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“Why?” asked my dad, an inspired traveller in his own right, as I announced an impending trip to Siberia and beyond while digesting our Christmas dinner half a year ago. In March another concerned parent, Mongolian Sara who had taken me in to her nomadic home stay struggled to figure me out. “You have husband?” she asked as she cornered me in -20 degrees on my way back to the warmth of heated stoves from the outdoor toilet. “No”, said I. “But you have boyfriend?” her face looked for reassurance. I shook my head and she looked out of sorts. Why travel when instead you could be spending this time with your family and loved ones?

I spent the last day of my journey in 12-hour transit in Doha, a mecca for ex pats in the world’s richest country, Qatar. This desert city with its sand coloured compounds and ultramodern sky scrapers that seem to sprout overnight reminds me of a computer game. Age old Arab traditions mix with money swinging futuristic shopping centres. There are no taxes and alcohol is only served in high class hotels. Carefully managed gardens fight a constant battle with the fierce heat and a dusty wind makes anything further than 50 meters away appear obscure. But my very first view of Doha is not of the wealth associated with Middle Eastern metropolises. From the aeroplane I look down to what appears to be a caravan park with endless white huts neatly lined on the sand seemingly in the middle of nowhere. I later learn it’s a labourers’ camp which houses the countless immigrant workers who come to Doha in hope of a life away from poverty from countries such as Nepal, Bangladesh and the Philippines. Wearing yellow jumpsuits they construct architectural dreams they will never be able to enter or enjoy. There is a lot of controversy on the treatment of workers in Doha and my guess is it doesn’t stem from nowhere. But with the Qatari government running most domestic media it is hard to know the extent of exploitation.

Everyone travels in search of a better life. For me the simplest answer to why, is to learn about the world and myself. I come back with more than just my 30kg rucksack (which incidentally taught me that less is more). I hope I have learnt to be more mindful – of other people as well as my opinions, self and body. I wish to live in the present and stay conscious of what I have and behold, but also what I lack - be it materially or spiritually - because this might drive me forward in life. Writer Gilbert K. Chesterton said: “The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as foreign land.” I think this applies not just for land but for the self. As I slowly change my mindset from curious traveller to functional Londoner I marvel being able to drink cold water from the tap and having seemingly infinite clean underwear in my wardrobe. I hope something of that traveller’s willingness to be open to new influences and not take anything for granted will stay.



Finally, by leaving my nearest and dearest I learnt a lesson that I didn’t count for. I have loved writing this blog. As well as letting you know I am okay I have enjoyed being in touch with you, whether you are part of my everyday life in London or someone I don’t speak with often – maybe because we live far apart or because life has taken us on different paths. Thank you for reading and for every single encouraging word. This journey has strengthened my belief in the good in people and it is a lot thanks to each one of you who has travelled with me, be it in my mind or in person. You – literally – are my world.







Choices

When it comes to news, despite swapping economic doom to an explosive boom it’s clear that Asia is no Shangri-La. “We hope this will be a weapon of peace not a weapon of war” quipped a government spokesperson for India on BBC Worldwide after their successful nuclear missile launch a few weeks ago. Erm, weapon of peace?

On the other hand it’s been inspiring to note that when it comes to tourism, sustainability actually is everywhere. In the past weeks I and Elina have dyed silk scarves made by Laotian village women, who receive a fair wage and free English lessons and eaten in training restaurants for former street kids learning professional culinary skills. We’ve just returned from zip lining in Bokeo Nature Reserve with Gibbon Experience, a conservation project employing locals away from the slash-and-burn logging, farming and poaching that has previously provided livelihoods. This is sustainability made fun; we’re spoilt for choice and there is an air of innovation in these projects.




But a few weeks ago in Sihanoukville, a Cambodian beach town with a lively nightlife, I was brought back to ground and below from my world-saving, do-gooder happy place. Sun loungers by day, beach barbecues by night, I didn’t want to move away from the sound of the waves after finally reaching them. But what could’ve been an idyllic chill out scene shattered at nightfall as traders of bracelets and fresh fruit gave space to girls in their 20s with fake laughs and exaggerated body language. With spaghetti strap tops and miniskirts they didn’t reveal much more than I, but they seemed very far away from their own, modest culture, dancing to and being touched by Western men. Swallowing my dinner with unease I wanted to punch these men but I was scared to do so and I guess that wouldn’t have solved a lot. I wanted to make the situation better for the girls but before doing my research, I didn’t know how.

