Danzón!

The couples dance as if in a trance, moving slowly to the rhythm, seldom speaking.
It's fascinating to watch.

I have visited Mexico three times. One visit was really just a tentative toe over the border, across the Rio Grande in mid-summer, from Brownsville, Texas, to Matamoros - its name improbably borrowed from Spain's patron saint, Santiago Matamoros, St James the Moor Killer (I don't recall my history books talking about Mexican involvement in Spain's expulsion of the Moors). My overwhelming impression was of dust, diesel fumes and decay. On another occasion, I flew in to Mexico City for a brief visit. The diesel fumes were still here, but the city, buzzing busy as a beehive, dazzled with graphically stylish facades and silvery skyscrapers. I munched ripe melons in the zona rosa, communed with mummified monks (Mexico's obsession with death is on display everywhere) and puffed my way to the top of the ancient Aztec pyramids on the city's periphery. I came home armed with pottery and glass and paper-mache, primitive but beautiful. I have them still.

Girl in toyshop, Zona Rosa

Campesino waits to cross the street

University facade

Piñata

Zona Rosa cafe

Diego Rivera mural detail

Shop facade, Zona Rosa

Mummified monk

Atop the pyramid (no that's not me!)

Later, much later, I came back to Mexico, this time to discover what I had previously missed: danzón! In Córdoba, every Thursday afternoon, in the large plaza by the cathedral, the band arrives, brass instruments reflecting the sun. A few oom-pah-pahs later and couples, mostly middle-aged, move closer and the dancing begins. Danzón has its origins in Cuba, where it is very popular, and it is now part of the cultural scene in many parts of Mexico, especially in the state of Veracruz. The couples dance as if in a trance, moving slowly to the rhythm, seldom speaking. It's fascinating to watch. As the sun sets, the band departs and the dancers take their leave. They'll be back next Thursday.

In the luminous city of Veracruz, on the Gulf coast, I watched danzón with delight once more. It was late afternoon, dusk had arrived and large black birds were settling down with much cackling in the almendra trees which shade the park by the plaza. As the band tootled and the lights flickered on, the dancers were slow-moving shadows on the darkening square. Danzón! Mexican magic. And you're invited.

Shikoku

If you're here, as I am, in autumn, strings of bright orange persimmons will be hanging to dry in the sun—a dazzling counterpoint to all those dark cedar beams, sliding paper doors and pine-shaded walkways. All that is missing from this dream is the sound of a shakuhachi flute floating in from the garden.

It is mid-morning on the island of Shikoku and the mountains beyond the small fishing town of Iyo, where I am staying in a tiny wooden house, change from sun-drenched green to shadowed blue haze and then, around the next bend, to green again as we speed along the expressway, through a dozen tunnels, towards Uchiko. This is the mountain town that the Japanese government deems extra special, and protects with heritage orders. Mitsu is with me. My architect friend wants me to see the other Japan, the hidden world that the centuries have barely changed, away from the gleaming steel and glass of the big cities. We pass a sign that warns of wild boars which roam free in the mountains. "There are deer here in the mountains, too" Mitsu says, "and deeper in the mountains, small bears." I look up and see, terraced on surrounding slopes, small farms, with neat vineyards and orchards. "Kiwi fruit" Mitsu tells me, pointing to a property. "Strawberries grow here, too - and persimmons, grapes, pears, peaches and apples. This is November. The apples are ready to be picked."

Persimmons dry in the sun, Uchiko

Like most travelers who come to Japan, I first explore the fabled Osaka-Kyoto-Tokyo circuit to the north, in Honshu. But I am determined not to miss, as most visitors do, the rustic tranquility that Shikoku offers. This is the smallest and least populous of the four main islands of Japan. Mountains that run east and west divide Shikoku into a narrow northern subregion, facing the Inland Sea, and a southern part bounded by the Pacific. Most of the 4.5 million inhabitants live in the north and its larger cities are located there. So I extend my stay and fly down to Matsuyama, an easy one hour flight from Tokyo. It's in Ehime prefecture, which straddles the northern coast of the island. And Ehime has a lot to offer— Seto Inland Sea National Park with islands of various sizes that are visible from the coast, Omogokei gorge with towering cliffs and waterfalls and Mt. Ishizuchi, the highest peak in western Japan.

Pilgrims, Shikoku

After the Honshu razzle-dazzle I've just seen, the peace here is palpable. Matsuyama seems unhurried and infinitely gracious, with its lake-fringed parkland, ancient castle, quaint tramways and popular Dogo-onsen Hot Spring, a public bath and an important cultural asset. At night, I stand and watch the kimono-clad patrons of Dogo-onsen stroll about under lamplight, turning the area into contemporary kabuki, or so it seems to me.

