Feasts with the locals ... that's amore

A close encounter with a baby orangutan made Jeff Burtenshaw's trip. Photo / Alan Gibson

Readers' top travel experiences cover the hedonistic, the aesthetic and the mystical

In a small mountain-top village in Sicily we met a man visiting his family from abroad. He offered to show us around his quaint family village. We spent the day drinking velvety espresso, looking out over the breathtaking views and basking in the Mediterranean sun. The highlight came when we went to his family's home. He introduced us to his sick, elderly father who welcomed us like we were his own. They sat us down in the ancient courtyard of their humble home and made us a feast. We drank homemade peppery red wine, ate cheese freshly made by their son from their own goats and freshly made pasta using tomatoes picked straight from their vines, while the sun set overhead and we listened to them sing in Italian.
Janine Baker

In 1990 I was travelling through Indonesia and staying at Kutai National Park in Eastern Borneo. Just before dawn and again at dusk we ventured into the rainforest in search of a local family of orangutans. On our last day there, while our guide was up a tall tree looking for primate signs, Debbie, a 2-year-old child of the forest [orangutan] approached me and without hesitation sat herself down on my lap and proceeded to eat my bananas. Humans have only two hands to grip, while Debbie had the advantage of four, and she steadfastly refused to let me go. An awkward solution involved me stripping down to my underpants and lying face down on the forest floor (to the delight and mirth of my two companions). Debbie now had little to grip and consequently gave up.
Jeff Burtenshaw

After walking around central London for hours, our feet were killing us ... so we took off our shoes and walked through the long damp grass of Hyde Park on our way back to our hotel. The soft grass was heavenly. But that pleasure was topped by the darling little squirrels running around us. The kids fed them tiny pieces of their muesli bars. The looks on their faces showed how magical it was for them. Something so simple in a big city.
Julianne Penman

Forty years ago I travelled on a bus to the edge of the Sahara Desert dressed in a djellaba and scarf. With my broken French, I found a room with a Berber family. The women, mesmerised by the lone white visitor, proudly brought me to the local hammam ... and in that hot, steamy marble cavern I bonded with a lovely gaggle of chattering Berber women and their children. They scrubbed me from head to toe like a baby, then dumped buckets of water over my head. We giggled and transcended cultural differences. We were simply women bathing. I was invited to share dinner. Four pieces of meat on top of the couscous were given to the children, the grandmother, and me, the guest. Two days later I caught the bus back to Marrakech. We all hugged goodbye. I will never forget that magical experience of human bonding.
Joy Stockwell

Climbing Mt Olympus (home of the Gods) was something I had dreamed of as a boy fascinated by Greek mythology. It was a steep climb from the picturesque town of Litochoro. We left with packs full of local apricots, peaches, water and Greek bread, then climbed through scenic juniper and beech forests with flowering orchids, past stubborn pack mules carrying provisions to mountain shelters and up toward Zeus's seat. We climbed for two days, then finally saw the fog-enveloped pinnacle of Mitikas. Undeterred, we carefully picked our rock climb then sat respectfully atop the Greek world. It was awesome to be there, but then the clouds cleared and a peregrine falcon alighted on my shoulder. It just sat there unconcerned, looked at us a while, and finally flew back into the clouds.
Peter de Lange

On a hot day on a rural road in central India, our car ground to a halt. While the driver went searching for help, we sat by the tarmac. Out of the haze, two figures, a man and a woman, slowly advanced towards us. As they came closer, I could see it was a Sadhu, an Indian holy man, on a truly personal journey. Dreadlocked, his naked body covered only with ash, he seemed a man from a different era. His cycle was constant: he lay down on the road whilst his companion anointed his head and his feet; duly blessed, he stood up, stepped forward, lay down and the cycle began again. Slowly he moved past our stationary vehicle, his gaze never faltering ... We looked at each other. My phone rang. It was another world.
Michael Bowman


The small plane from Honiara dipped down and people scattered as [it landed]. A boat was waiting to take us across the Marovo Lagoon to our destination: the tiny, breathtaking island of Vanua Rapita. Enough room for three small thatch-covered dwellings perched over the lagoon. No electricity, no running water ... We spent the days snorkelling over the coral reef, reading in the sun and watching as the villagers from the nearby island caught fish for our simple meals. Our son was invited over to their village to play soccer and everyone came to watch with much laughter and delight.
Denise Loiselle