[Insert Applicable] India, February 2005 and June 2009

People people everywhere, Bombay Station

Irritating.  People often exclaim in utter disbelief when I explain that I was 18 and alone the first time I went to India.  Now at the ripe old age of 25 even I have started to believe that it was something of a feat.  Although not necessarily a dangerous country there are things that would test the most experienced traveller and requires all those who visit to be constantly vigilant of their surroundings.  I found it exhausting to constantly negotiate and renegotiate prices, ask directions from 10 different people and get 10 different answers , being poked and prodded at all times of the day or night and lastly being constantly followed by a hoard of men staring with love sick eyes hoping I’d accept their proposals.  Yet none of these things really got under my skin as much as having my photograph taken.  ‘What?’ you are probably thinking, out of everything that could happen the simple camera was the single most threatening device?  Let’s put it this way I know what pushed Brittany Spears over the edge.  I don’t mind the odd request or being surrounded by an entire family, shown off like some rare specimen.  In the end, even on the ‘traveller trail’ Westerners can be few and far between, but it was incessantness of it.  It felt like every minute of every day was spent staring down the wrong end of camera lens. The second time I visited it was even worse, the technology had developed to such a point that not only could everyone have a lifelong memento of my viewing but they could tell their friends about it, to this day I can’t stand camera phones.

Ornate Temple, Pondicherry

Enlightening.  I suppose everyone who spends any time in India has a spiritual experience, but no I really did.  I didn’t meet a guru or learn to meditate on a remote peak in the Kashmiri mountains but I did learn a lot about faith.  I don’t think many people could say with complete confidence they live a religious life, it almost isn’t very fashionable, so when you do come across someone completely committed to living by a set of rules set out by an authority that can’t be fully proven you sit up and take note.  I was lucky I didn’t just meet one, I met two.  Some of the cliché still stands; I was on a beach in Goa, staying in a shack by the sea, everyday we’d get up before sunrise and walk the cool darkness of the beach to watch the fishermen haul in nets thronged with quivering silver fish, but there the comparison ends.  The days were spent avidly reading every scrap of literature the two of them had with them about Christianity and in the evenings debating the things I had learnt.   Neither was extreme in their views nor aggravated by my constant questioning, in fact both were perennially calm because you don’t need to justify faith it’s just there.

Sunset out of Kochi

Idyllic.  Nothing happens quickly in India.  Despite 1 billion people bustling through their daily lives no one is rushed.  No matter how late you are an old friend in the street cannot be passed without sharing a glass of chai and nattering about the state of the government or pesky relations.  Nothing epitomises this outlook on life more than train travel.  Indians will spend days on trains journeying vast distances to work or to see relatives.  2^nd Class sleepers is where I spent most of time and they were basic but perfectly equipped.  6 people crammed  into a carriage; in the day, 3 abreast you are sat staring out of the window at the changing landscape and at night, lying in your fold out bunk you can stare at the stars.  One of my destinations was the Kerala backwaters where you can slip silently through a maze of waterways on traditional kettuvallams (houseboats).  Palms trees line the shores and houses on stilts cling to the banks.  The water is like glass, mirroring the boats above but also a portal into the turquoise depths below.

Market in Mysore

Indescribable.  Busy, noisy dirty, colourful, beautiful.  India simply defies explanation.  From one day to the next you are confronted with contradictions; old and new, traditional and modern.  The stillness and calm of ancient temples to an overcrowded buzzing marketplace.  The contrast is especially noticeable in the bigger cities where sparkling office blocks sit adjacent to thousand year old architecture or young people eating burgers and French fries in a packed out MacDonald’s go outside to pickup up dripping orange Jalebi’s.  This melting pot of paradoxes makes India bewitching, ensuring an unforgettable experience whatever might happen.

Perfect Paris, France

In Paris you can live the dream.  Ignore the tourists and the rude waiters and every street corner holds the magic of an old black and white film.  The Eiffel Tower at night shimmers on the darkened skyline, remarkable yet unimposing.  The supermodel of city architecture perfectly embodies art and science.  The epicentre from which all of Paris radiates.  She disappears for a moment, the lights paused but a residual glow left emblazoned in your eyes, then the sparkling light show continues.  The night is heavy with the scent of the perfume of sophisticated Parisienne women, emulating the understated style their most famous land mark has exemplified.  Cafes and restaurants a buzz with chatter, great romances and high politics- or so I imagine.  Maybe this is the allure of Paris, it exists only through the eyes of idealistic artists, or so we wish ourselves to be, the struggling painter, the talented artisan, reinventing each scene to suit our own fantasies.

