Standing on a chair shouting

‘No, ladies...I would like you to stand on a chair and shout ‘I AM A FEMINIST’’

-Caitlin Moran in How To Be a Woman

Why I’m standing on that chair and shouting that I AM NOT.

Firstly I have a bone to pick with the word ‘feminism’.  In an age when hidden advertising executives control our minds like the matrix, the look and feel of a word can be more important than the meaning itself. Unfortunately feminism has been a victim of this; being long associated with ‘butch lesbian’ type characters and bra burning which many women find impossible to relate with.  Although this is not necessarily how I view it, I too am hung up on semantics, after all its nearest cousins are female, feminine and fem-bot, implying a gender superior approach.  I believe that this causes feminism to be inward looking and rigid and only able to shout about a problem that has diversified beyond the realms of this traditional ideology.

Feminism has seemed to have got hung up on a very limited agenda: the pay-gap, child rearing, sexual freedom and by extension the power divide.  I can barely hear myself think what with the incessant whining of feminists who believe that the female orgasm sorely neglected.  I am the first to admit I am cranky when I am left hanging but I also understand that there are bigger issues: starving children in Somalia for one.  OK, I admit that was uncalled for, but if women want something to get passionate about I suggest female genital mutilation.  This is a question of flagrant human rights abuse, that should be taken on by all self respecting human beings, and not pigeon holed to those brandishing the F word.  So there we go, we’ll all be happy campaigning for its abolition together.

In truth feminism has become restricting.  Yes, I am a woman.  Yes, I have opinions.  Yes, I am successful.  So therefore according to feminism I must join the sisterhood.  I thought feminism was meant to free women not chain them in further shackles, the binds of which cut even deeper as it is our own kind who imprison us.  I believe in choice; in all things, by all people, so I propose a new strategy.  It is true, women are still being held back.  I might even go so far as to say they are being held back by men.  But not because men believe we are incapable of equal performance, but rather because we have so long been concentrating on ourselves; we have neglected their need to reform as tantamount to our own evolution.  I again refer to Caitlin Moran who seems to be under the impression that there is no pressure on men to be a certain way (Moran, 2011).  I think that’s ridiculous.  They as boxed as we are- just very much more unwilling to admit it, so freeing them may free ourselves. 

I have heard the phrase ‘maleism’ banded about, however my previous arguments concerning Mad Men inspired cronies, rubbing their hands together behind oversized desks suggests this may not be the way forward.  Instead we need an ideology that recognises the differences and similarities between the sexes. Academia has seen a split in recent years with American Feminism and European Feminism embracing subtly different philosophies.  The American school is firmly in the women = man, anything you can do I can probably do better and I can at least do as well.  This has caused policy in the States to be formed on the assumption of this homogeneity; despite there still being a strong cultural belief that woman are in fact the home makers.  This has left women with no support when it comes to juggling all aspects of their home lives, careers and political engagement.  There simply aren’t enough hours in the day for most women to productively pursue all three without any sort of help.  The Europeans could be seen to be more cautious by recognising that men and women have differences and similarities.  Both are considered to be able to contribute in equal amounts to any given situation but not in the same ways i.e. treat me equally not as equals, and therefore flexibility is key.  Although this is closer to a world I would want to live in I still think it could go further.

The sum of all of this is that issues do not need to be fought by women for women.  Issues are no longer gender specific that ways they once were.  Historical trappings of male superiority such as engagement rings to signify ownership and forced sex within a marriage not being considered rape have all but been extinguished.  Feminists should congratulate themselves and their predecessors as these are decisive victories for society but there is a reason for the observed loss in momentum (as highlighted by the editor of Cosmopolitan magazine in an interview in the Guardian http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2012/feb/19/interview-louise-court-editor-cosmopolitan).  Maybe feminism simply has no place in this brave new world and maybe that’s OK.  

Dear Feminism

Where did we meet?  All those years ago.  I cannot remember.  It was probably in a crowded room.  I imagine our eyes met as we both reached for the last cocktail sausage.  That’s all it would have taken.  I would have sworn to be yours forever; for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health.  The times I stood by your side while all around would mock you.  I defended you with every inch of myself and you protected me, protected all in your flock.  There was no room for anything else, what else did I need, we lived in a delicate balance.  But was this enough?  Have I been your loyal and faithful companion?  Have you been mine?  And this is why I’m writing.  I don’t think I know you any more.  There was a time when every contour of your being was familiar to me.  When I would ramble idly on your tranquil slopes, taking refuge in your cause but now there is a baroness where once you flourished.  Your supple boughs that shivered in gentle breezes are stern and rigid. 

