Goodbyes

Goodbyes, an inevitability.  The stubborn bedfellow of freedom.  The shadow that looms on every horizon. 

I sat at the kitchen table watching him prepare breakfast.  Boiling water for tea, bread in the toaster.  The bright city sunshine streamed in the windows, lighting the room from all angles so nothing was in shadow.  The soft words and gentle sleep from the night had left him and he was once again a pillar of self-control, a wall as thick as concrete between us.  As he laid down a plate in front of me I looked up, searching his face for the emotions he had conveyed as we lingered on the darkened streets only a few hours ago.  His eyes darted and he took defiant strides away.  Where was that dream we had built, of hot and dusty cobbled alleyways, of shimmering shorelines, of shuttered rooms where only we would be?  I concentrated on a mark on the table, willing myself to accept that I had known this conclusion before this moment.  Did he sense the aching in my core?  He knelt beside my chair, his hands twisting my body so it was his turn to look up at me, his eyes were pleading, willing me to forget, not to remember.  Suddenly he stood, moving around in agitation, picking up this thing and that. I readied myself.  This was the beginning of our end, it was inevitable.  I stood patiently and he came to me.  The embrace was long; I clung to his neck as his hands grasped my frame, moving the length of my back.  My lips brushed the soft skin on his collarbone and I felt his breath by my ear.  I lowered my stance so my face nestled into his chest, arms round his waist wishing I could step back and let go.  I could feel the moistness of my eyes and hoped he wouldn’t see how I was struggling.  As he released his clasp he changed his mind and put his hand to my face, drawing it up to his.  I knew what he was doing, and knew I should stop it but I couldn’t.  His lips found mine and I just stood for a second, numbed by the action that took us so far from where we had been before.  We couldn’t control it or comprehend it so we gave in, timid at first and then wholeheartedly.  We broke off dazed, lungs vying for air, skin tingling. It wasn’t enough, would it ever be enough.  I had to stop, it had already too far, every fibre of my being wanted him.  I tried pushing him away, a feeble attempt but enough to remind myself I was in control I could stop.  I wouldn’t be a slave to the heat of my emotions.  I twisted beyond his reach and grabbed my bag, I regretted it instantly, but one of us had to.  Back to back we paused, the silence in the room grew heavier as the realisation of what had passed between us dawned.  He drew himself up, calmly with an elegant composure I envied.  How could he switch off, how could I not?  We finally walked through the door and traversed the street in silence.  A fork in the road, how fitting, his path one way, mine the other.  This time we didn’t wait, a rough kiss on the cheek barely acknowledging each other’s presence and he was gone.  Just like that he walked away.  I watched him for a second hoping he’d turn but his moves were certain.  And so I stood there alone, hating goodbyes.  

One Day, 15th July

My friends have found a new obsession.  In the past these phases have been centered around the strictly make believe; wizards and vampires.  I too have been swept along, swooning over R-Patz and idolizing Emma Watson, but this year’s fixation is getting under my skin, in all the wrong ways.  One Day by David Nicholls tracks the life of two friends over the course of a lifetime, by narrating the events of the 15^th July every year.  It sounds like a brilliant concept, even a brief description of the characters and plot line had me excited to get started.  Star crossed lovers, missed opportunities and gut wrenching endings are right up my street.  I have no problem bawling my eyes out at books, films, music, well anything really and I was guaranteed a good old cry.  Or so I was lead to believe.  I have shed tears, but only of frustration that I have embarked on this disastrous journey.  Put it down if you hate it, I hear you yell, but unfortunately this is not an option.  Once I start, I must finish (a mantra for all things).  I admit, maybe I’m a bit bitter.  Romance in real life is just not how it is in the movies (or novels for that matter).  Do men ever come good?  Do two people who have been skirting around each other for years really get it together?  Not a discussion for now.  There was one redeeming feature, it got me thinking…

15^th July 2004

10 days to go.  I’ve been waiting for five years for this and now it’s the final countdown.  I don’t know how I feel, I’m sure I will on the day.  The last two years have been a struggle; A levels, university applications, Milo.  Milo Milo Milo.  What will happen to us?  Of course we won’t last, but maybe we will.  I love him but he’s  a law unto himself.  I’ve spent hours of my life being stood up by him, speaking to his Mother about how he’d lost his phone…again, crying because I don’t understand why he can’t just put me first, just once.  I turn over in the dark and try to imagine myself in South America.  I haven’t even looked at a picture, or read a guide book.  Then I transport myself to Thailand, India, the Taj Mahal.  Will I meet people, will I get lost, will I meet someone else? 