In Vientiane, the capital of Laos, I learn more about sustainable development challenges. Our hosts, Elina’s friends Lauri and Riikka, have worked in international development in Laos for a year. They explain to us some of the many difficulties here. A lawless situation in land rights means many of the country’s forest riches go unaccounted for and are stolen, ethnic minorities face a struggle for their rights and poverty takes its toll on everyone, especially hospitals and schools. There is a lot of frustration in working in a nation that doesn’t like change. But as Lauri points out, the flip side is a society that isn’t based on money: “Try giving a tip, the waiter will run after you with the money wanting to return it”, he laughs.



Lauri and Riikka send us to an organisation called COPE to learn about secret bombings in Laos conducted by the US during the Vietnam War. During that time this sleepy nation became the most bombed nation on earth with some 200 million tonnes of cluster bombs and other ammunition being dropped on its grounds. Unbelievably 30% of these bombs failed to detonate and today some 80 million of them still remain. With a thriving scrap metal business offering the chance to earn wages four times the national average these hidden explosives are sought for, and result in destroyed limbs and lives for children and adults alike. COPE is the only organisation in Laos providing prosthetics and mobility devices and they also train local physiotherapists. Their services are free for those who can’t afford to pay.



From seemingly almighty politicians and charity visionaries, randy tourists and responsible consumers I’m not stating anything new by saying it all comes down to choices. Wanting and fighting for a better society doesn’t need to mean being enlightened by a blinding light and changing all our wicked Western ways. But we need to believe in our own power as individuals to change the world for better – or for worse. From buying lunch to the way we interact with our loved ones, every decision has a consequence and although it’s impossible to always do the right thing – even if there is such a thing – trying might be the most epic journey of all.

Kong Lo

“The only way to transform gracefully is to concentrate on what is permanent.” This was said by Christophe, a yoga teacher I encountered in Chiang Mai a few weeks ago. Today I and Elina are in Laos, tranquil by name, which with its elongated vowels and silent s is difficult to mouth with haste. At the heart of this country there appears to be a calm earthiness, different to the gentleness of Thailand and spiritedness of Cambodia.

Elina and I travel fast now. With less than a fortnight in this land where ancestral spirits are given Pepsi to promote domestic happiness, we are eager to experience as much as we can. It’s hard to find night buses so we spend many days watching the world go by through a bus window that is too hot to touch. Plastic seats and temperatures in their low 40s make for a sticky existence and the loudspeakers of the buses work better than air conditioning bellowing Laotian schlager songs into our ears as we pass jungles, mountains and the magnificent River Mekong.



After spending two days on a boat, a mini bus, a large bus, sleeping in a dirty guest house at the side of the bus station, a middle size bus, two bus taxies and two more boats, I find myself mesmerised inside Kong Lo Cave. It’s not the destination, it’s the journey, they say and rightly so. But for me Kong Lo is unlike any other destination.

We enter the cave by motor boat. Seven kilometres long, the ground of the cave is mostly covered with clear, cold spring water. As the darkness swallows us the air smells musty but feels fresh after the angry heat of the jungle. Our two local guides glide us through the waters without words and it’s easy to imagine a world of ghosts, untouched by the sun. But the loud rumble of the motor boat keeps my thoughts from being spirited away by the timeless phantoms that rule this motionless stone kingdom. The roof of the cave rises and falls from a few meters to unknown darkness but there is little echo. Our guides’ head torches cast arched lights, like grey scale rainbows across the cave, illuminating otherworldly stone formations that inspire the mind to fly to space. Our shadows are long and our presence is the only movement I sense, made possible only by tiny glimpses of torch light that fight a losing battle against the cave’s eternal night. I emerge back into our world my eyelids glued to the back of my eyes from awe. The sun is blinding and my pink, fake Ray Bans are stuck in my hair. Untangling myself with my eyes closed I savour the moment of having seen something miraculous, something I didn’t know existed.



Afterwards the two of us walk in silence to a nearby village of maybe ten houses and ask for a home stay. A woman – her name sounds like C’mon – who lives in a large bamboo hut built on stilts, agrees to take us in. With no one in this village speaking English we quickly befriend the lanky limbed children lifting and throwing them in the air our three languages, Lao, English and Finnish mixing with giggles of joy that we all understand. In the evening after a mushroom and grasshopper curry on the hut floor the granddad, Mr Muoang, brings out a bottle of something strong and an old, tattered envelope that holds treasured photos. Elina smiles, “my dad would’ve had an envelope with memorabilia just like that too.”