You were mine because I chose you, and for you that was enough.  Now you are gluttonous.  Now you are no longer satisfied with just being mine and instead display the scalps of your conquests for all to see.  Now you demand my allegiance; hold me to ransom.  Judging my self-worth by the heady heights of your success.  You give nothing and take all.

Are you wincing under that ferocious exterior?  Will you be sad to see me go?  Am I being too cruel?  Are you merely a product of our unbounded ambition?  Is it I who has created the monster that stands before me now?  Are you the fractured mirror through which I see the world, a cowering child fought over by warring parents.  You are all, and yet nothing.  Your duplicity makes me uncomfortable; I can no longer look you in the eye and recognise the landscape you are cultivating.  I know the grass may not be greener, maybe we will be forced to do battle for those pastures new, but I will once again know what I am fighting for, and understand the weight of my own sacrifices.

And so, dear friend, this is goodbye.

Secret Beach, Sierra Leone

At 5.30 the rat woke me; pitch blackness and only the wailing mosques for company.  I was excited for the day to come; I was going to catch a lift with Dave and Gary to the beach near Freetown, a 3 hour drive from Makeni and the last stop before my flight back to the misery of a British winter.  I left the house at 6 and started to trudge my way along the main road to our rendezvous point, as a pale yellow glow broke over the horizon.  The coolness of the night was dissipating and the humidity clung to my skin; a typical African morning, the smell of wood fires drifting from the scattered shanties and the buzz of insects.   Luckily for my back (as I was carrying all my worldly possessions) a moto came past so I was able to hop on and whizz along the only paved road in the town.  You are never as free as when you are on the back of a bike and the feeling is magnified when you are surrounded by Africa; I felt exhilarated.  Soon I was lounging in the back of the air conditioned 4x4 watching the landscape transform from flat, rusty scrubland to lush, green hillsides, until finally the sea shimmered in the distance. 

3 hours later we were at a fork in the road, I say road I mean dirt track and our guide, the fourth in our band of adventurers, a French girl by the name of Audrey, couldn’t remember which way to go.  We took the right one (if in doubt always go right, right?) and it started to meander away from the sea.  We were all bit sceptical.  The group, who were extremely hung-over, were looking worse for wear as the land rover, (unfortunately for us not land cruiser), lurched across boulders and across clefts in the sun baked ground.  We decided that this couldn’t be the route to the mysterious No. 2 River Beach so after much deliberation, turned back only to discover the alternative track took us to a dead end.  So, finally convinced we were on the right track, we continued.  Audrey suddenly gave a scream and buried her head in her lap.  I saw what she had soon enough; rough wooden planks, barely wide enough to fit the wheels on were laid across a 40 foot drop to the thrashing rapids below. Gary skilfully tight-roped the car along three of these tree concealed canyons as I peered nervously over the edge.

When we finally arrived it was worth every bump and bruise.  Undulating white sand dunes as far as the eye can see, drop down into rolling turquoise waves; emerald jungles protecting this paradise from the gaze of the outside world.  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky to distract the beating sun and our skin soon turned to tarnished bronze.  As we wandered along the shore front we crossed vivid blue tributaries which snake their way into the ocean.   Matching bead necklaces and a lobster lunch made the day a celebration rather than a run of the mill day lounging on the sand.

All too soon it was time to go and I was dropped at waterloo on the outskirts of the city to make my own way to the airport. 

The One Man Protest, Palestine, December 2011

Abed's humble abode and impeding
Jewish settlement above

The taxi had stopped at the top of a steep and stony dirt track.  We had descended halfway into the valley and were going to walk the rest.  On the hilltop, a Jewish settlement sat glittering in the strands of sunlight that broke through the smoky clouds, on what was an unusually gloomy day in Bethlehem.  Abruptly the path ended and we were standing outside a makeshift tent.  Flapping tarpaulins strapped to rough wooden beams enclosed a small paved area with chairs and tables, almost like a roadside restaurant.  There was a great mass of planted flowers and cactuses in the centre, a riot of green in an otherwise desert landscape.  My guide was wandering, calling out for the owner, Abed, to come and say hello.  He appeared from a doorway to the right, when I peeked around the frame I saw a hollow no more than two metres by four.  Paraphernalia of every kind hung from every available piece of ceiling, and the walls were lined with pictures.  If I didn’t know who Abed was I would assume this was some sort kitsch tourist attraction of the ‘come and see how people used to live’ genre.  However this was not a commercial enterprise.  Abed is the one man protest. 

