6 months, July 2004-January 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 adventures and 7 years later things have changed.  The facebook phenomenon ensures that I know exactly what people are doing at any given time (and 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 keeping it concise was imperative.  

PERU- Land of the Incas

Machu Picchu through the fog

Although I flew into Lima I didn’t spend very much time there overall.  First I travelled to Cusco to hike and see Machu Picchu which was 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, I couldn’t see anything!  After that we missed the train back to Cusco and bribed a security guard to get us on the next one. 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

Lake Titicaca, the Bolivian side

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 brilliant.  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?

Swimming in the Green Waterfall

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

Iguaçu Falls

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 because the Iguaçu Falls were 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

Sydney Opera House

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 but 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

Dolphins in Kaikoura

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 in 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

Whitsundays

In true backpacker tradition I travelled up the East Coast with the rest of the foreigners, but had an utterly brilliant 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.  Then it was off to the Whitsundays which is 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 and it takes 3 days.

BALI

 Mt Bator

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

Elephant Trekking, Chiang Mai

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

Washing on the banks of the river Ganges, Varanasi

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
trains.

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 530 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!

Baby leave?

Ok let’s start with the facts.  Men can’t have babies.  They certainly help in the process, but physically they can’t pop out a child.  This fundamental difference has been the proverbial thorn in the feminist’s side since time immemorial, and as a result of this biological gulf things haven’t quite been working out for women...or men...or anyone really. 

Throughout history it has been a female’s sole purpose to produce children and raise them into upstanding members of society.  A women’s worth was often equated to the successfulness of her offspring, and this perception probably hasn’t completely been dispelled to the archives.  When opportunities were more limited for women, their children were the one aspect of their life where they would have had the most influence.  It was considered normal to devout your life to caring for your brood because in reality options for devoting your energies to anything else were nonexistent.  However now your options as a female are boundless; there are few professions which still smell reminiscent of the old boys clubs and even those resistant to reform (the banking sector being the most prominent) are slowly dragging their sorry behinds into 2012.  And yet, even with all these seemingly limitless prospects there are still complaints of the glass ceiling; statistics banded around concerning the growing pay gap between men and women and the lack of women at boardroom level regularly make media headlines.  There have been several suggestions on how to solve this plateau in progress.  Not least legislation to positively discriminate for women to enter high level positions and workplaces to undergo pay audits to ensure equitable pay distribution.  Both of these approaches are decidedly female-centric, working on the assumption that there is a broken stage in the chain preventing women fulfilling their full potentials.  Yes you’ve guessed it, I think differently.

First let’s talk possible causes for the two problems above.  Salary and position within a company are not just dependent on raw talent.  Most of the time it’s based on commitment.  How long have you been with the company and therefore how many time have you been privileged to their incremental pay increases that are independent of promotions or performance.  If you moved companies every two years you would not necessarily be earning the same as someone who had worked their way up to the same level over twice the time.  So if this assumption is correct, then we can systematically deduce that women are serving less time.  And here we are at the crux of the issue; women cannot possibly hope to show commitment to a firm while also fulfilling family commitments.  I know Sarah Jessica Parker would have you believe that it can be done (and of course author Allison Pearson), but quite frankly that looked far too stressful to be enjoyable and no matter how good we are, why should we have to be?  So we’ve demanded flexible working and got it.  We asked for longer maternity leave, and we got it.  So what’s the problem?  Answer:  we haven’t been demanding these same rights for the y to our x.  As it stands in law women are entitled to 26 weeks statutory maternity leave but men only could have the right to two weeks.  Flexible working entitles both parents to apply for hours to suit their childcare needs, but according to a study by the Trades Union Congress, employers are far more likely to decline applications by men than by women.  Just by looking at these two simple strategies, that were fought for by women, to supposedly make life easier, we can see that they are hemming women into the ‘carer’ box just as much as before.  We need to redress this balance.  Allow men to take some of the strain.  How can we expect to pursue equal relationships with the fathers of our children if policy is restraining them from fully supporting the family unit?  I understand this is a highly simplified example and ignores a whole range of social issues such as single parent families, same sex parents and situations I have never even thought of let alone encountered, but if we get the basics right surely we’re in a better position to tackle everything else?

So I understand the arguments against both parents being able to take 26 weeks leave; the loss to the economy in working hours would be enormous.  Maybe you don’t care, but I get it, and so it’s pointless trying to push this utopian dream.  I have a suggestion (as if I didn’t); why not allow couples to take a combined 28 or even 30 weeks?  I know I’m hitting on problems before I’ve even begun as this would be complicated to regulate, especially as a growing percentage of those having children aren't in a formalised relationship i.e. married.  Although I’m no great proponent of this institution maybe  it is worth rewarding those having children within marriage and restrict this joint baby leave to them.  Have I just opened another can or worms?  I think so but this situation would be at least better for some rather than worse for all.


p.s. supposedly paternity leave of 26 weeks already exists, although it's not quite that straight forward.  I have known several men whose whose wife's have given birth recently and they have only been allowed to take 2 weeks.  On top of this have you actually read the regulation?  There are so many ifs and buts making it seem unnecessarily daunting I'm not surprised men aren't taking advantage of it.  

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.