A Monkey Could Do It

“Eeeeeeeeeeekkkkk!!!” The sound comes from me - I can’t help it. It’s an ancient reflex that rings far in our reggae-playing, relaxed beach hut. I’ve just spotted something that looks like a white rat nimbly climbing up the ceiling disappearing somewhere behind the weaved palm texture. I hate rats but even so the irony of screaming at the sight of a tiny rodent after arriving here from a safari at the Maasai Mara that was filled with lions, cheetahs and crocodiles doesn’t go amiss.

We’ve finished our shoot now and after a three-day wildlife safari on the Maasai Mara we’re in Zanzibar, the beautiful spice island on the coast of Tanzania. But getting here wasn’t simple: “Is there a problem?” Dave asks the check-in officer at Nairobi Airport as she types frantically into her computer refusing to make eye contact. The clock is nearing midnight and our plane is departing in an hour. “Perhaps the plane is full and we’ll get free first class flights anywhere in the world,” I muse to Dave. I have seen this happen many a times while filming a programme about airports so I know it’s not a made-up urban legend. Finally the check in woman looks at us: “Your tickets are void,” she says cutting her sentence short without emotion. There’s neither an apology, nor an offer of free flights. Dave and I look at each other. “And what will you do to fix this?” I ask. “Nothing, it’s not our fault,” she stares back at us, bored. And despite the next two hours spent arguing with ticket officers, duty managers and supervisors the best that we can do is return to our hotel and beg for our room back, book the next flight in 24 hours and hope that Opodo will boot the bill when their customer service centre opens the next day.  

Cue transit time: late night room service, the looping news of BBC World, sleep cut short by early morning echoes from the hotel lobby. But then, to our surprise, Opodo apologises unreservedly and we shuttle ourselves back to the airport; Zanzibar is beckoning us after all and so finally it’s time to lay down our film producer’s hats and entrepreneur’s cloaks, remove the veil of stress and reveal some serious trucker’s t-shirt tan lines; we’re going to the beach!

But perhaps because of our delay time feels precious and making a beach bum out of a telly producer isn’t as easy or instantaneous as I hoped. I diligently swim, tan, do yoga and get drunk on a combination of local beer and rum cocktails, yet still feel a familiar London neurosis in me, that Fear Of Missing Out. We meet other travellers, glowing honeymoon couples and independent explorers, full of stories about finding secret paradise beaches and chance meetings with wild dolphins. There are so many options on what to do and to think that someone else is having a better time than you - well, that’s the best way to ruin a holiday. “Comparison is the thief of joy,” says Dave as I mull over all the possible should-haves, could-haves and would-haves. He’s right of course, but once you’ve started how do you stop? 

The next day we book ourselves on a tour around the island and its beaches. On our way back the bus brakes to a sudden halt in the middle of the road. The driver has spotted some red colobus monkeys that are some of the rarest animals in Africa. The whole bus load of tourists, all twenty of us, cram to the windows and clamber on top of each other to catch a glimpse of these rascals while they look back at us without reaction, relaxed, bemused. For just a second I stop and see myself through the eyes of all the animals who’ve seen me on this journey, the lions on the safari, lazy and content, sleeping sixteen hours a day, the white rat in our beach hut taking its exit gracefully leaving me in a useless state of panic, the Zanzibari monkeys rocking on tree branches, calmly facing all our fussing and flashlights. I wonder if they’d laugh at me for taking myself too seriously because in their lives there are no free first class flights, no comparing, no fear of missing out. Their lives are just common sense really.

Filming in Africa: Tired But Committed

“You either win or you lose; it’s two way traffic,” says Wi, our friend and designated pikki-pikki driver, as he, Dave and I rattle through the bumpy dust roads of Rusinga one evening his motorbike’s light breaking the cooling night. He’s philosophising about gambling, but he could just as well be talking about filming a short documentary, which is what we’ve been doing for the past week. Our story is set in the fishing communities around Lake Victoria. 

For any filmmakers winnings and losses come in different guises. Not getting the sound kit to work on the first day of filming is probably a bit like having a terrible hand on your first round of the night. But on the other hand, having excellent local fixers is like having a good streak throughout the game. That of course is more than luck though; by the time I arrived last week Dave - never one to do things by halves - had already put together a shooting schedule and hired two local fixers to introduce us to potential characters and to translate. “Isn’t he cool,” I say to Dave referring to one of them, called John. “I think in a past life he used to be a cat,” replies Dave and that pretty much sums John up. A former fisherman he knows and is loved by everyone. Our other fixer is called Salmon, a beautifully articulate and polite man who slightly ironically is afraid of being on the lake.