Abed is tall and stocky, tarnished weather-beaten skin, a lopsided grin and eyes that sparkle with mischief, for mischief is exactly what he is causing but not for frivolity.  He immediately offers us coffee and invites as to take a look around.  The shelter is sat in the middle of a patchwork of plots; I recognise some of the leaves bursting from the ground: radishes, basil, chillies.  A network of paths twist downward and gnarled olive trees guard the way.  The olive branch, a symbol of peace and unity the world over and yet, here, the embodiment of a fight: the right for existence.  Here in the valley there are hundreds of olive trees, some are thousands of years old.  The Palestinians have been the custodians of these elders since before history.  Many say that if you placed them next to the trees, or the rocks then you would see no difference, they are one and the same. 

As we sit and sip the bitter, black liquor, he talks about the ins and outs of daily life, the troubles with the Israelis and the other visitors he’s had to his farm.  He points out dilapidated buildings on the far side of the vale, the slope that leads up to the settlement.  They whole area is owned by Palestinians and yet they are not allowed to live or work their land as they are considered a security risk by those living far above.  He says his family has been there for as far back as anyone can remember, this is his home and he refuses to leave it.  He’s had to sacrifice much more than home comforts for this; his wife and children all live in Deisha Refugee Camp outside of Bethlehem and visit only rarely.  On the other hand the Israeli’s come often; they have threatened him, destroyed his crops and killed his animals before finally accepting that there was nothing they could do.  Despite this they still impose stringent regulations on him, preventing him from properly cultivating the land with the use of permanent structures such as water tanks or using any heavy machinery. 

The settlements don’t appear to be random; they seem carefully designed to encircle the ancient city of Bethlehem.  In fact it is all part of the Israeli government’s urban development plan: Jerusalem 20-20 which endorses these communities.  This is not just a case of disputed territory, but of limited space; Deisha Camp is running out of time.  The land is not owned by the Palestinian Authority, but rented to UNWRA, it’s a 99 year lease and there is only 33 years left before their time is up.  There was a thread of hope; the valley behind the camp was unused, and some families have been able to scrape together enough money to buy small plots of land and build houses.  Hope, however, was short lived.  As I looked out over the horizon, the perfect right angles of an advancing settlement vibrated in the heat of the morning sunshine.  Shaking its limbs in readiness for the impending march towards Bethlehem.  Its veins are cut into the hillside, marking its territory, preparing for the wall.  The Palestinians here are being squeezed in on all sides, with fewer and fewer options.  The question remains, why here?  Outside of the West Bank, in the area known as Israel to the international community, but will be eternally Palestine in the hearts of those who farmed its slopes for generations, there is space.  Only 12% of that land is being used while in the West Bank **% and counting is being built upon.  Is it just a matter of the settlers closing the cycle of history and returning to where they have always belonged?  So what does that mean for the Palestinians who have been here since?  Where can an historical line be drawn?  Or does it matter what the geographical or chronological truth is, as the only truth is that human suffering resonates in the air and hope is thin on the ground.

Amman,Jordan, November2011

The city sprawls out in all directions; across the hills and valleys, clinging to the slopes like limpets.  The ancient Citadel crests the central peak, the ruins of the Nablean fortress scattered and crumbling.  All around is still and silent, a distant car horn drifts lazily past on the light breeze, which also brings with it an autumnal chill.  It makes me shiver and I retreat deeper into my jacket.  On an overturned column I perch; waiting. The sun is now fast disappearing and the sky is a clear; a polished blue, the promise of stars as yet unfulfilled.  But why am I waiting?  Why am I steeling myself against the brisk night air? I have a feeling, caught between nerves and excitement that in the next few moments I will be lost in the magic of the Middle East.  So far Amman has failed to enchant, the ramshackle street plan would have had even the most ambitious cartographer befuddled and had left me with the distinct impression that navigating using a compass and the sun would have been more likely to ensure success.   Despite the grand King Abdullah Mosque being a sight from the outside, the inside was bare and industrial. Then there were the questions about my occupation, directed to my male companion, on the drive from the airport, which had made me feel unsettled; an interloper into a culture I had always felt I understood.  Oh, and rain can make even the brightest of cities dull.    As the sun sets, lights flicker on with subtle green glows marking out the many mosques which speckle the skyline. Just before 4.30 the call started, a rounded hum projected skywards.  On the opposite hill there is a brief murmur of reply, but then silence.  Really was that it?  I feel dejected; confused that such a conservative society can fail to take its responsibilities seriously.  I turn to leave, closing the door on Amman and imagining sunset on the ancient city of Petra.  My footsteps are abruptly drowned out as the valley begins to reverberate with a low growl.  The response is instantaneous, a cacophony of sirens mimicking the first.  In the moments of paused breath, echoes bounce between the slopes, before the chords arc up again, rising and falling with each verse, each note perfectly in tune.  When the last mosque falls quiet, a feathery silence floats over the darkened metropolis.  Internally I’m still buzzing, the cold momentarily forgotten.