The Pigalle district, home of the ‘spectacular spectacular’ Moulin Rouge nestles at the base of a steep ascent leading to the blindingly white Sacre Coeur is every bit as bohemian as Luhrman would have us believe.  Patisserie windows offer up works of craftmanship on frilly paper doilies.    Street performers draw crowds of students only too willing to join into the chorus strummed on an acoustic guitar. 

Paris’ exhaustive tourist trail, made up of so many museums and art galleries that is sure to leave any art lover sated for years to come, leaves much unexplored and relatively untouched

Step out of Gare d’Austerlitz to take a shady stroll through the quiet Jardin des Plantes to the Natural History Museum, lounging peacefully on a bench, reading a book to soak up the sunshine.  Or to the Paris Mosque where you can have a traditional Moroccan The du Menthe.  If you’re looking for a more indigenous experience join the bustling breakfast rush of a bistro-café sprawling its colourful clientele onto street side tables cradling café au lait and picking at a croissant.  Even in the evenings along the Seine you can hear locals and sightseers alike, beckoned by the sugary aroma, for a gooey Nutella crepe folded expertly so not a drop of chocolaty goodness can escape. 

If shopping is more your bag Paris offers everything from the haute couture of Paris’ fashion houses on the Champs Elysee, to quirky vintage in the warren like flea market at Clignacourt.  The department store of La Fayette boasts a domed roof of dazzling blue glass supported by gilded lambasts and layers of red curtained balcony’s.   

Despite Paris’ nuances it is more than just tangible attractions that can be snapped on a camera and framed on a wall.  Paris for me will always have Jean Val Jean evading the clutches of the upstanding but flawed Javier or Quasimodo haunting the belfries of Notre Dame complemented by a sound track of accordions. 

The Epic Ecuadorian Chocolate Adventure, Peurto Quito, September 2004

The raw cocoa beans

After 48 hours, 3 buses, and some dodgy hitchhiking I was negotiating a dirt track enclosed by lush greenery and wondering  if at some point earlier I’d taken a wrong turn.  Just as I was having a crisis of faith a small wooden shed on stilts magically appeared in front of me.  A brightly woven hammock was casually slung on the narrow balcony and a large, heavily ladened cocoa plant completed the scene.  Nothing could have been more a sight for sore eyes, the reason I had ventured this far off the beaten track was to learn how to make chocolate- a tradition passed on by such ancient civilisations as the Aztecs and, the more commonly associated Maya where chocolate was used in religious ceremonies as well as medicinally.

Dried and roasted

The main house was also on stilts and the ‘basement’ below was cluttered with the implements needed for the chocolate making process, as well as several batches at different stages in the cycle.  Mammy Rose talked me through it; the cocoa was grown in the forest surrounding the house, once the rough green fruits were ripe, they were cut open to reveal the raw bean which was coated in a fibrous, white layer which had to be removed (either by sucking the bean in your mouth or more hygienically peeling).  The lustrous coffee coloured pebbles are then air dried before being roasted and the now blackened crusty outer layer cracked open.  The significantly smaller nugget is then ground to a powder before being mixed with oil and water to become a silky, fragrant liquid.  The warm and soothing drink was vastly different to the hot chocolate we are accustomed to in Europe; not only is it thicker and smoother but without sugar or milk it is bitter but without being uncomfortably sour.  In fact milk wasn’t added until 1689 (by the doctor Sir Hans Sloane), although the Cadbury brothers are more frequently credited with this transformation over two centuries later.  

Adding oil and water

After a relaxing day at the homestead I set out to explore the surrounding rainforest, which in most places seemed completely void of human contact.  The stillness gave the impression of silence, yet the air was thick with the sounds of creaking braches and busy insects.  The trail was narrow and descended steeply.  The trees so thick I could have been tunnelling through the centre of the earth.  I was headed towards the mysterious ‘Green Waterfall’.  The lagoon nestled in the heart of dense foliage and boasted a shoreline of vibrant turquoise rocks.  The cascading water caught the fine stream of light piercing the canopy, shedding a soft blue glow onto the surface of the pool- a just reward after long and sweaty trek.

The finished product

My final morning in the village arrived and I was invited to the small, single room school situated on the main road out of town.  A frantic lesson attempting to teach the children the geography of South America ensued.  Every time I opened my mouth the whole room would descend into fits of giggles, my rudimentary Spanish the source of the hilarity.  Despite the prospect of another two days on the road I was happy to leave, encouraged by the thought of a hot shower and flat bed.  