We leave early the next morning repeating khorp jai, thank you. The heat has been replaced by welcome rain clouds that circle the mountains and verdant jungle. Ahead of us lingers another day on the bus, this time to the capital of Laos, Vientiane. My mind wonders on the cave, on village life, on Christophe’s words. Inundated with new influences, experiences and ideas we are in a state of constant change. But we look for permanence in patterns and routines that we recognise as familiar – the way village life is the same here as it is in Mongolia, the way the rains always melt the haze of the heat one drop at a time, the way dads everywhere cherish envelopes filled with warm memories. The only way to transform gracefully is to concentrate on what is permanent. Well, in my case gracefully might be an overstatement but let’s say less clumsily.



Angkor

Since a geeky college girl, history has fascinated me. It wasn’t just the hole in the armpit of my bearded teacher’s cardigan that made me smile in class. My teacher had the ability to tell stories from ancient to modern times linking the past with how we live and who we are today. In Cambodia, at the Temples of Angkor, compared in magnificence to the pyramids of Egypt and the Taj Mahal, I am reminded of this. I know very little, in fact I should confess here that the name Angkor hardly registered with me before my travels. But somehow these mysterious temples in a country distant from home are part of life’s jigsaw – one that connects you, me and everything that is, and has been in the world.

There are over a 1000 temples in this kingdom of the past, varying from piles of stone to the largest temple in the world, Cambodia’s pride, Angkor Wat. The air is hot and humid, blending the heady scents of the jungle and aged sandstone with visitors’ sun screen and sweat. Cicadas sing their chorus, camera shutters click and softly spoken languages mix. The temples are awe-inspiring; here you can easily get lost in time and space, maybe prod a stone hoping a secret passage will open. I'm fascinated by my fellow tourists and begin to wonder about the myriad of reasons people visit Angkor. For some it’s photographic heaven while others find inspiration from the sheer majestic and spellbinding nature of these buildings. Many will make a spiritual connection with these formerly Hindi and presently Buddhist monuments while a few just wish to let it hang amongst temple stones awaiting restoration, while enjoying a contemplative fag.

But exploring the magnificent architecture of the Khmer Empire has not always been a given for South East Asian travellers. From 1975 to 1991 Cambodia was engaged in a brutal civil war during which an estimated 2 million people – almost a fourth of the nation’s population – died through starvation, disease or execution by the Khmer Rouge government. Tragically the legacy of the war lives on with unmapped landmines still demanding lives today. Cambodia has one of the largest ratio of disabled people in the world and lives and livelihoods are lost – even a rumour of a mine can have an effect on farming communities making large field areas unusable. No one knows the amount of mines still hidden but according to some estimates another decade will pass before the nation will be entirely safe from underground explosives.

A few miles from Angkor, Elina and I find an NGO working to demine Cambodia. It was established by a man called Aki Ra, who in the 1970s was kidnapped by the Khmer Rouge and made to work as a child soldier, his small hands nimble and quick to mine the fields. After the war Aki Ra turned from killing fields to healing fields using his rare skills to demine some 50 000 mines. He established an informative landmine museum and a free school for child landmine victims. Currently it houses about 30 children with hopes to enlarge. I find Aki Ra’s life extraordinary and inspiring.


With a dramatic history, Cambodia stares its past in the eye on a daily basis. This feisty, edgy nation has taken a stronghold of my heart. Back at Angkor, I share the sunrise with hundreds of other visitors from all over the world. My mind is firmly in the present, watching the familiar routine of the sun, bringing the night to an end. But as well as familiar, it will never be the same, this particular sunrise on this particular day. It freezes these wise, ageless temples, along with the viewers to this moment. Today tourists and travellers, yesterday rebels and god-kings, all somehow connected to the jigsaw that is life.



















P.S. The picture with the 'Danger Mines' sign is taken at the Cambodia Landmine Museum. To find out more about Aki Ra's work check out http://www.cambodialandminemuseum.org/

Bangkok

‘Come live in the house of fun!’ My round robin trip across Asia can be traced directly to these unforgettable words. The year was 2004 and I was feeling fresh as a bamboo sprout, off a Ryanair plane, on a sofa deep in the Mancunian student jungle and in the need of a new home. The author of these persuasive words turned out to be Singaporean, Sikh Ishwin who along with his girlfriend Pooja became my good friends. Fast forward eight years and I’m in Pooja’s native Bangkok and I can hear wedding bells.