Road Tripping, France, August 2010

Despite being allergic, I love oysters and couldn't resist
these fresh-as-you-like specimens!

It had already been a lengthy journey and we were still at least four hours from our destination.  My best friend and I were holed up in her Micra, Jimmy, to escape from the mundane routine that had been our summer so far.  It had been a spur of the moment decision, (so spontaneous in fact that we had left without checking my Tesco tent was fully equipped; it wasn’t, the pegs had mysteriously gone walkabout).  We had managed to enlist the company of our travel companions from the previous year’s Asian adventure, who also shared our passion for discovering local delicacies (much cheese eating and boozing would ensue).  The motorway was stretched out in front of us, leading to a horizon which glistened in the scorching afternoon heat. Despite the Saharan conditions inside the car we were both smiling as we sped through the golden French countryside, bristling with anticipation.

Dinan

We hadn’t planned anything; deciding we were grownups who could 'figure it out' when we got there- wherever ‘there’ happened to be.  Arriving at a campsite and negotiating a pitch at the height of the summer season proved more difficult than we thought, it would seem the French are a nation who camp.  Unsurprising really when you consider the perfect weather, striking landscape, and extortionately priced pensions.  La Rochelle is a typical coastal resort; a comfortable mix of historical buildings, seafood restaurants and sandy enclaves.  The wind was deceptive and we lived up to our ‘Rost Bif’ reputation in a more literal way than usual.

After a couple of days we headed northwards along the coastal road, or at least what the 10 year old road map, gifted from my parents, sold as a coastal road.   Vannes is hillside settlement, with winding streets and attractive architecture.  We were lucky enough to catch the weekly food market so could observe the locals bustle through their daily lives, literally arguing over the price of fish.  They evoked a passion for fresh produce that is lacking in the supermarket food halls of the UK.  We were addicted to this ideology and as we sat in a café, soaking up the morning sunshine, we hatched a plan to return; the travelling Olde English Tea Shoppe was obviously a plan that was destined for instant success.  

Dinard

We had agreed to meet a friend in St Malo, so our pilgrimage towards the Brittany coast continued.  We stopped inland at Dinan which boasts a beautiful and well preserved Roman aqueduct, a crumbly medieval town and a quaint riverside marina.  Here we discovered that cider, (our university tipple of choice) is actually traditionally served warm, out of wide brimmed mugs.

Dinard is stuck, magically, in the 1900s.  Blue and white striped beach tents flap along the sea shore, as briny sea froth crashes, rustling and hissing, onto the grainy yellow sand.  Seagulls cooing overhead.  Everything is sand castles and candy floss; you can almost hear the organ grinder echoing through time. 

Cathedral at Bayeux

It was then a race against time to get back to Dunkirk to catch the ferry; barely squeezing in the Bayeux Tapestry and the D-Day beaches until we raced up the gangway into the bowels of the ship.  We were exhausted but content; 6 days, 1200 miles, and more history than you could shake a stick at.

6 months, 2004-2005

When I was 18 I went travelling for the first time.  I went for 6 months and was thoroughly, and joyfully unprepared.  I hadn't even looked at a guide book, but that just added to the adventure.  Now everyone seems to be jetting off for exotic escapades, but things have changed.  The facebook phenomenon ensures that I know exactly what people are doing at any given time (and in any given time zone), as well as the regular emails and text messages.  I sent just 3 emails in 6 months and had not too many more conversations with my parents on the phone.  Telecommunications just didn't have the capacity they do now and to top it all were expensive, so I had to keep it short and sweet. 

Peru: land of the Incas

I flew into Lima but didn’t spend very much time there overall.  First, I travelled to Cusco to hike and see Machu Picchu; eventful to say the least, the bus journey was 24 hours and unheated.  When I was on the trail I managed to fall through a bridge, and when we got to Machu Picchu it was raining and I couldn’t see anything!  After that we missed the train back to Cusco, bribed a security guard to get us on the next one, and spent the whole night learning the perils of drinking at altitude. Then it was down to Puno and Lake Titicaca which is one of the most beautiful places I’ve been, the lake actually sparkles.  Not forgetting the local joke, the titi's on our side the caca in Bolivia!   Also, Pisco Sours,  which consist of Pisco (the local spirit), lemon juice and egg white, like the alcoholic version of a lemon meringue pie.

Bolivia: cheap, cheap, cheap

I only spent 4 days here which isn't really enough. La Paz is the highest capital in the world but it’s a bit too sprawling for my liking, Copacabana on the other hand is everything you'd want of a lakeside resort.  It’s also on Lake Titicaca but its warmer than in Peru.  I travelled around with an Ozzie for 2 weeks which was cool but he went back to America after Bolivia.

Ecuador: could anything else go wrong?