Aussie Adventures: Part 1, Australia, November 2004

Australia holds fond memories for me; I found and promptly lost the love of my life, learnt to drive a 4x4 up and down sand banks, how to drink beer, but mostly how to relax, a skill I find none too simple.  To this day spending a day lounging around in the sun with cricket on in the background and ‘stubby’ (or more likely Pimms if I’m in the UK) in hand makes me feel slightly uncomfortable, like I should be doing something more productive but then I remember, if a whole nation build their reputation on nothing more than having fun then so can I.

Sydney Opera House and Harbour Bridge after the rain

My adventure started after a ludicrously long flight from Santiago to Sydney through Auckland, where we stopped disembarked and re-embarked.  On the second leg I found myself sitting next to a girl who I would have kindly described as a free spirit, in reality she looked a bit grubby; greasy hair slicked back, browning tie die prints and a discernable lack of personal hygiene.  Despite this she seemed quite friendly and we were soon chatting about what I should expect in Sydney, she was even staying at my hostel and agreed to accompany me there.  On arrival we queued for what seemed like an eternity at passport control and my new found friend started talking to a man who had appeared quite by magic behind us, she was shifting nervously and eventually terminated the conversation with a gruff ‘OK’. 

Skyscrapers of the CBD

“Who was that?” I inquired, “Oh just a friend of mine from Auckland”.  I was satisfied with this explanation and took my turn at passport control.  The process took longer than I expected as I was asked about my activities in South America but soon all paper work in order I headed out to the carousels to collect my rucksack.  Unsurprisingly the girl had vanished but unphased I wandered through customs.  I could see Sydney by this point, the sliding doors were opening as I strode towards them, sunshine glinting through the skylights when someone caught my eye…the man from earlier was looking at me so I enquired after the girl.  This was where my trouble really began, I should have realised that someone with their bags open on a table with a customs officer riffling through them was not someone I should be associating myself with.  But it was too late, I was surrounded.  A group of men in blue police uniforms guided me to the side where they relieved me of my passport, luggage and tickets, I was panicking and trying to summon enough courage to ask what on earth was happening.  The most senior looking officer turned round and sarcastically asked “do you not know what’s going on”.  He clearly saw the blankness of my expression and no more sympathetically explained “you’re being arrested on suspicion of international drug smuggling”.  Instantly the headlines that would accompany my fall from grace circled in front of me ‘Senior Civil Servants Daughter Involved in Drug Ring’ and the like.  

Bondi when the sun finally shone!

Tediously every inch of me and my possessions were searched and I was questioned for what seemed like hours but it soon became clear to all involved that I was not the girl they were looking for.  The mistake was clear, the man I had spoken to had been found to be carrying a very large quantity of cocaine with him and I was thought to be his partner in crime!  I was released feeling weak and shaky, but I was resilient and knew a Mars bar and a coke would sort me out and I’d soon be recovering on the famous white sand beaches.  But of course Mother Nature had other ideas and as I stumbled out onto the brightly lit concourse of Sydney airport the skies opened and a two year drought was broken…

Monsoon in Makeni, Sierra Leone, April 2011

The road had been dusty and long, even the tarmacked highway was uncomfortable.  Despite the magnificent mountainscape we traversed out of Freetown I was glad to have the end in sight.  The roads in the town of Makeni were covered in large rocks and so I was thrown about inside the now empty four by four.  The sunset had been a glowing orange but as we reached the city limits dusk turned the sky, grey to black.  We drove down a quiet track in front of an impressive looking building, the sky was looking ominous, large mushroomed clouds were backlit by the remainders of day light giving their edges a ghostly translucent glow.  “This is St. Joseph’s Sister Mary announced”

Creepy crawlies come out to play after the rain

We stopped in a spacious courtyard surrounded by the main school on three sides.  Before Sister Mary had even turned off the engine there was a multitude of children surrounding the vehicle begging to be allowed to help.  Unusually the scene was next to silent, only the occasional excited squeal being heard- these children were deaf and St. Josephs the school where they lived.  One tiny boy insisted on carrying my daypack- it must have been at least half his size but he skipped merrily along in front of me before depositing it on the table in my room.  I was hustled in by the large group and made to feel welcome; I don’t remember a time anyone being so happy to see me!

Suddenly there was a noise, at first a humming, we stopped and listened as it grew to a roar.  The children knew exactly what was happening but it took me a few seconds longer to look out the window and understand.  The clouds were beginning to crack and the wind was picking up.  Gallons of rainwater were being battered onto the tin roof.  I was so dusty and sweaty from the journey that I thought what could be better than an open air shower.  However I resisted, what would the elderly nun who had brought me here have thought?  I grinned inwardly and instead stuck my hand out into one of the waterfalls that was cascading over the balcony.  It was cool and refreshing, I stood there for a second allowing it to cleanse my soul. 