Boarding a night bus to a capital city anywhere in the world has always been one of my favourite travel moments. Delhi! La Paz! Bangkok! Written in large block capitals these names are like muses to the mind of an adventurer, screaming of new worlds a mere bus ride away, waiting for exploration and discovery. This time the butterflies in my stomach were doing double somersaults of excitement because my Finnish friend Elina would be joining me in Bangkok for the final month of my travels. As well as anticipating sharing the journey with my best friend, I was looking forward to not being short changed again – Elina is good with money – and more importantly not having to shuffle around tiny station toilets with my megalomaniac backpack but leaving it under the watchful eye of my travel partner.



Ishwin and Pooja’s wedding was to be a three-day extravaganza set in Shangri La, a five star resort at the shores of Chao Phraya River in Bangkok. With no previous experience we set our minds to learning vital Punjabi wedding skills such as folding saris and learning basic Bhangra dance moves. With both bride and groom being part of the international student alumni, the wedding was a bit like the United Nations Peace Corps coming together to take part in a Bollywood musical scene. I was blown away by the generosity of my hosts and their friends. The thought of an experience being better together made us familiarise with each other quickly and share the fun.



From bright pinks, greens and yellows to whites, reds and gold the bride and groom wore rich, spectacular fabrics. They were surrounded by a wedding population of 600 complimenting each other with every colour underneath the sun. We dressed in 1920s fancy dress the first night and saris the second night. The groom rode an elephant in the traditional wedding procession along with hundreds of guests dancing down a Bangkok street to meet the bride. All girls wore henna on their hands while boys tied turbans to cover their heads. The spectacle got its happy ending after a temple ceremony and a third day of celebration as the couple waved goodbye, en route to their honeymoon.

Recovering from the three day celebration the remaining guests still found energy for a final rendezvous on the famously touristy but spirited Khao San Road. We walked out of the club in the early hours of Tuesday morning, dehydrated and still buzzing from the music. With neon lights creating an artificial dusk on the street and open terrace bars booming their endless pop anthems of joy, I started thinking more about generosity. Admittedly the thoughts formed slowly at that time of the night but here’s as far as I got: The essence of generosity is not material, nor is it related to culture. Generosity is universal; an openness towards familiar faces and strangers alike, an understanding that through accepting and sharing with others we are all richer in life. As my set, solo traveller’s ways become part of a duet it’s a valuable lesson for me to think about because it will let Elina and me find our mutual travelling pace. Along with a bit of Bangkok Bollywood Bhangra, of course.

Umpiem Mai

 In the middle of a bright, vivacious jungle in the North Western corner of Thailand, surrounded by a hazy view of purple mountains like mirages in the horizon, there is a village. The air is calm and a cool altitude breeze eases the sun into a pleasant, warm dance on the skin. This is nature’s paradise – but for some it feels like a prison.



Umpiem Mai is a refugee camp, one of nine that line the Thai-Burmese border. Together they home an estimate 140 000 people who have escaped atrocities in Burma. With the oldest camps almost 30 years of age, this is one of the world’s most protracted situations for refugees. People come here hoping to register as asylum seekers and move to safer corners of the world. Facing deportation if they go outside the camps, people’s lives are on hold. Although many have been able to resettle as refugees across the globe, constant new arrivals have ensured population numbers here haven’t fallen.

I and my coordinator Ta are here for one day, taking pictures of the women artisans in this camp of 15 000 people to help promote fair trade for WEAVE. On first sight Umpiem Mai looks like a relaxed, rural village. Children are busy playing their serious games that are so often underestimated by passing adults concentrated on their own daily woes. Roosters pompously fight for territory on the hilly dirt roads that are lined with leaf-roofed, delicate bamboo homes. There are no brands, at least not like you and I know them. Instead the paths are lined with logos of international relief organisations with each one holding its own area of responsibility from medical care and education to protection and sanitation. Basic needs are covered and some people have electricity generators and radios. Food – rice, oil, fishpaste, peas, chillies and protein powder – is rationed and delivered on the 27th day of each month. Income generation is a problem, according to some estimates only 10% of the population here works for a wage. Domestic violence is common.

Many adults were born here, knowing no reality outside these camps. Naddii, one of WEAVE’s artisans and our guide for the day has lived at Umpiem Mai for some 10 years. She is tiny and in her efficient and graceful manner there is an ethereal quality. She takes us inside family homes raised from the ground with bamboo poles, their thin and transparent floors cracking under our weight. The bright afternoon sun pierces holes into the otherwise murky inside light as we photograph the women working at their simple weaves. There is no furniture par a few sacks and barrels, maybe an altar.