Basically, it was a disaster from beginning to end. I didn’t get stamped across the border so spent 8 hours at immigration in Quito, I then had to bribe a bus company to give me a ticket to prove I didn’t come across illegally (which I didn’t by the way). In Quito, I got my drink spiked but luckily was with friends so all was well...eventually...when I finished throwing up. There was an upside to the trip, I stayed in the jungle, taught English at the local school, swam in the Green Waterfall and made chocolate!

Brazil

Rio is amazing; the beach is actually full of body builders which are just hilarious to watch as they strut around in Speedos looking ridiculous. I only spent one day here as the Iguaçu Falls are 24 hours away and were supposedly a must-see. They were SPECTACULAR, the most incredible things I’ve ever seen in my life EVER!  Niagara eat your heart out, everyone must MUST go see these in your life time; they are huge and there are miles of them.  We went on a speed boat under one and got completely drenched and I walked around in a towel for the rest of the day but well worth it!

Chile

Santiago is a huge city with lots of hills and not much else going for it. The nightlife is perpetual but it’s nothing like the rest of South America, it’s just too like Europe. Although, they did invent the hot dog, not just your average frankfurter in a bun, oh no, add onion, avocado  mustard and ketchup and you have yourself the Italiano! 

Sydney

Apart from nearly getting arrested for narcotics smuggling the excitement here was minimal.  The Opera House isn’t even white, which completely scarred me; I think they must use tip-ex or something on the postcards.  Plus when I arrived they were meant to be in a drought that had gone on for the last couple of years, as soon as I stepped off the plane it rained continuously for a week (this is a pattern I’ve been noticing I think I should loan myself out to farmers- freak weather conditions follow me around)!  Even the infamous Bondai wasn’t that great- its tiny.

New Zealand: dancing dolphins and wondrous whales

I thought seeing as it was so close it would be wrong of me not to visit and it was one of the best decisions I’ve made so far. It is so beautiful...I can’t even begin to tell you about the landscape or the people or anything because you just wouldn’t believe me! I only did the South Island and was only there for 10 days but I packed in dolphins, whales, a skydive, hot springs and a night at Dunedin Uni.

Brisbane: to be sure, to be sure

Even though it rained for a lot of the time I still love Brisbane.  It’s got everything a big city has without being a big city (I’m starting to sound like a tourist information desk- sorry).  I stayed for ages and for most of the time was the only English person as the rest were Irish.

Byron Bay: surfs Up

I learnt to surf which has been one of the highlights, I wasn’t very good but a good surfer always blames the board, the wind conditions or the sea, well I blame all 3!

East Coast: backpacker paradise

In true backpacker tradition I travelled up the East Coast with the rest of the lemmings, but had an utterly insane time. Fraser Island is the largest sand island in the world (I think) and there are no roads, so you just drive around in a 4WD and camp on the beach.  It’s also the only place with pure bred Dingo’s (a fact I'm sure you'll never forget).  Then it was off to the Whitsundays; a group of islands in the Great Barrier Reef national park.  They were untouched and it was the most relaxed 3 days of my life- we stayed on a boat and snorkelled.  I did a dive, another thing I’m not very good at but it was fun all the same.

Adelaide, Melbourne and The Great Ocean Road

I flew into see Ben (as in Goldfish) and found he was in the middle of some exams so thought I’d leave him in peace and bugger off to Melbourne (it sounds close, it’s not, it’s a 12 hour bus ride).  No one I spoke to could say a bad word about Melbourne and although it was nice I didn’t really find much to do.  To get back to Adelaide you can go along the great Ocean Road which is spectacular, built by WW1 vets (an impressive feat as all they had was shovels) and it takes 3 days.

Bali

It all started in Bali, where, despite everyone’s good advice it all went a bit tits up- the weather was crap (it was the rainy season), there were no other back packers (well none where I was) and I was trying my hardest to bargain but to no avail. Everyone was generally being un-cooperative but other than that Bali is great! I finally saw rice paddies cut into the mountains which were beautiful and sunrise from the top of Mt Bator was breathtaking.

Thailand: land of the smiles

I lost my nerve a bit after Bali so decided to invest in a Lonely Planet, I know I’m such a hypocrite after all I’ve said about but it seemed like the only way I would survive.  Luckily all my fears were misplaced as Thailand is one of the most backpacker friendly places I’ve been.  Bangkok was insane; its busy, dirty and noisy but has excellent shopping and more beautiful Buddhist temples than you can shake a stick at...I was utterly templed out by the end.  I started by going up to Chaing Mai in the north where I climbed the highest mountain in Thailand (not a great feat), elephant trekking, and bamboo rafting. As you can imagine the views from the top were amazing and the bamboo rafting hilarious, I don’t know how we stayed so dry!  I then headed down to the islands to warm up. Koh Samui was like something out of a dream, I had an A-frame bungalow actually ON the beach, I could open my door and watch the sunrise while I was lying in bed!  I spent Christmas and not forgetting the full moon party on Koh Pangang. Although the party was great it was tinged in sadness and worry for some because it was on the night of the Tsunami, I was so lucky no one I know was hurt and that I was over the other side of Thailand, I wish everyone could say the same.