Matsuyama city (above) and Dodo-onsen Hot Spring

Iyo is a 30 minute train ride west from Matsuyama along the coast. Here, too, is serenity on smaller scale. I live for a few days Japanese-style, sleeping on tatami, munching soba noodles, okanomiyaki (a delicious cabbage omelete) and grilled eel. I wander about, taking in the local scene— fishing smacks that creak and sigh on blue water, roadside artisans who chip away at marble to create gods and monsters, traditional wooden houses that cast long shadows on cobbled streets, and—one whisper-quiet afternoon— a tiny woman in grey who, unaware of my presence, approaches a shrine by the sea. She stands silent, claps her hands, communes with her ancestors. And then, just as suddenly, she is gone.

Street scene, Iyo

So up we go now, into the mountains which rise behind Iyo, to Uchiko. Founded in 1271, this small rural community grew into a village serving the local farmers. By the Edo Period (1603-1867) the village had become a town and later, during the Meiji Period (1868-1912) wax and paper production became important to the local economy. At the Kami-Haga residence and Wax Museum, easy to locate on the main shopping street, you go back in time. Here, wealthy wax merchants lived and created wax products, like candles. I wander, shoeless, through the house, and later observe how wax was made—I even see wax berries hanging from a sumac, or wax tree. If you're here, as I am, in autumn, strings of bright orange persimmons will be hanging to dry in the sun—a dazzling counterpoint to all those dark cedar beams, sliding paper doors and pine-shaded walkways. All that is missing from this dream is the sound of a shakuhachi flute floating in from the garden. Shikoku, by the way, is pilgrim-country and many Japanese come here to trudge from temple to temple (there are 88 altogether, one in Uchiko) wearing traditional attire—woven hat and leggings and a stout cane. Watch for them.

Kami-haga house facade; display in wax museum; house interior; shadowed paving stones in the garden

Not far from Uchiko, Ozu offers another glimpse of old Shikoku. If it's summer (June to August), you're in for a treat. After dark, you can sit on a houseboat that floats on the river, drink warm sake by torchlight and watch black-robed fishermen use tethered cormorants to catch fish. A bird swivels and disappears into the dark water, and suddenly – splash– there it is, with a sliver of silver wiggling frantically in its beak. These smart birds receive a lot of loving care and are just like members of the family, which must be why they live around three times longer than their wild brothers and sisters.

Cormorant fishing, Ozu

East of Matsuyama, in Tokushima Prefecture, lies the Iya Valley, and if you have time, you might want to visit this mist-wreathed region of wooded mountains and silent valleys, strung about with vine bridges (steel cable is artfully hidden under the vines) and dotted with thatched farmhouses that date back centuries. It's not the easiest place to get to, and, alas, concrete and electric pylons have intruded, but there are bus services and places to stay, including Chiiori House, made famous by Alex Kerr whose love affair with Old Japan (and anguish at the New) is detailed in his book, Lost Japan. Kerr's first view of Iya— "rivers were tinged with emerald, and the towering cliff faces looked like carved jade" are enough to entice me there, when I return, as I must, to Shikoku.

Vine bridge, Iya Valley

Blue Sky. Red Desert. Silver City.

...the producers of Mad Max (and many other movies) came here to use the sweeping red panorama as a backdrop. It is magnificent. A seemingly limitless horizon - you can almost see the curvature of the earth from this vantage point.

It's high summer, 1883, out in the hot red desert country in western NSW, as a miner from Cornwall, one of many here (because of their mining skills) carefully and painstakingly drills a hole, slowly turning a steel bar while his partner wields a heavy hammer. It’s slow and painstaking work, in this era before power tools - turn, hammer, turn, hammer - until the hole is deep enough. Now the miner takes black powder - gunpowder - and lights a fuse. Quickly, he retreats to a safe place and waits till he hear a dull thud and the sound of splitting rock. The rock pieces that fall away gleam in the candlelight. Packed into that rock, waiting to be crushed and smelted, is silver.

Miners at work in Silverton circa 1895

The miners, strong and tough, earn 7/6d per week. The young boys who help, some as young as 14, earn 1/3d. Life is hard. Water comes by horse and cart and costs a shilling a barrel. Lunch underground is bread and jam. There's a working smelter up on a hill, to separate the minerals from the rock, and scattered all around are small rock-walled dwellings with canvas roofs to house hundreds of miners - along with the inevitable ladies of the night. This was a place called Silvertown, later Silverton, and this mining venture marked the beginning of activity and exploration that would see, a few years later, major ore discoveries close by - and the rise of what was to become a thriving mining community and a significant Outback city.