In late February a fire at Umpiem Mai destroyed the homes and belongings of almost 3000 families. Miraculously no one died and today the air is filled with the sound of rhythmical hammers rebuilding structures. As I and Ta watch from a nearby hill a man climbs up to talk to us. He has been here since 2007, his father and brother being no strangers to Burmese jails and hard labour. He is frustrated; university educated, he would like to do a master’s degree in computer science. But like most people here he is waiting to register as an asylum seeker to get permission to continue his life safely - as a free man. “Can you inform people? We are waiting. Can you tell them about us?” He asks me as we say good bye.





It would be tempting to end with a cosy platitude on hope. With all eyes on Burma of course there is hope but people here are yet to be convinced. Over the distant mountains, the sun may set a thousand times beautifully and mournfully. But before there is change in the outside world, here in the midst of formidable beauty these people’s dreams and destinies can’t escape. As the hours, years and decades pass, everyone is still waiting – for news, for a home, for a better life. This is the prison of the human spirit.

Questions

 

“Today you’re going to meet the wizard”, says Rachel’s friend Roula, as the three of us try to harmonise our arms, shoulders and legs in a jam-packed bus in 40-degree heat. I have a day off volunteering and I’m spending the morning observing Rachel and Roula’s healing/massage class. Their teacher is called Pischet, a healer with a reputation reaching across the globe. Small and smiling, he is a chain smoker who dresses in an old pair of shorts and a white t-shirt sporting a logo ‘Thailand Massage Circus’. He talks quietly sitting on the floor in a room that appears to be a temple, massage studio and store room. Acupuncture wall charts hang amicably next to cross legged Buddha statues and a wooden carving of an elk’s head. There’s a grandfather clock in the corner that could’ve belonged to my late grandparents’ living room. As the fans hum and lizards cackle, Pischet lectures in his own brand of English that Rachel smilingly translates: hangover means emotional baggage, in the bok means in the box, or in the coffin. For me his wisdom is hard to decrypt.

I’ve been in Chiang Mai for three weeks and I’ve developed an inquisitive routine. Most weekdays I volunteer as a media boffin at WEAVE. The charity aims to empower refugee women from Burma to earn a living by practising traditional handicrafts. I’ve been busy taking photographs for Oxfam’s online shop as well as updating our own catalogue. In the evenings and weekends I mix with Chiang Mai’s transient foreign community. Many people here are looking for something; there’s a spiritual idealism that is in strong juxtaposition with a sense of disappointment with the Western world. So far I share neither, but as a nosey Parker I’m tirelessly fascinated. The people I talk to vary from a French aid worker disillusioned after seven years in Somalia to a Jewish Canadian researching communication between animals and human beings.

My contemplative mood is interrupted by a fight. Since arriving in this town surrounded by moats, the momentum has been gathering for a three-day battle. The whole city of 1,5 million people partakes so I buy a weapon from a local dealer. I’m safe for all of 30 seconds. Then a car pulls by my side, the window is lowered and I’m royally drenched in water. The Buddhist New Year, Songkran, is here. For the next three days valuables as well as white t shirts are best left home because everyone is a target in the great water fight. Originally a blessing with a gentle trickle, these days water is blasted with garden hose pipes and poured by buckets from open top vans by normally tranquil citizens. I get immersed in the fun with Ben, 7 and Jade, 10, bright and brave expat children based in Bangkok. They are visiting Rachel with their teacher parents Andy and Carrie who have lived overseas for over two decades. “The idea of Songkran is to dodge the water” Jade expertly coaches me as I recover from yet another ice cold bucket load emptied over my head. As I get to know this family I admire their courage to think outside the box and chase their own lifestyle.




Back at Pischet’s, a student sitting next to me feels the tension in my neck and signals with his hands an overwhelmed mind. He is right. I try to make sense of this notorious healer’s wisdom about how we need to learn to listen to our bodies. But I struggle to put together my thoughts. I wonder about life experiences that happen so quickly and seem to bear little relation to each other. How are memories, conversations and moments best treasured? How do we best learn? In this particular journey I’m half way. As I prepare to lift my oh-so-swollen rucksack after a month in Chiang Mai I have no answers. But perhaps it's a good idea to keep trying to get soaked in more than just water.