New Delhi

I travelled back to Bangkok and flew to Delhi which is another kettle of fish completely.  At first I really like India, Delhi has loads to do and see and its nothing like anywhere else in the world however, it was hard work being constantly pestered to buy things, or talk about different cultures or just generally being unashamedly stared at because you’re a western female travelling alone. A lot of the time I just felt threatened.

Varanasi: city of the dead

Varanasi is the strangest place- those who have died are ritually burnt here on the banks of the Ganges and even though there’s a constant stream of dead bodies being carried through the streets it all seems quite normal.

Agra: ode to love

Whoever says the Taj Mahal is 'just a building' obviously hasn’t been and doesn’t have a clue what they're talking about. Sydney Opera House, the Eiffel Tower or the Empire State Building, in fact anything that isn’t the Taj Mahal palls in comparison.  It gives me faith in men and love but also the general brilliance of some people to create something like that!  Unfortunately my camera also decided to give up the ghost!

Jaipur: The Pink City

Jaipur, The Pink City...or not. It was decidedly orange, I wasn’t too impressed, as well as suffering with food poisoning which I’d acquired in Agra, the rickshaw drivers seemed to see me as an easy target so I thought my last week needed to be more relaxing so I headed to Goa, a 2 day trip on the train.

Goa: beach, beach, beach

Goa is gorgeous but also full of English tourists, and generally not the best kind. Prices are seriously inflated because of the holiday makers but still nothing beats getting up at 5.30 am to see the fishing boats come in. Bartering over the price of fish and then cooking and eating your purchase on the beach.

So then it was just a case of getting back to Bombay, doing the last bits of shopping and getting on the plane home.  It’s so weird to be back but I’m glad all at the same time...India was beginning to get me down a bit but I still wouldn’t trade the experience for anything!

Flower of Scotland

Twice a year I spend a few days in Scotland visiting relatives.  Despite having never lived north of the border, there is an atmosphere reminiscent of a homecoming about the trip.  Maybe it’s because everyone sounds like my parents, or maybe it’s something altogether more spiritual; a feeling that here, in the land of my forefathers, I belong.  There is a particular routine that I adhere to which adds to the sense that I’m a local.  First it’s to Miss Cranston’s Tea Room; the upstairs café’s warm yellow walls brighten even the grimmest Glasgow afternoon and the tinkle of cutlery and friendly chatter lulls you into a cosy and familiar tranquillity.  Everything on the menu has a maternal homeliness; from the miniature scotch pies to the light and airy fruit scones.  I always have the same thing: haggis and clapshot (aka neeps’n’tatties) bathed in rich, silky gravy.  Haggis gets such a bad rap, it has as much to do with sheep’s stomachs these days, as sausages have with pigs intestines.  I am on a mission to educate people of this scotch classic of spicy mince and barely, not dissimilar to shepherd’s pie (only a thousand times tastier).  Saying that there is nothing wrong with spinning the tale that the haggis is a small, squirrel like creature, with two legs longer than the others to make running round the hills of the highlands that much easier.  Unsuspecting American tourists beware. 

After lunch my day of gastronomy has only just begun, but I have to earn the fish supper with potato fritters that’s coming my way later.  I take the clockwork orange (the metro system’s affectionate, if not somewhat disconcerting nickname) to Byers Road, the district encircling the university.  The streets here are lined with boutiquey vintage shops and tea rooms.  I love to rummage through piles of bric-a-brac and clothing, in drafty warehouses, hidden down side streets to find that buried gem; an antique silver ring, or a vintage evening dress.  Today it is raining.  Rains that, I will find out tomorrow, have caused the Clyde to burst its banks and caused general travel chaos.  The smooth, flat paving stones that are typical of Glasgow city are swimming with torrents of cascading water. 

So onto Motherwell which, according the recommendations of no less than Rick Stein, has one of the finest fish restaurants in Scotland.  I, however, never frequent this particular establishment and instead opt for the Chinese-fish shop-take away located at the entrance to my Grandma’s  tower bloc.  If I’m feeling gluttonously indulgent I may even chose a deep fried mars bar (yes they do exist) accompanied by vanilla ice cream. 

Last stop, Edinburgh.  Always a fleeting stopover before I catch my flight.  Another excuse to sit down with tea and cake.  Then a mad dash to find boxes of Edinburgh rock, filled with sugary, pastel coloured morsels that melt on the tongue. 