15^th July 2008

Last day in Buenos Aires.  I love this city, I love this country, hell I love this continent, I want to live here forever.  Woody’s last day.  I am sad but it’s his own fault.  He chose his job over me.  Mendoza tomorrow, and then onto Santiago.  I remember Santiago from few years ago, or should I say I remember Paulo...  This trip took months to plan, this time I didn’t want to miss a thing, so I have an itinerary planned to the minute.  Next year will be stressful; finals and job applications so this summer is all my own, just to have fun.  Brazil was beautiful; the Campo Grande national park was teeming with wildlife, unfortunately only the backside of a capybara but supposedly they’re now in Edinburgh Zoo. 

15^th July 2009

Hoi An, Vietnam is so peaceful, an oasis of still and calm.  It is only Abbey and myself, this is the first time we’ve spent alone in a couple of weeks.  But what a fortnight it’s been.  We stroll down the river which is lit with the soft glow of Chinese lanterns strung across the fading paint of the colonial buildings, beer in hand, reminiscing.  It started in Vang Vieng, Laos on our friends Gemma’s birthday.  We sipped cocktails in the sunshine while floating down the river.  Later that evening, at dinner, Gemma rushed in to squeal my degree result at me; a first class honors with an award to boot.  I suffered for the celebrating, but Luang Prubang, with its glittering gold temples and flame red walls restored me.  I prayed, I’m not religious but it seemed the right thing to do in this pious town.  I thought of Wesley a lot, my partner in crime while I was a teenager, had died in January, suddenly.  He had always worn a St Christopher, like the one I wore now.  Then it was onto Halong Bay, Vietnam.  The Colombian, Nico had stolen the show despite the raw beauty of the rugged rock skyscrapers jutting majestically from the blue green depths of the sea.  We giggled conspiratorially at this, perched on a bench and opened another beer.

15^th July 2011

The ward is dark and silent.  Every now and then a nurse silently pads past my curtained cubicle.  I can hear her, but not see her.  The canulator in my wrist itches, and the tubes running out of it are getting tangled despite my stillness.  I had spent the week counting down the minutes for the weekend to finally arrive.  Instead of picking up my old friend Cheryl at the airport, and heading for Windsor for some royal history, or Oxford for Pimms on a punt, we had headed to hospital.  We hadn’t seen each other since Senegal in 2009, but I suppose there’s no better way to bond than 6 hours in a waiting room.  Luckily she’s a student of public health, and I was desperately trying to sell this as a learning opportunity.  And then there was tomorrow, it might still be redeemed.  He had seemed concerned on the phone, he had been away, I hoped he’d missed me. 

“Don’t die” he said, “or you’ll have me to answer to”. 

Rioting, London, England/Potosi, Bolivia, August 2009 and 2011

Destruction in Clapham.
Photo courtesy of friend in Clapham

If the media frenzy is to be believed, London has been in the clutches of violent rebels protesting against the iron grip of the British regime.  While this may not be completely accurate it is certainly fair to say that there has been unparalleled levels of anger expressed at all levels of society.  The question that permeates throughout is why?  Why did hundreds of young people choose to go out onto the streets of our capital and wreak havoc with baseball bats and pyrotechnics?  Disengagement has been cited, a generation of disaffected youths desperate to make sense of their worlds that are void of opportunity and increasingly ignored by the state.  Does this justify the millions of pounds worth of damage and the shattered lives of those who have lost everything?  In my opinion no it does not.  A friend of mine went into Clapham the night it was raided and describes the event as one of the most exciting occasions he’s witnessed.  This is unsurprising.  War zones are exciting.  Adrenalin is a drug and it is highly addictive.  I can only imagine the atmosphere created by hundreds of hormonally fuelled teenagers surging en masse, a multi headed hydra enveloping the deserted streets.  His most poignant observation was the looks of sheer joy radiating from the eyes of the masked marauders, like this was the greatest night of their short and uneventful lives.  For me this is just further proof that human selfishness knows no bounds.  I am a firm believer that in desperate situations people will act desperately especially if they feel they have no choice.  Are we to believe that in this case a new pair of trainers will solve the supposed entrenched insufficiency of these adolescents’ lives?  Or was the looting merely symbolic of a larger problem; neo liberalist consumerism being endemic within society?  No I don’t believe that either.  Whatever it was it was not desperation.  I have seen desperation and it isn’t sated with electronics and footwear.