Sunrise after the rain

The treat was not over as the shower continued, thunder grumbled close by while the horizon transformed into a dramatic lightshow; lightning bolts flitting from one end of the vast expanse to the other. 

The roads had turned to muddy rivers making traveling a treacherous affair so there was nothing to stop me standing on the verandah watching the storm move away.  When it was over, a calmness descended onto the sleepy town, the cool air a welcome change from the close heat of the previous week in Freetown.  Many a shaking head commented that this was too early for monsoon rains but for me it was just the perfect welcome to Makeni.

Alice in Wonderland- Less Alice More Wonderland, Marrakesh, Morocco, November 2009

Somehow I got lost in Morocco.  I started out as tourist and seem to have ended up as that tourist.  The tourist that hasn't left yet, who is always in danger of overstaying their welcome.  I used to hold these people in some sort of contempt, on the one hand jealous that they seemed so free of constraints but on the other hand wondering what they didn't have to go home for.  Maybe this was where I went wrong- home doesn't have to be where you grew up...home is where the heart is.  Or is it?  I don't know, as I said I am lost.


Casablanca isn't a magical city, it's not what I imagined Morocco to be- it's large and commercial with skyscrapers and traffic.  It certainly wasn't the place I expected to find the kindest of hearts and the most welcoming of arms, but find them I did.  The problem is it all happened so quickly- one week I was passing through trying to improve my French, the next I was looking for an apartment and thinking about Arabic lessons.


I needed to stop and think, get some perspective or reality or just something as I was clearly lacking all of those.  I went to Marrakesh- the jewel in Morocco's crown- I could think about things while being enveloped in the ancient beauty the city is famous for.  Marrakesh is undoubtedly beautiful; the new city is immaculate with tree lined boulevards and colossal palace like structures true to Morocco's Moorish roots.  There are many gardens scattered throughout, hidden by towering hedges, waiting to be discovered however none are as spectacular as the Majorelle- designed by a Frenchman and saved by none other than Yves Saint Laurent.  Blue walls with yellow details, orange pots line the walkways and plants from every continent.  Perfect to escape the midday heat, shaded by thick bamboos.  

The Plaza Jamaa el Fna is a hub of excitement, the pipes of snake charmers and the tinkle of tambourines invade your ears and glittering food stalls of dried fruits tantalise your appetite.  Every which way people are plying their trade, inviting you for just one look, showcasing bags, scarves, hats and shoes in every colour of the rainbow, turquoises, pinks, purples, blue, greens. The warmth of the day has only slightly dissipated so the night quivers in the shadows.  I knew I couldn;t stay but at that moment I was happy not to go.  

Cruising the Coast in Cambodia, Sihanoukville, July 2009

Cambodia is sly, it isn’t first apparent what all the fuss is about but it sneakily seeps under your skin until you couldn’t think of being anywhere else.

The Killing Fields

Phonm Penh is the saddest city in the world, the years of suffering under the Khymer Rouge is categorically and thoroughly documented in gruesome detail at the unassuming  secondary school which was bloodily transformed into a prison and the farm land now known as the ‘killing fields’.  Tuol Sleng  prison has been preserved  so precisely it feels still in use, like at any moment a cart load of prisoners might be marched through the front gates.  Each ‘classroom’ housed an inmate, the life sized photos illustrate how innocent people were chained to a metal framed bed, often so emaciated they would stay where had been dumped by the guards, whether they were all on the bed or not.  Implements of torture are still scattered, now numbered exhibits and pools of dried blood can still be seen.  Just in case you forget where you were, signs on the walls warned against smiling or laughing, although how anyone could even think of a happy memory is beyond me.  The atmosphere stuck to everything, even after we had left my clothes reeked of it and for days, and even sometimes now I am haunted by the images I was confronted with.  The ‘killing fields’ are out of town, not far by tuk tuk and if you weren’t quite aware of where you’d just been and where you were going to it might have been considered a scenic route.  At the centre of the site an imposing structure with glass walls stands, on closer inspection you see it is piled high with the skulls of those tortured and finally murdered on this land.  Each tree bears a plaque with the numbers of bodies found and how they were thought to have died.  Nothing makes you doubt human existence more than this, how can one human being possibly be so cruel to another?

Tuol Sleng

Despite all of this, everyone we spoke to was kind and helpful, not brash like the Vietnamese nor smiling like the Thai’s but quiet and unassuming, ready and willing to help.  The children touting wears in streets or on the beach were the exception to this rule, maybe reflecting the more desperate situation they found themselves in.  A common sight in the bars at night were young beautiful Cambodian girls sat elegant and smiling with Western men.  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand what kind of transaction was taking place and yet they managed to portray a stoic composure, when they walked past they did not glare, as I have experienced in so many other countries.