The red desert that surrounds Silverton

It's high summer, 2007. I'm here, same spot, about to see and explore what remains of the mine, today called Day Dream Mine. Caretaker Beth is my guide. She gives me a belt with battery, a helmet with a spotlight attached, and down we go, into the remains of the mine to try to get a sense of what it must have been like, way back when. Outside, the sun blazes high in a blue sky, but down here, in these narrow corridors chiselled out over a century ago, it is cooler. The Cornishmen worked here by candlelight. Such huge effort, such primitive tools, so long ago. But Beth assures me the effort was worthwhile. Our spotlights pick out silvery glitters in the rock above our heads. The rock mined here, the silver it ultimately produced, returned handsome dividends for the mine owners: $10,000 in the first year alone - a fortune in today’s dollars.

The entrance to Day Dream Mine; the approach to the mine

The red earth I see all about me when I finally climb out of the mine contrasts quite dramatically with what I saw earlier that morning, as my CountryLink train raced past neighbouring Menindee, on the Darling River, which supplies much of Broken Hill’s water needs. Days ago, heavy rains had inundated the region, and already golf-course green grass covered the ground as far as the eye could see. This was causing much excitement among the local animal population - feral goats were nibbling and then dashing away as the train approached. Sheep, too, came close to the track, flocks of emus danced about in celebration and kangaroos anticipated a tasty meal before the sun rose high in the sky. It was an enthralling sight.

Kangaroos shelter from the midday sun

And then, after a relaxing and comfortable trip, we reached the end of the line - Broken Hill, popularly known as The Silver City, and set at one end of the Barrier Range, 48 km east of the South Australian border. The city sits 304 m above sea level and has a population of about 22,000. Although mining created Broken Hill and is the source of its wealth, it is also an important centre for pastoralists, many of whom have huge sheep properties. Millions of wool-producing Merinos are protected from dingos by a 600km fence.

Before coming out here, I’d researched the region, and as I wander around, I discover that history is a tangible presence, above the ground and under it; it permeates the countryside as far as the eye can see. The vast semi-arid desert, dotted with blue-grey saltbush, truly beguiles. For 30,000 years, the Willyama people lived here, until the arrival of explorers like Charles Sturt who noted, in 1844, a “broken hill” in the diary of his journey. Sturt was followed by settler-pastoralists (including two sons of novelist Charles Dickens) and in the early 1880s by prospectors. When valuable minerals were discovered, miners came in their thousands and a syndicate was formed to lay claim to the area. What had been discovered was beyond their wildest imaginings - a massive lode containing silver, lead and zinc, an orebody shaped like a boomerang, 7km long and 220 m wide. Head frames, powerhouses, workshops and winder houses went up along the top of the ridge that held the lode and lower down, on the slopes, smelters were constructed. The syndicate became The Broken Hill Proprietary Company and ”the broken hill” in northwest New South Wales became one of the world’s main suppliers of lead and silver, setting the stage for a new start to Australian industrial development.

But I’m still in Silverton, and before leaving, I look around the atmospheric old “ghost town” that squats in the dust - isolated yet an integral part of the Broken Hill experience. The famous pub is here, a cafe and some art galleries (there are many artists resident in the region) along with two restored churches. Don’t be surprised if a camel strolls by - you can even enjoy a sunset camel ride if you feel so inclined. Not far away, you can look towards Mundi Mundi Plain, to a view you’re not likely to forget; small wonder the producers of Mad Max (and many other movies) came here to use the sweeping red panorama as a backdrop. It is magnificent. A seemingly limitless horizon - you can almost see the curvature of the earth from this vantage point. The pub, incidentally, has pictures from various movie productions on display along with other classic Australiana.

The old hotel, Silverton; "Mad Max" country

Thirty minutes back along the road and I’m in Broken Hill. The first thing that strikes me is how similar the city centre is to many others I’ve seen in country Australia - Bathurst immediately comes to mind. The same wide streets, angle parking, classic old buildings, unhurried atmosphere, friendly greetings. Pubs, too. Many are ancient, including the Palace Hotel (1889) with its long verandahs casting welcome shade and cast-iron balustrades. It featured in the movie, Priscilla, Queen of the Desert.

