 14 years on this replica Berber village, building rammed earth huts and weaving traditional tents.

Dozens of tiny candles light the smaller abodes, while the largest hut is solar powered.

“I want to leave less impact on the place,” he says. “We are almost self-sufficient.”

Like the Slow Food movement, everything is done at a leisurely pace.

Three-course meals are served in a private dining tent, by workers from the local village who gather the wild rocket and hand-press the olive oil.

The food is five-star, accompanied by an organic pinot gris.

Every activity has minimal impact on the environment, from bike riding to desert golf and dune trekking.

On the last night, I ride a white Arabian stallion up a razorback ridge.

To the left is the snow-speckled Grande Atlas; to the right, a blazing orange sun sits on the horizon.

The only thing I hear is the clicking of giant scarab beetles.

Another thriving eco-business can be found west of Marrakech, about two hours by bus.

Argan oil is the latest miracle ingredient in beauty products and haute cuisine around the world.

And argan trees only grow in one place – near the beach town of Essaouira on Morocco’s Atlantic coast.

Traditionally, goats climb to the top of the trees to eat the nuts, chewing through the tough outer shell.

Local women would search through the excrement to find the inner almond, which contains the good oil.

The nuts are now harvested mechanically but the women get a slice of the profits by processing the oil in co-operatives, set up by the government.

They use stone grinders to crush the nuts into a thick paste, which is pressed by hand to separate the oil.

This nutty oil is now being used in high-end restaurants from New York to Paris.

As a skin care product, it reputedly does everything from reversing the ageing process to curing eczema.

An hour further west, take a glimpse at Morocco’s Portugese past in the seaside village of Essaouira.

Whitewashed, blue-shuttered buildings line the boulevards leading to the old city.

Encircled by 15^th century fortifications, the medina is a car-free zone courtesy of World Heritage listing.

Once off the bus, our kids and luggage are loaded into a carrossa (hand-cart) for a wild ride through the narrow laneways, past stalls selling sweet purple olives and roasted almonds.

Essaouira used to be a hippy retreat, and Cat Stevens returns every summer under his new name Youssef Islam.

While we stay in Chez Rebecca, a lovely self-contained flat, nearby is the country’s first eco hotel, Lalla Mira, which has wastewater recycling, solar floor heating and organic cotton bed linen.

Morocco is a terrific example of a developing nation on its way to a cleaner, greener future.

King Mohammed VI is a progressive monarch with a passion for human rights and environmental reform.

This spicy stew of Africa, Europe and the Middle East continues to entrance adventurers from around the globe.

Fact File

When to go

Morocco is famously known as a ‘cold country with a hot sun’. Visit in either spring (Mar-May) or autumn (Sept-Nov).

Getting there

Etihad Airways, based in Abu Dhabi (home to Masdar, the world’s first carbon-neutral city), flies from Sydney to Casablanca via the United Arab Emirates.

www.etihadairways.com

Where to stay

Kasbah Bab Ourika

www.babourika.com

La Pause

www.lapause-marrakech.com

Chez Rebecca

www.chezrebecca.com

Costs

Accommodation in a luxury riad, kasbah or apartment will cost around AUD$300 a night. Bus and train travel costs just a few dollars. Delicious food is plentiful and cheap.

More information

Morocco by Prior Arrangement

www.moroccobypriorarrangement.net

G Mag

A winter barbeque might seem like an oxymoron.

Aren’t BBQs supposed to be about searing snags and chops on a hot summer’s day?

Drinking beer on the balcony in the bitter cold doesn’t quite have the same appeal.

Believe it or not, winter is the perfect time to barbeque.

Think about it: The coals keep you warm, there are fewer flies to swat away, and you can enjoy smoky roasts or wild game.

The latter is increasingly extremely popular in Australia, with many butchers now stocking wild goat, boar, emu, camel and kangaroo.

‘Roo fillets are cheap, full of iron and low in fat.