Two Weeks in Turkey, October 2011

Blue Mosque

When I told people I was going to spend a fortnight in Turkey I was met with a certain amount scepticism.  To be fair to those who thought that I may prefer an altogether less tame option, I could see where they were coming from.  According to the Foreign Office, Turkey is the holiday destination of choice for over 2.6 million Brits.  The coastline is littered with resorts advertising beautiful beaches, as many activities you could shake a stick at, and most importantly cheap alcohol; the polar opposite of my wish list when looking to relax.  I’d had a couple of recommendations; both of these from Yorkshiremen, the county's reputation was on the line…no pressure.

I’d read the minimal before arriving in Istanbul, I hate ruining the surprise, and booked a hostel in the shadow of the blue mosque and Aya Sofia, in the old town of Sulthanemet.  I woke up to streaming sunshine and a spectacular view of the minarets, set to a backdrop of flawless blue sky.  Breakfast on the terrace: a Turkish standard of a creamy feta-type cheese, cold hams, boiled eggs and weak coffee, meals throughout the day only improved.  I headed towards the mosques which are both gargantuan.  The inside of the blue mosque (which is free to enter) is beautifully decorated with intricate florals and stained glass; which lent the atmosphere a soft and inviting glow.  Despite the hubbub from the thousands of tourists swirling around you, the height if the domed ceilings seemed to absorb the commotion, it’s not hard to feel a sense of calm. 

Next I headed down the hill into the maze of streets which would lead me to the shores of the river Bosphorus.  The bridge which links the two sides of the city is a tumult of activity:  restaurants buzz on the lower level while amateur fishermen hang their lines from the upper.  There was more than one occasion I had to duck to avoid walking into a fish being hauled up from the glistening waters below. 

The mountains of Cappadocia were next on my itinerary.  After an erratic bus ride, (these coaches boast wifi and personal TVs and yet no toilets, the bus stops every few hours for a loo break; frustrating if, like myself, you can easily sleep straight through an overnight journey) I awoke to a moonscape.  The geology of the region is unique; a combination of soft basalt deposits, harsh winds and extreme temperatures have caused rippling undulations  to traverse cliff faces and towering spires of rock to majestically rise from the valley floors like the discarded columns of ancient temples from some prehistoric race of giants.  There are so many points of interest there was nothing for it but to join the hordes and book myself on a day tour.  The highlight was undoubtedly the underground city which was a labyrinth of tunnels burrowed as deep as 60m into the earth.  There are more than 20 subterranean refuges in the region, which would conceal the indigenous population from invading forces for up to 6 months at a time.  They come complete with churches, wineries (yes, more than one, although it is hardly surprising if you have to hide underground for months on end) and livestock stalls but, as seems to be a theme in Turkey, no toilets. 

Another nocturnal drive later and I was stood at the bottom of what looked to be a mountain of brilliant white meringue.  The pale, early morning sunshine highlighted the glimmering azure water that was cascading down the slopes and gathering in terraced pools, a stark contrast from the surrounding valley of rust blushed hills.  The spa town of Pamukkale has been lauded for the healing properties of the hot springs since the Romans; who, incidentally, have left many things lying around which are certainly worth a look.  I was through the entrance gates before 8am and as a result was able to luxuriate in the pools in solitary peace.  I was surprised to discover that much of the mountain has been artificially constructed to protect the natural travertines; however this doesn’t take away from the sheer magnificence of the experience. 

I don’t think a holiday is ever truly complete without a couple of days at the seaside.  Unfortunately my timing is anything but impeccable, within 24 hours of arriving I  n the coastal town of Kusadasi the heavens opened and rain battered the shoreline.  I considered traveling north in search of sunshine but the forecast was anything but encouraging.  Kusadasi is nice enough; the beaches are OK, the bars and restaurants are suitably touristy, the nightlife is loud, the souvenirs expensive.  I discovered it is possible to get burnt on a cloudy day but other than that slouched around the hostel, watching films with the two other residents who were also weathering the storm.   

Shit, I’m swimming in the Amazon, Manaus, August 2008

Dear Jess and Kelly, alto cinqo.

Manaus is muggy.  Really muggy.  You can almost see the water droplets forming in the air in front of you.  I had flown in at dusk and as I waited for the airport bus the cloud filled sky changed from pink to purple.  Now I was on the ground I was confused; from the plane window all I saw was rainforest.  Just a vast expanse of green.  So now I was sitting in a concrete bus shelter, on a concrete road, outside a concrete airport with not a tree in sight, I was starting to question my sanity.  I mean, I knew Manaus was a city in the middle of the Amazon, but I hadn’t really expected a city.  More a large village.  Maybe even a small town at a push. 