Potosi, Bolivia, 2009. It was two days before the general election.  The people’s hero Evo Morales had thrown his hat into the ring for a second term in office.  Every spare inch of concrete had his political slogan scrawled across it.  Just as Pro Evo engenders every boys dream in my country, it also held within it the hopes of a nation.  Hopes that the rich ruling classes may be forced to distribute their wealth more evenly, to allow a chronically poor country to provide those basic needs such food and water to its stricken population.  Potosi is a silver mining town and for a small fee tourists can explore the labyrinth of tunnels whittled deep into the belly of the mountain, which was my reason for being there.  As I ascended the hillside with my guide, the town was readying itself for a party.  Coloured bunting was strung from balcony to balcony, the staccato rehearsals from brass bands, and everyone out on the streets in their Sunday best.  Whisky bottles tucked away in breast pockets, cigarettes lazily rolled between fingers.  My guide had tough, weather beaten, tan skin, and sparkling white teeth- Andean to a tee.  As we walked towards the bus stop he recounted his experiences of the mines.  He was an ex-miner who had seen the all-consuming nature of those who tirelessly work miles beneath the earth, carving out early graves.  He explained that despite the jubilant appearance of those on the street, tensions were rising and he advised that I could do worse than get on a bus to La Paz as soon as the tour was finished.  I didn’t understand and therefore didn’t listen.  Instead of being dropped back off at my hotel as my guide begged me to allow him to do I headed for the main square.  It was packed, the band I had seen earlier could be heard in the distance, heading up a parade that was moving away from the central plaza.  I zig zagged my way through the crowd assuming the festivities had begun.  I was wrong.  They weren’t euphoric carnival goers this was an angry mob and I had managed to get in the middle of it.  Luckily they were too busy chanting to take notice of me.  People were angry.  Really angry.  Clenched fists in the air accompanied a fury of words. As I was swept up the street the air began to fizz.  It was as if storm clouds were gathering on a blindingly hot summers day.  Right on cue the thunder roared except this was not Mother Nature but dynamite being blown up in a side street.  The crowd surged sideways away from the explosion which was followed by another and then another.  Onlookers ducked for cover and in the commotion I found myself on the ground struggling to get up.  I crawled and when I could, ran with no idea where I was going.  I caught my breath up against the wall of a boarded up bakery while others whizzed past my refuge.  My Spanish is minimal and my map was lost, there was nothing for it I had to go back the way I came.  I tried to skirt around the edges but with the possibility of exploding buildings I wasn’t sure if this was safest option.  I re-entered the main square at the same time as the band.  An official looking man in a suit and sash was walking up on stage and the crowd settled.  I was amazed that such a tense situation seemed to have dissipated when moments ago I thought I was witnessing the start of some sort of civil war.  Then I understood.  When your government isn’t listening and you’ll die before your thirtieth birthday from lung disease caused by your atrocious working conditions what can you do?  Nothing.  So instead you set off dynamite, shout at the top or your voice and wave your fists in the air because maybe someone will hear and maybe someone will listen.  That is desperation, desperation is hopeful and hope is free. 