Sihanoukville Beach

Pnomh Penh will eventually suffocate you so we headed out to the coast- Sihanoukville gets mixed reviews, I for one am an ardent fan having some of the best days, and nights of my life there.  One particular day will stay forever etched on my memory.  It wasn’t particularly warm or sunny, it had rained constantly the previous night but the puddles were beginning to evaporate.  Instead of heading to the beach a group of us rented mopeds and decided to explore the coastal road- it wasn’t to disappoint.  White sand beaches and hidden forested groves on our left and undulating fields on our right, wooden shacks and monkeys, barely another soul in sight.  I don’t know what it was but I sense of anticipation and excitement sat in the pit of my stomach, none of us knew what to expect or what we might find.  It was like the feeling I used to get at the beginning of the school holidays- you didn’t know what was going to happen but whatever it was, it was going to be good!  Sitting on the back of that bike, wind catching my hair and slivers of sun on my face I didn’t want the road to end and for us to carry on forever, if I could have, I would have.  

Inca Initiation, Salkantay Trail, Peru, August 2004

View of Salkantay

It's 4am in the morning on the corner of deserted street in Cuzco, it may be August but the altitude ensures I’m shivering despite my new alpaca sweater underneath my jacket.  I’m sitting on my rucksack in the darkness crossing every digit, hoping that I haven’t just had my first experience of being ripped off.  Thankfully just as I am beginning to think hyperthermia is setting in, two headlights skid around the corner with a screech and bounce over the cobbles until the rickety van comes to stop next to me.  The side door is heaved open and out pops a small lean man with a shock of jet black hair and an utterly cheeky grin.  This was Jimmy, Jimmy was our guide for the next five days as he navigated us across a section of the Inca trail which lay opposite the majestic Salkantay peak.

It soon became clear that despite having Gold Duke of Edinburgh Award under my belt that I was going to have to seriously persevere, it wasn’t so much the constant inclines (but they certainly didn’t make it easier) but the false hope Jimmy would instil in us “one hour, one hour” he would cheerfully chirp- one Jimmy hour became the running joke.  Despite the constant build up of lactic acid it was the most spectacular trek I’ve ever done- everyday the landscape would change so dramatically it was if we’d walked through the wardrobe, except Narnia wouldn’t be able to quite compete.  Rolling hills speckled with grazing pastures would give way to sheer craggy cliffs and snow topped summits.  One minute we’d be walking along the spine of a range before sharply descending into a v-shaped valley, the sheer magnitude of the backdrop was inspiring, I’ve never felt so small as when we pitched our tiny tents on the first night in the shadow of the 6271m Salkantay, which translates as ‘savage’ mountain  As we ascended to 4600m next to this mighty zenith I understood its infamy, the snow swirled so tightly around us visibility disappeared and breathing became a challenge.  Despite being the youngest I was always trailing behind, so Jimmy initiated me into the ways of the Inca- chewing Coca leaves to give me the buzz I needed to carry on.  The bitter leaves form a mulch that is none too pleasant but after a while all is forgotten as you find your respiring evens and every step doesn’t take all of your will power.  Despite Coca leaves being the source of modern day cocaine, they are completely legal but Cocaine is strictly forbidden! 

Don't look down!

At the close of the second day we wound down a meandering path to the floor of a rainforest covered valley, feeling like Indiana Jones I peered into the undergrowth trying to catch a glimpse of the birds screeching nearby.  The trail on the following days was flatter and more inhabited.  We trudged through tiny villages with children running care free chasing anything that moved; chickens, puppies, butterflies.  At one point we were loaded into a truck, crammed in like sardines it was best not to look down at the drop we came all too close too while taking corners maybe just that little bit too fast.  On the approach to Aguas Calientes the scenery changed again, fast flowing rivers cascaded over polished beige rocks and parrots nested above the path.  We traversed along the railway track and rickety rope bridges before again sampling a unique form of transport- a basket pitched high above raging rapids, moved with pulleys back and forth, barely enough room for you let alone your rucksack as well!

Machu Picchu 

And then the morning of our visit to the ancient ruins dawned…rain.  Not just any rain, torrential showers in the middle of the dry season.  The mist hung low in the air which made the famous view from atop the Huayna Picchu impossible.  None the less the architecture can still be appreciated as a feat of human achievement; I just hope I get to go back before the hoards of tourist buses shift the stones of the city irreparably!  