The hostel was also puzzling, for a start it was packed.  I was sleeping on a mattress in a hallway.  Where had all these people come from?  Manaus is not easily accessible; one solitary road leads from Bolivia in the south, through to Venezuela in the North.  The boats that run along the river only leave every two days and the flight is ridiculously expensive.  At breakfast I did some detective work and discovered that everyone was there for a conference, a herpetology conference.  I recoiled.  Herpes required a whole conference?    No, don’t be ridiculous, herpetology is the study of amphibians and reptiles.  Of course.  I knew that.  The kind, if slightly pitying man who explained all of this to me was an American who specialised in frogs.  Conversationally I was up the creek without so much as a current, let alone a paddle, but he was on a role.  Who knew of the obstacles that poor field scientists such as himself faced on such a regular basis when trying have their extremely rare and previously undiscovered frog recognised.  The plebe in me couldn’t resist, I asked him to name his next new species after me, the Amandicus Rosicus or something along those lines.  I figured after the lecture I had had to endure for the past 45 minutes I was owed this much.  He laughed nervously.  Maybe not.

So onto the purpose of this trip.  The Amazon.  The mighty river we all learn about in school and the plight that the rainforest surrounding it faces.  I pictured myself, Indiana Jones style hacking my way through ancient creepers to the centre of the untouched jungle.  Of course I then proceeded to book myself on a very tame and touristy 3 day tour which involved a guided stroll and a boat trip.  Although not plush, the ‘retreat’ may as well have been 5 star luxury compared to some of the hovels I had been accustomed to previously; beds not hammocks, three square meals a day and a jetty from which to jump.  Yes that’s what I said, jump.  I was a little taken aback at this revelation.  “Jump” I questioned… “into that?”.  The river looks like something Oliver may have asked for seconds of, not to mention the beady marbled eyes of caiman, sloping lazily by, no doubt eyeing us up for their next meal.  I had been given all the assurances and I wasn’t going to be accused of packing my bikini for nothing.  So standing on the edge I took a deep breathe, closed my eyes ready to leap from the edge.  Then, out of the hut behind me ran three skinny white boys yodelling at the tops of their lungs, they passed me in a blur and catapulted themselves into the water.  Well, I thought, what a way to ruin a dramatic and life defining moment.  Now there was nothing more to do than preserve my dignity and hop in behind them.  The water was a lot warmer than I had expected, like a bath.  Probably due to the silt suspended around me as a floated, everything felt smooth and thick against my skin.  Then it suddenly struck me, here I was, in the middle of the rainforest, swimming in the Amazon.  Do things get better than this?  

Ode to Autumn

Autumn, the king of seasons.  Royal golds and regal reds set fire to the trees.  The weak morning sunshine streaming through the slit in my curtains is transformed to a warm glow.  You can hear this season, it whispers through cracks and under doors, or roars at you in open spaces.  You add you own accompaniments, the parched leaves shattering underfoot with a familiar crunch.  I live beneath two ancient oak trees and they release their acorns in one fail swoop every year.  Outside my front door lies nature’s answer to bubble wrap, the satisfaction of each step is toe curling.  Suddenly all I want is coffee; coffee while I’m sat in the sun, outside a café, snuggled into my hat and scarf.  Cheshire cat grin, squinting towards the sky.  Scarves.  What a revelation.  I relish the moment when I leave the house and think, ‘oooh now, that’s a bit fresh, better get a scarf’.  I have an entire draw devoted to this humble accessory (when you have limited wardrobe space this is excessive, trust me).  An addition to this addiction has been hats.  I lived for a long time under the impression that I wasn’t a ‘hat person’ (I am also not a sunglasses person, or a dog person) but I must overcome my fear, as frankly, hats are cool. 

As the months grow darker Autumn has not just one, but two festivals to lift your spirits.  As a child I would look forward to Halloween with all the excitement of Christmas.  Hours would be spent fantasising about my outfit.  On my first ever Halloween, my mother bought me a clowns costume.  There was a yellow and white plastic polka dotted bow tie, comedically oversized in comparison to my three-year-old head.  A wig of rainbow colours and obviously the obligatory face paint.  I must have cut a fearsome figure as the two little boys who arrived for a trick-or-treating excursion burst into tears when they saw me.  I am still somewhat contented with this memory.  Only a few days later you find yourself strategically choosing layers to ward off the frosty night air as you stand in a field, craning your neck upwards as explosions of colour shimmer against a slate black sky.  Is there something morbid about celebrating the failed attempt of essentially our first terrorist?  Burning effigies certainly have something of the macabre about them but I am quite happy to put these qualms aside if it means steaming bowls of chilli con carne eaten al fresco.  

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.