Surprise Sierra Leone, March 2011

So I’m guessing when I say Sierra Leone you immediately think of blood diamonds (or conflict diamonds as sometimes referred to) but there is much more to Sierra Leone than just its horrific history.  It’s not really a surprise that these negative images spring to mind.  The film was brilliant but bloody despite the dodgy South African accents, and how could we forget the famous court scene with Naomi Campbell, who is seemingly embroiled in a high profile case concerning Charles Taylor and aforementioned rocks.  The subject of diamonds and their shady origins is emotive, I have several friends who refuse point blank to wear anything resembling bling out of principle and there are definitely worse things to take the moral high ground over but there is more to African conflict than just gemstones.  We live in a highly technological society and it is not uncommon for millions of people across the globe to replace these electronics frequently without any thought to recycling the old product.  What has this got to do with anything you may be asking, well quite simply everything.  Within most electronic products, whether it be your mobile phone or laptop, there are certain minerals which are predominantly found in Sub-Saharan Africa.  Armed groups will often control the mines and the people that live and work there with extreme violence, pressuring children to fight and women and young girls into indentured ‘marriages’.  There is no regulation of these minerals and there is no onus on electronics companies to keep supply chains clean- they simply want the cheapest product at the right place at the right time, and we as consumers allow this. 

The first thing I noticed as the plane descended onto the tarmac was green; lush emerald forests, marooned between sapphire deltas, surrounded the runway; not at all the arid wasteland I had envisaged.  The airport is situated on an island 20 minutes off the coast of Freetown so once I’d navigated the turbulent boat ride I was thrown into the heart of a bustling African town.  Rickety shacks lined the streets between once grand colonial mansions, interred behind imposing concrete ramparts.  There seemed to be people everywhere and the taxi moved only at a snail’s pace or maybe it was just that I hadn’t yet adjusted my internal clock to ‘Africa Time’.  I was given the weekend off before the real work in the mining town of Makeni would be starting so I headed straight for the beach.  The road was long, dusty and navigating it like a skier across moguls was slow.  Fruit stalls nestled into the trunks of trees, escaping from the blinding heat and children ran along the side of the 4x4 until their Mothers called them away.  Everyone was interested in a friendly chat, not because I was white quite simply just because I was there.  I was surprised by the honesty with which they spoke, no topic too uncomfortable and no anecdote without a lining of humour. 

We turned down an unmarked track through leafy forest until we parked up on the sand dunes.  The water was clear turquoise, and I could have been on a South East Asian island rather than West Africa.  The small restaurant adjacent was roasting lobster and shrimp on an open barbeque, the aroma of lime and chili wafting through the dusky air.  The sky was turning gold’s, reds and purples as the burning sun descended into the rippling water.  Along the shoreline, concealed and abandoned, hotels cast long shadows into the mangroves.  Most noticeable was the silence, we had the place to ourselves. 

Single in 2009...and 2011

So let’s start with the background I was 22 when I wrote this article and yet it is as relevant 2 years later as it was at the time. 

Single is an altogether new experience for me, as soon as I could have a boyfriend I did have a boyfriend, and in fact did not stop having a boyfriend until very recently.  This time, I thought to myself, things would be different.  I would not settle for ‘alright’ the thought ‘but we’re such good friends’ would not cross my mind and most importantly this time I knew he definitely wouldn’t change.  Sex in the City eat your heart out because I was going to have it all from outlandishly romantic dates to passionate uncomplicated sex with strangers.  Reader, you may have already guessed it but this is not exactly what came my way, in fact I was thrown into a twilight zone known as singledom, attempting to traverse the vast chasms between what I, the single female, wanted and what he, the single male was willing to give. 

Now to the outsider it would seem I live in an extremely privileged bubble, I have a lovely family and a tight knit group of friends however one key point separates me from them, they are all in stable and loving relationships.  Why is this so terrible I hear you cry from the stalls?  Is it merely that you are entrapped in a bitter cycle of man hate and self hate wishing destruction to all those around who dare feel this alien emotion also know as happiness?  No.  Quite simply no.  No from the tops of sky scrapers and the bottom of the sea.  I am quite happy to bumble along being surrounded by my gloriously infatuated friends and my oh-so-in-love parents, but it would seem that they are not so happy with this state to affairs.  The crux of the issue is that I am not merely Amanda, not even Amanda our single friend, but Amanda our novelty single friend.  I am the science project of people who should really know better.  Everyone is suddenly the expert inundating me with advice for how to handle the 18 to 30 year old man and quite frankly a lot of its conflicting and most of its rubbish (I am thankful nonetheless).   What gets me is the sheer quantity of technical terms that must be grasped; the one night stand, ‘seeing’ each other, fuck buddies, friends with benefits.    After playing with these ideas extensively and researching them thoroughly I have come to a conclusion, they are merely all contrived Neanderthal-reminiscent concepts developed to get into our knickers no matter what the occasion but making the poor floundering female believe that it was something completely different.  This probably didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out but in all honesty I was proud of my discovery and felt being single might not turn out to be the minefield I first envisaged.  Again my naivety shone out like a beacon, why could I ever believe it could be that easy.  Was it really such a mistake to bring him home?  Would he really not respect me in the morning/do I really care?  I couldn’t think of anything more ridiculous- surely the option of a relatively attractive girl putting out regularly for very little return was somewhat appealing?  No?  OK fine have it your way! 