But you have to cook Skippy quickly, or he’s as tough as an old boot.

Smear the fillets with olive oil then slap on the barbie for three minutes each side. Rest in a warm spot for another 10 minutes with a slice of wine butter on the top (reduce some wine and port until almost a glaze then mix into the butter).

Serve with a Chilean wine – the Morande Reserva Carmenere.

“It has a smoky, savoury character that compliments the taste of this type of meat and cooking style,” according to James McIlwain from Southern Cross Wines.

That’s the other good thing about winter BBQs – it’s an excuse to drink red wine.

It goes so well with roast lamb or beef, which you cook in the covered barbecue the same way as you do in the oven.

Try butterflying the lamb so it becomes a nice rectangle, fitting easily on the barbie.

My favourite recipe is from Neil Perry: Barbecued butterflied lamb leg with cumin, lemongrass and ginger (see attached).

If you don’t eat red meat, why not try a whole chook with a bourbon glaze.

Combine a-third of a cup of bourbon (you can drink the rest to keep warm) with some maple syrup, Dijon mustard, garlic, olive oil, salt and pepper.

Split with chicken lengthways along one side of the backbone to flatten it then smear the glaze all over.

Grill on the Barbie for about one and a half hours, until the juices run clear.

“Quail is also good, marinated in chilli and pomegranate molasses,” says the founder of eatanddrink.com.au Christopher Hayes.

For seafood lovers, he recommends BBQing a whole ocean trout filled with preserved lemon and dusted with ras-al-hanout. Pop the fish in some foil then roll in wet newspaper to protect the delicate flesh as it gently steams.

At this point you might be thinking, “Well, it all sounds very well and good. But I don’t want to be standing out there in brass monkey weather, turning the damn meat”.

Well, fear not.

Some clever clogs have come up with an invention called BarbeSkew, the world’s first hands-free BBQ.

Skewers inside the unit rotate the food automatically to avoid burning.

Or you could just rug up. It’s kinda fun to pop on big winter coats and beanies to face the elements.

What about vegetarian options, I hear you ask (or maybe that’s just the voices in my head).

Roast veggies, or a warm potato salad, are the ideal accompaniments to the aforementioned chunks of meat.

Stuffed mushrooms are simply divine, especially with haloumi cheese and pesto.

Or barbecue thinly sliced zucchini and eggplant, dressed in a sweet and sour sauce with equal parts dissolved sugar and white-wine vinegar.

This type of food is evocative of summer.

So even if it’s minus-two degrees outside, you can pretend you’re wearing thongs and boardies after a day at the beach.

A winter barbie will make you feel like it’s summer all year ‘round.

Barbecued butterflied lamb leg with cumin, lemongrass and ginger.

• 1 lamb leg (about 2kg), butterflied
• 2 garlic cloves, chopped
• 2 lemongrass stems, peeled and sliced into fine rounds
• 3cm piece of ginger, chopped
• 2 tsp roasted cumin seeds, half crushed to a power, the rest whole
• 1 tsp sea salt
• 2 tbsp chopped coriander leaves
• 3 tbsp chopped mint
• 60ml (1/4 cup) extra virgin olive oil, plus extra
• freshly ground black pepper

Remove the lamb from the fridge one hour before cooking.

To make the marinade, put the garlic, lemongrass, ginger, cumin and salt in a mortar and pound into a rough paste with the pestle. Add the herbs and pound for a further minute then stir in the olive oil and mix well. Spread the marinade evenly over the lamb and leave for at least one hour to infuse.

Preheat the barbecue, making sure the grill bars are clean. When hot, put the lamb on the hottest part. Cook for about six minutes each side for medium rare. Put on a platter and cover with foil. Rest in a warm place for 10 minutes.

Carve the lamb into 5mm slices and arrange on four plates. Mix a little olive oil with the juices on the resting platter and pour over the lamb. Give a good grind of fresh pepper and serve immediately.