T-Bones, Tipples and Tango- Buenos Aires, Argentina, June 2008

Treated to Tango

I wouldn’t say I’m a foodie but I love to eat and will normally wolf down anything that comes my way, but nothing fails to excite me like steak and chips.  What more can you ask for than a thick piece of beef, rosy in the middle sat on a nest of thin and crispy fries to soak up all the juices.  If this is sounding like music to your ears then Buenos Aires is the city for you.  In fact even if steak is not your bag Buenos Aires is still the city for you as I guarantee if you’ve tried steak before but haven’t had the connection described above you just haven’t had the right steak and this is the land of the right steak.  We arrived after a 12 hour bus ride and as bus rides went it was pretty luxurious- Argentina is famous for first class overland travel and even if you’re 6 foot you can normally catch some Z’s.  The morning was clear but the streets empty so the taxi drive to the hostel felt like a private tour, colonial buildings with white detail on pastel painted plaster, lined wide tree planted boulevards.  It was like walking straight onto movie set for Dancing in the Rain aging tango posters peeling from the walls of alleys and cafes on every corner. The bustling morning crowd were sat in slivers of pale sunshine peaking round the corners of buildings, smoking cigarettes and sipping espressos. 

La Boca

After dumping our bags we headed out to explore, after the humidity of Brazil this cool, crisp weather was a relief and after wandering for a while you could mistakingly think you were in Paris in springtime.  A visit to the cemetery was spookily interesting, you can easily find yourself void of company, apart from the occasional cat, surrounded by towering mausoleums, some sombre and dark others intricately decorated with gilt cherubs all magnificent in their honouring of the dead.  La Boca, home of the world famous Boca Juniors, really captures the imagination.  The brightly painted wooden buildings looks like a town straight out of the wild west (if that particular one horse town happened to be owned by Willy Wonka) but with a sea side feel, I almost expected to see an olde English tea shoppe selling rock.  Here we were treated to live tango shows and artisan fairs.

Despite the bustling crowds we soon realised this was not a city that showed its true colours until after dark.  This was when the streets really came alive with live bands and artists, bars spilled out onto the streets and the hum of excited chatter was abundant.  And now finally to the steak…   we chose a restaurant off a quiet side street marked out with gilt calligraphy over the door frame.  The interior failed to disappoint and after a brief chat with the waiter we discovered it hadn’t changed since the 1900s.  Every inch of walls were covered in black and white photos documenting Buenos Aires through the last century.  We were seated, heavy candlesticks lit our quiet corner and thick napkins were swooshed professionally onto our laps.  Despite there being a vast array of choices on the menu I know what I’d come for- bife de chorizo- a thick cut of Argentinian beef, served rare with a bottle of silky Malbec from Mendoza and pile of salty fries.  The meat offered no resistance and the knife slid through revealing a blood red interior, no chewing just a glorious melt in the mouth in the mouth texture.  I had never tasted better and to this day have not been served anything that even compares.  Buenos Aires; a steak lovers paradise- vegetarians need not apply.

Chasing the Aurora, Tromsø, Norway, February 2011

Tromso is north, seriously north.  Situated 400km inside the Arctic Circle it boasts so much 'most northern in the world' paraphernalia that would make your head spin including most northern commercial airport and most northern university.  None of this is very interesting and as quaint and typically Scandinavian as Tromso is, its twinning with Grimsby may you give you a clue of its touristic appeal.  And yet tourists descend in their droves on this town.  Why?  The answer, the Aurora Borealis or more commonly the Northern Lights and this was precisely my reason for going. This was not my first chase- the first ending in disappointment a few years ago in Iceland, the weather had been perfect but the elusive solar winds had refused to blow.  This time I had planned everything to a tee.  

The lights are meant to be brightest in the early part of the year- the colder and darker the better but not too wintery as snow would be a risk.  Full moons are bad news too so I settled in the first week in February- conditions should have been perfect.  As the date approached I checked the weather and solar forecasts obsessively.  Clear skies but no solar storms to speak of- in my eyes this was fine, it meant Tromso was due some.  At the airport I was confident, on the descent I pointed out potential clumps of luminescence.  It turned out my eyes were playing tricks on me as on touchdown it became clear we had landed on a runway two inches deep in snow and the flakes were still falling.  This was not a good start.  Unfortunately Jack Frost wanted to stick around- determined to ruin my very expensive holiday.  When the snow cleared every so often stunning mountain scenery surrounded us with treacherous peaks plunging into sapphire waters.  This would be an incredible summer retreat but in the middle of winter in a town where the price of beer made London prices feel like a bargain I was getting cranky.  We checked into the tourist office every day hoping for better news and then it came- a coronal hole (drag your minds our of the gutter it is not a part of your anatomy), on the sun had been spotted which was causing extensive solar activity around Tromso.  The only problem with this being to find the clear skies required driving along icy mountain roads and negotiating two local ferries to get to the Finnish border two hours away.  The decision was easy- rent a car and hit the road, despite having to remortgage my unbought house to do this! 