If ONLY men were simply in it for the sex, life would be a walk in the park (or a romp in the bushes if you’d prefer).  So here is my last plea for some level of relationship where we can both be happy without me sleeping around excessively or having to get hitched… Single girl seeks single guy for fun, laughter, intelligent conversation and most importantly lots and lots of no strings sex!

Shopping in Style

Shopping has always been my nemesis.  The idea of trawling round the shops on a Saturday afternoon with the whole world and their prams makes my stomach turn.  The minute I step onto foreign soil however this fear would seem to dissipate and I am all too willing to spend hours burrowing through throngs of stalls to find the best souvenirs to bestow on friends and family.  Here are my top 5 shopping destinations.

Otavalo, Ecuador is the last word when it comes to shopping in South America.  It claims to be the biggest open air market on the continent and it wouldn’t surprise me if this title extended to the world.  There is a drawback; it is remarkably difficult to get to considering its infamy.  Negotiating buses in Ecuador can be a daunting experience at the best of times; there are decidedly less of the luxury liners that are so common elsewhere and the road to Otavalo is steep, narrow and long.  Placed two hours outside the capital Quito it is a destination in itself, but its remote location and lack of activities in the surrounding area means that visiting it on the way to elsewhere is out of the question.   The journey is worth it and you are thoroughly rewarded on arrival, stalls boast wares not only from Ecuador but a range of Andean nations so friends and family should not be disappointed with their gifts.

The Northern Quarter in Manchester, England is my northern home, I went to university here so it will always hold a special place in my heart.  Not only can it offer one of the best nights out it also has an exceptional array of boutiques and vintage stores; perfect to perfect your image.  My favourite has to be Small Gods, a cavernous space filled to the rafters with second hand items dating from every decade- one thing to remember ‘It’s second hand not vintage’!

If you’re looking for something really special, custom-made is the way to go and South East Asia has tailors on every corner willing to take your measurements and produce a seamlessly finished article in a mere 24 hours.  I had a suite made in Thailand in 2006 and it is still in box fresh condition after countless batterings in my washing machine, although Hoi An in Vietnam is more synonymous with this service, anywhere there are tourists there will be tailors. 

Porte de Clignancourt, Paris, France is a sprawling mass of paraphernalia from market standards such as knock off designer brands and ‘fell off the back of a lorry’ electronics mixed in with antique brik-a-brak, vintage clothing and furniture. 

Marrakesh, Morocco is the stuff of fairytales, the bazaar is a twisted mass of dim, labyrinth like alley ways so entangled that you could spend hours walking in circles without noticing.  Sunlight escapes through the rafters in the slatted roof illuminating polished silver lampshades and glittering stained glass ornaments.  Everywhere is alive with the buzz of chattered negotiations and in the distance the faint whistle of a snake charmers pipe.  Authentic?  Perhaps not, but the theatre of the experience is definitely unforgettable. 

 Photos to follow.

Fear and loathing in Queenstown, New Zealand, December 2004

I am chronically scared of heights, it’s a phobia that has developed and become more acute the older I’ve got.  I try and not let it stop me doing anything, I’ve been to the top of the Eiffel Tower, walked rickety bridges over cavernous ravines and even managed a sky dive, however there is one thing I’ve never managed; bungee jumping.

Queenstown, New Zealand is the centre of the universe when it comes to extreme sports.  In fact New Zealanders claim that it was one of their own who invented the bungee jump, and I think probably in the modern sense of the sport they did.  You can barely cross a bridge in this country without someone trying to fling themselves over the edge.  Originally jungle tribes would tie tree vines around their ankles and hurl themselves from tree tops as an initiation into manhood, thankfully nowadays there’s far less risk involved, that’s not to say there isn’t the occasional mishap. 