But as familiar as it looks, Broken Hill is different, because it backs onto a massive grey-black wall of rubble and smelted leftovers, maybe 100m high. It runs the length of the town, and leaves the visitor in no doubt as to what Broken Hill is all about. Up top, a handsome restaurant called Broken Earth gives me great food and a grandstand view of the city. And after I order (Tuscan burger with marinated eggplant and roasted peppers) I walk the few metres over to the city’s Miner’s Memorial, where hundreds are listed and recalled - names, dates and cause of death. It’s a sober reminder of the perils underground, and up here, overlooking the mines and the city, an appropriate place for quiet remembrance

Smeltered leftovers rise high behind the old Palace Hotel

Mining back in those early days was tough, conditions were often dangerous, wages were low and fat profits went into the pockets of the syndicate. It’s not surprising that the emergence of a strong union movement - and industrial action - is woven into the tapestry of this city from its very beginning. Strikes were common. A strike in 1892 to protest the use of scab labour saw union leaders imprisoned. Many strikes were to follow, up and into the new century, culminating in a work stoppage in 1920 that would make life better for the miners.

Today, the industry is constantly changing; the 3,000 miners needed to extract ore has been trimmed down to just 600, thanks to computerized equipment. You can see the action at Delprats Underground Tourist Mine. It’s a 2-hour tour, deep in the bowels of the earth. You descent in a cage, just as the miner’s do, with your helmet and spotlight. Go south on Iodine Street, cross the railway tracks and turn right following the signs. Tours are held at 10.30 am weekdays and at 2 pm on Saturdays. You should arrive 15 minutes before the tour starts.

I am in the old Trades Hall now, a graceful building featuring stained glass, a fine polished wooden staircase, union banners and memorabilia - and a huge banquet hall, with a handsomely decorated ceiling in pale green. Here, the history of Broken Hill comes to you not with a whisper but a defiant shout. On the walls are portraits of union officials cleverly created in crushed stone, in display cases are rows of buttons worn with pride by men long since gone to their rewards. The hall was built from 1898 to 1905, for the Barrier Industrial Council, which was an amalgamation of eighteen unions. Its foundation stone was laid by the father of Federation, Sir Henry Parkes.

Facade of the old Trades Hall

Broken Hill is a surprisingly green city. For this, the locals owe much to a local named Albert Morris, who lobbied (in the 1930s) for a protective reserve around the town to keep dust storm damage to a minimum. And, helpful to a visitor like me, plaques at regular intervals offer capsule histories of streets and sites. These wide thoroughfares are named mostly for minerals or chemicals or for Broken Hill bigwigs. It’s easy to find your way around, and there are plenty of good motels, cafes and restaurants to make your visit comfortable and carefree. When you arrive, I suggest you head first to the local Visitor’s Centre and pick up a map to assist you on your walking tour of the city. The brochure gives details of important buildings and heritage sites like the museum with its display of old locomotives, railway machinery and minerals, or Australia’s first mosque, built in 1891 for Muslim camel drivers from Afghanistan and India, or the Royal Flying Doctor Service headquarters. There’s a Driving Tour map, too, called The Silver Trail - get one, rent a car and you’ll get to see what I saw.

It’s time now to head for Broken Hill’s many art galleries. The late Pro Hart heads the list, of course. The famed artist’s gallery features a remarkable collection of Australian works - Albert Tucker, Arthur Boyd, Norman Lindsay, John Perceval, Charles Blackman, David Boyd and Fred Williams. A room is devoted to works by William Dobell. Pro Hart was born in Broken Hill in May 1920 and he worked underground as a miner before before devoting his life to art. He loved to collect vintage cars, including Rolls Royces (one is covered with his artwork). The three-storey gallery is at 108 Wyman Street, open 9-5 weekdays and Sunday afternoons.

No visit to Broken Hill would be complete without a visit to the Silver City Art Centre and Silver City Mint - and, later, as the sun sets, to the sculptures in the Living Desert. The Art Centre, at 66 Chloride Street, contains a superb collection of art along with hand-crafted jewelry pieces in silver. This gallery is home to The Big Picture, which is an understatement if ever there was one. In a specially designed space is the world’s largest painting on canvas, 100 metres long and over 12 metres high, stretched in a circle around you. The painting features the landscape of the region, along with local animals, reptiles and birds. Painted by Peter Andrew Anderson, it was opened to the public in 2001. It is a breathtaking accomplishment.

Painting and jewelry on sale, Silver City Art Centre

The Living Desert (and Sculpture Symposium) is on the northern outskirts of Broken Hill, along Nine Mile Road. Its 2,400 hectares contain aboriginal sites, a regeneration reserve and panoramic views from rocky outcrops. On one of these are twelve huge sandstone sculptures, carved by artists from around the world, including indigenous Australians. They are monumental, majestic and perfectly complement the site’s natural beauty, especially as they catch the setting sun. Stand in the silence, watch a wedge tail swoop high in the sky, marvel at this pristine landscape as shadows lengthen and dusk arrives. I can’t think of a better way to conclude a visit to Broken Hill and Australia’s accessible Outback.

View to the Pinnacles from The Living Desert lookout

http://www.visitbrokenhill.com.au