The rain forest Americans missing out on
FEET propped on a balcony rail, I’m gazing through a small vineyard lined with palms, then out over the edge of a thousandfoot sea cliff. And on the far Atlantic horizon, a sudden apparition: Probing forelegs, followed by a colossal spider.
That was just optics. The spider – a small and ordinary one – had suddenly crawled out on the top rail at eye level, a few inches away. But here on the island of Madeira, west of North Africa and Europe and hundreds of miles from either, the traveler’s musing question applies to both me and the spider: How did we get here?
Each of the hundreds of species of birds, plants and insects within the rich mantle of rain forest that greens Madeira is a miraculous wanderer. They have drifted in on the wind, or on floating debris, over epic spans of time and ocean, since volcanic convulsions pushed this land a mile above the surface five million years ago.
I got here more conventionally, looking for an easy but unfamiliar destination to explore. Madeira, though part of Portugal and only a 90-minute flight from Lisbon, qualifies. It offers some options that may sound zany – a narrated tour in a motorcycle sidecar, for example, or a slaloming ride in an upholstered toboggan, sans snow. The best reason to visit, though, was a week of inn-toinn hiking on remote, highelevation rain-forest paths. We carried only daypacks with lunches supplied by the inns, occasionally clambering but usually strolling, for five or six hours on each outing. Then, a long soak in a hot tub and maybe a glass - of course - of the namesake fortified wine.
There are a quarter-million permanent residents here, but Madeira is still in the process of being discovered, at least by Americans. The United States accounts for a very small fraction of tourism - most visitors are Europeans. We may figure that with the Caribbean and Hawaii closer by, another tropical island destination would be redundant. But in its venturesome recreations, history and stunning landscape, Madeira is a place quite apart. Its even climate invites travellers year-round. We had come through Madrid and its string of sweltering days in the high 90s prior to our arrival here in late July. Madeira stayed in the high 70s and occasionally low 80s.
This was among the first encounters of the agile Portuguese when their Age of Discovery gathered conquests in the 1400s. It was a rarity: A big green fertile island, completely uninhabited. By people, anyway. On the much smaller neighbouring island of Porto Santo, settlers let loose a litter of rabbits to multiply, and they soon ate everything but the geology. That island became a desert that has persisted for 500 years.
Madeira’s fate was gentler, though it was set on fire to clear land for farming and the southern districts burned for years. The steep, wet, lush north was spared, and its water was coveted for the drier south. But from the rugged shore up through hanging forests to a skyline of tall, barren crags, most of this island is a landscape of near-vertical rock. So slaves were suspended by ropes to etch a tracery of hundreds of miles of narrow levadas, or canals, onto cliffs and canyon walls to move the water. That often sacrificial form of labour lasted centuries.
Today, hikers are the happy beneficiaries. You can stroll along the easy gradients of the network of levadas for days at a time, much of it through a globally rare native laurel forest – a Unesco World Heritage natural feature. The paths lead to shreds of cloud at the edge of yawning canyons, occasional tunnels, spectacular waterfalls and views out to the breakers battering distant coastal cliffs.
These narrow watercourses were “of vital importance,” the British traveler W.H. Koebel wrote in 1909. “They are the arteries that nourish the land.” It’s true now, too: They still supply water to Funchal, the capital, for instance. That port city, a cruise ship destination during the October-to-May season, accounts for more than half of the island’s population. The rest of the Madeirans inhabit a thin scatter of villages, with centuries-old churches and tiny cafes. They are blissfully free of high-rise hotels and blaring traffic.
We were ready to descend from our final day of hiking along the levadas and into Funchal. One conveyance for that part of the trip is available nowhere else on the planet that I know of: You can slide down the high, curvy, cobbled streets into town on the runners of a big wicker toboggan. — WP-Bloomberg