I had been stood nearly all day opposite the bungee platform.  I had watched as each person strapped themselves up in a complicated looking harness and shuffled their way to the edge.  It was a kind of torture as every time they paused on the precipice, my heart would beat so hard it would catch my breath and the same thought would circulate; why?  I had always thought I was brave, would throw myself into anything, dare myself or take up a challenge but the aching in the pit of my stomach was beyond the normal fluttering of butterflies.  Was it fear of dying?  I decided it must be but at the same moment the reasoning seemed absurd, who dies bungee jumping?  Despite myself I flinched as I watched another daring challenger succumb to gravity. I should probably just bite the bullet walk over to the booth, buy a ticket and climb the ladder.  

How often in life are we scared, and how often do we defy that fear?  Approaching someone in a bar, saving the spider in the bath instead of washing it down the drain or even doing the things you want rather than the things you think you should can all be terrifying.  If yesterday I could throw myself out of a plane with only a meager length of fabric separating me and terminal velocity surely I could put my trust in a piece of elastic?  When would I get this opportunity again?  Life was too short not to take a chance. 

With my mind made up I strode towards the bungee.  I was shaking by the time I got the bottom of the ladder which did not make securing the multitude of cords and clips any easier.  I stood at the lip of the podium, my toes curling over the edge of the smooth wood, swaying in the cool breeze.  I looked out onto the horizon, snowcapped mountains stretching across my eye line, and took a deep breath.  Remember what’s the worst that could happen…

Rainbows and Waterfalls- Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil, September 2004 and July 2008

Devil's Throat

On my first trip to South America I arrived into Lima airport without having looked at a map, let alone a Lonely Planet.  I knew I wanted to see Machu Picchu and I also knew the Amazon rainforest was too far away.  Other than those two thoughts I hadn’t given any attention to what I was going to do, so when someone suggested in Rio that there were some waterfalls on the border with Argentina I was only too happy to book myself a ticket and tag along.  Bus travel in Brazil is on an epic scale, the United Kingdom would fit into Brazil a whopping 35 times and little to my knowledge the border was 24 hours away.  These waterfalls better be worth it I thought as I curled up in my seat…36 hours later on the way back to Rio my mind was focussed on one thing- I’m coming back and next time I’ll be prepared!

The sky was only just brightening as I walked into the national park, dark clouds lay ominously on the horizon and a light breeze caused me to shiver involuntarily.  The damp bark chippings on the path bounced underfoot soaking up the sound from our footsteps and the murmurs from conversation escaped into the surrounding forest.  As we walked a light hum could be heard, my first thought was machinery; a pump maybe.  The purr increased to a deep growl, thunder, I searched overhead for the clouds that would surely be swirling towards us promising a storm.  To my surprise the clouds were dissipating and rays of pale sunshine breaking through.  Soon the trees thinned and eventually gave way to bubbling expanses of angry grey water.  Traversing rickety iron gangplanks I continued towards the noise unsure what I would find, now completely isolated from terra firma.  Haze rose in a column in the distance, a high pitched chirping of a thousand swallows now accompanied the roaring current; the cause of this immense commotion was abruptly revealed.  

The walkway ended and I found myself staring into a watery abyss.  A great chasm opened its jaws below my feet and gallons of water cascaded over the edge erupting in furious foam on the jagged rocks littering the mouth of the river beneath.  The spray from the torrent soaked through my clothing while each droplet ignited with the now golden beams to cast dancing prisms of colour onto my skin.  The birds swooped millimetres above our heads before diving downwards to cling to the slippery, damp walls of the gorge.  Supposedly waterfalls are scientifically proven to make you happy.  As the ions within the water are crushed against each other the negative charges are stripped away releasing their positive counterparts into the atmosphere.  How could this scene fail to invigorate?  

From the Devil’s Throat I descended into the yawning canyon and spent the day meandering along shady banks lined with leafy foliage, the waterfalls stretched for miles, spectacular from every angle.  I had no time to enjoy the views from the Argentinian side but was more than satisfied with my lot, after all there’s always next time.   

[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.