And what about making a film with your boyfriend who’s on his first shoot? Well, we’ve both blown a fuse once or twice, because filming is always stressful, and with no commissioners, bosses or budget you can only rely on your own judgement. But for the most the two of us have formed an efficient good cop bad cop team: “I like being a producer, it allows me to be bossy and organised,” says Dave. Guess who’s the bad cop.

The real jackpot though for anyone trying to shoot stuff is finding good characters, people like Asha and Ezekiel. A gambling fisherman who lives with no care of tomorrow, behind Ezekiel’s ragged clothes and blood-shot eyes is a bright mind being slowly destroyed by the illicit brew he downs like water. “It’s to stay warm,” he explains swallowing a glassful just before setting on the waters. The fishermen here work from sunset to sunrise using kerosene lanterns to attract small fish called omena. Most of these men come from landlocked villages and so they never learnt to swim. “Parasites” says Asha, a 28-year-old mother when asked to describe some of the men. It’s a strong word but as a boat manager she’s regularly forced to sleep with fishermen to keep them working on her boat.   

In a different world these honest, flawed and brave people could be our friends. It’s easy to see Ezekiel’s brightness, jokey and articulate in English despite not having used the language for twenty years. There is a wisdom in Aisha that makes me feel she could be twice my age, not three years my younger. Maybe it’s a waste of energy to imagine a world where poverty doesn’t drive people into desperation but it’s a way of finding common ground. You win or you lose but crucially it’s two way traffic. Poverty simply isn’t a winning hand so there’s no nicety to end on but understanding the life choices that people make because of it and knowing the potential that lies behind it, well, maybe that’s one tiny step closer to something better.  

The Beginning

When people talk about Africa they make it sound like the scary Gruffalo from children’s stories. “are you ready for Africa?” friends at home asked me last week with wonder in their voices. “ah yes, that’s just Africa” travellers here quip exchanging experienced nods as they share their stories about delays, break-downs and quick fixes that seem to Western minds either ingenious or insane.

I’m in Kenya in a place called Rusinga Island. Confusingly it’s not an island, but it is on the shores of Lake Victoria and it consists of several small, rural fishing villages that are scattered a few miles between each other, connected by bumpy dirt roads filled with motorbike taxies - or ‘pikki-pikkis’ as they’re called - donkeys and carts, children in school uniforms and people carrying heavy containers on their heads. “This might not look like the road but it is” says Dave, gently pointing out that I’m walking in the middle of it and risk being run over. It’s him who’s brought me here: for the past two years, that I’ve been with Dave, his close ties to a local primary school called Alekii have become well known to all his family and friends. This time Dave has been here for two months already and we have one more to spend here together. 

As for me this is my first time in Africa and if I’m honest I’m glad to have some previous travel experience to my name. Not because there’s anything scary about it but it is just so damn different. We spend a day in Nairobi and on first impressions the city feels loud and impatient, with large, ugly birds hovering above it like fatalistic kites in contrasting silence to the busy streets below. The lack of materialistic stuff is more obvious than anywhere I’ve been. On arrival to Rusinga each pikki-pikki has to pay a small bribe to the police, just to get there. When we arrive, the power has been off for days not just from Rusinga but the whole county, and on my first visit to the outhouse a bat flies out of the toilet hole, upset by me peeing on it, hitting me in its panicked exit, making me scream and swear.

But my greatest surprise isn’t Africa, it’s my boyfriend. In two months of distance relationship, while I’ve taken upon myself to enjoy the great British summer for the two of us, my London-loving other half has transformed into a respected and much-loved village brother complete with banter in the local Luo language and a tribal nickname; he’s called Silual which means Brown. Although I have been aware of the affection the people here have for Dave and vice versa, it’s truly touching to see it for myself. Next week I’m looking forward to meeting the toddler David Jackson, who was named after Dave when he first came here two years ago.

Our two different summers meet in the middle in the banda-hut that is our home for the next two weeks; we are staying in a charming eco lodge that has a bed and running water. While Dave welcomes these creature comforts with excitement and happy smiles I find it hard to sleep amidst the cicadas’ night concert; the bed feels hard and on the first night the hot water isn’t actually working. I know I’m being treated like a princess and try to smile at my spoilt thoughts rather than be cross with myself for not adapting straight away. And soon my worries disappear, leaving me feeling happy and calm, like I’ve always been here and the distance between me and Dave was just a snap of fingers. If I encounter another bat I’ll still scream but maybe now after the first shock I’ll shrug my shoulders and nod knowingly: “Ah, that’s Africa.”

Home

“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.