It was 5^oclock but felt like 10, and pitch back as we alighted the second ferry when over the mountain range in front of us a green haze began to glow- the chase was on!  Despite the aurora being a phenomenon that happens in the upper echelons of our atmosphere, to see it properly you have to basically be right underneath it.  We drove for another two hours, the excitement was wearing off fast I was starting to think we'd either imagined it or again the weather would close in and not only would we be left metaphorically speaking empty handed but we'd also be stranded hundreds of kilometres from the airport and miss our 6am flight home.  We pulled off the main road and into a clearing enclosed in woodland.  There was nothing for it but to suit up and brace the freezing temperatures and started into the sky hoping for a miracle.  And a miracle we got!  One minute you're staring at stars and the next the sky is on fire with mint green flames.  The pattern shifted constantly, pulsating from bright whites to neon green for minutes at a time.  At one point a white band gushed from one side of the sky to the other, oozing a pink sheen like coloured oil dropped into water.  Then, as suddenly as it started it disappears and you return to darkness.  We scanned the skies for clues, vague arcs of light cut across the sky but blink and they were gone- I understood now how they were so hard to predict. 

Driving back took hours as we pulled over constantly to stare upwards, each time as gobsmacked as the first time.  Even at the airport under the glare of street lights we were treated to a phenomenal show.  As the sun rose and we filed onto the plane the mood was buoyant and everyone was chattering like excited sparrows of the previous nights exploits.  As one man commented "swearingly good" and quite frankly I am inclined to agree with him- simply swearingly good.  

Bangkok Forever, Bangkok, Thailand, August 2009

Bangkok grows on you.  You start off treating it like someone on a train who starts talking, you respond politely but you don’t feel too comfortable with the situation.  It’s not an easy city to get along with, it’s hot and sweaty and dirty.  There are far too many tourists and far too many locals.  Gradually though it got under my skin.  It’s the transport hub for not only Thailand, but the entirety of South East Asia and so I have passed through many times each time I discover something new. 

Bangkok never stops, even in the early hours of the morning when the street vendors have long packed up and the bars have locked their doors the city still buzzes.  The darkness is warm around you and will pulse against your skin like the heartbeat of a giant sleeping beneath.  This feeling is never so strong as in the rainy season when the atmosphere is full of urgency and expectance, late afternoons lying in pokey guest house beds.  A ceiling fan chugging away above you, shutters drawn, slits of pale light dance on your skin, the distant squeal of tuk tuk horns breaks the incessant hum of the traffic outside.  Suddenly the skies break and the clatter of raindrops fill your ears.  When it ends the air is fresh, the city renewed, the cycle begins again. 

Everything is an exotic adventure in Bangkok, the river boats pass grand hotels and ancient temples while the impeccably clean sky train takes you into the heart of a skyscraper cluster.  The Grand Palace, a short walk from the backpacker centre of Kho San Road, is the epitome of sublime.  Ruby red roofs glint atop intricately decorated columns of the many pagodas around the sight.  Golden dragons are depicted in paintings and statues, emerald eyes and Cheshire cat like grins.  The reclining Buddha reflects your face in the mellow gold sheen, as it serenely stares out into the distance, Mona Lisa smile on his face. 

The markets are like mazes, selling clothes for every taste, blue and white porcelain, and knick knacks for the undiscerning tourist.  There are always people everywhere, weaving around you down sidealleys.  The foodstalls create bottlenecks as who could resist a portion of pad thai or spring rolls.  Evening means of steaming bowls of curry and rice accompanied by the standard luke warm Chang.  Every night boasts a festival atmosphere, street bars selling buckets of Sangsom whisky and red bull pop up on every street corner, brightly coloured plastic stools are filled with eager customers.  Once you have danced the night away you walk once again through the quiet streets, the night is calm and you are complete.  

Ode to the Hammam, Casablanca, Morocco, October 2010

The woman of Morocco are a contradiction; they have managed to embrace the modernity that Western woman strive for, whilst staying true to their more traditional roots.  Nowhere is this clashing of era's so apparent as in the Hammam.


I had only one previously encountered the theory of a shared bath- a scene in Sebastian Faulkes' Charlotte Grey, other than that the theory of communal cleansing has only been revisited in the context of Herbal Essences advert.  Luscious long haired beauties prancing about in very little, was not an image I would place myself in, and yet the description of the Hammam had a certain familiar ring to it.  If I was to be clean without the prospect of pneumonia (cold showers abound at the Hostel I was staying at in Casablanca), I was to put my quibbles aside and brave my own nudity.


A nondescript door lead onto an equally nondescript corridor which ended in a changing room, typical of any swimming pool I'd ever visited.  Armed with my soap in one hand and a bucket in the other I stripped down to my birthday suit (as had previously been advised by a kindly Fin on the train from the airport) and entered the inner sanctum.  I was greeted by a series of dimly lit, tiled rooms, obscured by steam; the whole set-up made me feel I was in some sort of mythological maze waiting for the Minator.  It was at this point I was to realise one very embarrassing error- pants!  Everyone bar me seemed to be in possession of them..  I find moments like these require a shed load of self confidence akin to "What? You're wearing underwear?  What a novel idea." However mine was crumbling fast and I could barely muster a Moroccan teapot full when I was gently guided to a corner and to asseyez vous.


My guardian angel had relieved me of my bucket and was busy filling it with steaming hot water.  When she returned I knew the cleaning would begin.  First a thick, brown, oily paste was smoothed over, left to soak in and then rinsed of, followed by 'the scrub'.  This doesn't fully describe the removal of three layers of my skin.  While this near surgical process was being performed I got a chance to take a look at the other patrons.  The woman ranged from small children to grandmothers, all sitting on the floor, surrounded by buckets of hot water completely involved in the process of self cleansing.  Every sector of Moroccan society was reflected in this room- young women with perfect pedicures and manicures who would surely leave dressed in tight jeans and Armani sunglasses.  The middle aged woman with a young boy, and even the matriarch chatting incessantly about the lives of her neighbours.  I was now part of history- this custom has been occurring for hundreds of years and even now woman favour tradition over convenience as their mothers and grandmothers before them had.


Walking out in freshly cleaned clothes I felt like poetry.  Every inch of me had been polished to perfection and I literally shone.  And the best part?  I can do it all again next week!

Talking Talibe, St Louis, Senegal, September 2010

Volunteer with Talibe

It's hot.  In fact hot doesn't quite cover it- I haven't seen temperatures this high since my arrival in Senegal over a month ago, so much for the 'cool' season.  I have chosen this of all mornings to visit a group of volunteers providing care and basic medical aid to a group of children known as the Talibe.  I'm sure the religious connotations of this name has not escaped your notice, and you would be correct in your assumption.  The Talibe are from impoverished families who can no longer afford to feed or clothe them (let alone educate them) so bring them to be looked after by a quasi-religious leader known as a Marabout.  In the group homes where they live, known as Dara's, they will be taught the Koran before either returning to their home villages as Marabouts themselves or a more likely scenario, try and muddle through in a country where unemployment is rife (48%, CIA World Factbook).  SO what's the issue I'm sure you're beginning to wonder?  My answer would be there are so many abuses going on at every stage in the chain I'm struggling to know where to begin.  In the words of one volunteer "when do the Talibe ever catch a break? Never!".


Let us first start with the Dara's, they are situated in the worst part of town; weaving through the narrow street you are constantly skirting tennis court sized mounds of refuse and encounter the sleeping mats of the homeless scattered in the most unlikely of places.  The buildings of the Sara's themselves vary; some are large, roomy and relatively clean with grubby but nonetheless smiling boys sat in neat rows attentively listening to their lessons, however others are given nicknames which point to altogether different conditions, such as 'Dara de Mouche' (Dara of flies).


The Marabouts themselves are well respected within communities, and as far as the government are concerned provide a necessary service steeped in moral duty.  To travellers such as myself though, they are nothing more than cult leaders who force the children to beg for money and food, perform hard physical labour and endure countless acts of brutality.  The weapon of choice in these cases being boiling water, often poured down the left side.


This is why the volunteers are here- they visit the Dara's everyday, disinfecting scabs, bandaging wounds and washing the ever filthy boys.  There are a dedicated core of Senegalese volunteers working alongside, and relationships are tactfully cultivated between them and the Marabouts, ensuring access to the Talibe.


So what can be done when this institution is so deeply rooted in Senegalese culture and hiding behind the seemingly inpenetrative curtain of religion.  In reality very little.  Most Senegalese see the Marabout as a solution to the ever present problem of unwanted children in a poverty stricken nation.  People will continue to fund these practices, as giving to charity is one of the five pillars of Islam, and Talibe's are useful cheap labour especially as house cleaners.


There are homeless children the world over, and it can be argues that these children are lucky to have some sort of support system, which, when it works is good but there are undeniable shadows lurking in the background.  The work of the volunteers is crucial, but prevention is always better than cure and until more is done to lift families out of poverty the plight of the Talibe will continue.