I decided in early 2006 that I'd had enough of the London rat-race and the career thing - at least, for the time being - and that I'd like to take some time out: "me time", as it were; time to do at least some of the things that I'd been thinking about doing over the last few years but hadn't been able to fit in around work and client demands.
So here I am: backpack to the ready (to be honest, it had never really been put away after my '93-'94 round-the-world trip), and a gazillion ideas about how to fill the next xx months..... (And, no, I've no idea when I'll go back to the "real" world, nor what I'd do if/when I get back there. Time enough to figure that one out, I reckon.)
Being an about-to-be-former technology lawyer, I thought I'd better join the 21st century and save you all the trouble of deciphering my handwriting (not to mention saving myself the hassle of writing postcards and negotiating the purchase of stamps). So, if you're interested in what I get up to (edited highlights only, you'll be relieved to hear), do read on....
[Frequency of updates unpredictable, but I'll try and capture the highlights from time to time.]
I love vast open spaces. With no people. Preferably with some wildlife, though that’s negotiable. When Jo and I first looked into overland trips in South America in the chill grey of late December, Dragoman’s JQB120312 expedition jumped off the screen at me because of the big emptinesses it offered. Patagonia was one; the Bolivian Altiplano another. Yes, sorry Mum, you know I’m a culture-cretin at times, but these beat Machu Picchu hands-down on my wish-list. I reckoned I could always visit an Inca ruin or two under my own steam, but how often would I get the chance to drive across this extraordinary landscape? As I had found with the Gobi Desert and the Tibetan Plateau, the Altiplano is something which can really only best be tackled by overlanding. (It’s paradoxical, but the thing I
... read moreWe didn’t get into Bolivia the first time we tried. Or, rather, on the day that we were supposed to try. Snow, in unseasonal quantities, had led to the closure of the Bolivian border and threatened the closure of the Paso de Jama back into Argentina, so we weren’t going anywhere. Quirky San Pedro de Atacama in north-eastern Chile would have to put up with us hanging around for another day. There are worse places to be stranded. Two days’ earlier, we’d made our third Andean crossing in five weeks, each one very different and, if possible, each more spectacular than the last. The road from Bariloche in Argentina’s Lake District to Pucón in Chile had led us up to and around the side of the lone triangularity of snow-capped Volcán Lanín, before tumbling down the
... read moreWhen staying on the fringes of Los Glaciares National Park and contemplating a 4-day trek the next week, you can do one of two things: rest up, or warm up. Jo did the former; I did the latter. On my own. For a blissful and fantastically scenic, and gratifyingly energetic, eight hours. Welcome to El Chalten, gateway to the northern side of this dramatic national park in Argentine Patagonia. We had been driving across eastern Patagonia for several days, and, before that, the Pampas. We had just about had our fill of endless flatness, whether cultivated and lush, or increasingly barren and wind-blasted, so we were childishly excited to see the first hints of Andean peaks. The approach to El Chalten is very dramatic, the rocky pinnacles of the Fitz Roy Range fairytale-like in their snowy
... read moreWhen I was thirteen, my parents took me to Tuscany. In between the noisy chaos of Florence and the gravity-challenging architecture of Pisa, we went to a little village in the Apennines on the strength of my mother’s curiosity in Milton’s choice of simile, “Thick as autumnal leaves that strew the brooks of Vallombrosa”. If he had written “as glorious as autumnal leaves in Patagonia”, would we have gone there instead, I found myself wondering last week. For surely there is no more wonderful palate of natural colours above sea level than this, the gold, bronze, flame-orange, scarlet, pink and red of the lenga and the ñire, set against the bare rock, snow and glacial blues of Chile’s Torres del Paine National Park, a reward only for those prepared to invest a couple of days walking
... read moreThe Paris of the South. A city whose name, literally translated, means ‘good atmosphere’. Envy writ large on the faces of friends who have been, or who yearn to go. Buenos Aires had a lot to do to live up to its press... …but it did. By the time we dragged ourselves away on a sunny Thursday morning, finally boarding the Truck to head south, I was starting to think of it as another one of my homes around the planet. We’d twice come and gone and come back again. We’d stayed in Microcentro and Palermo, and explored San Telmo, Recoleta, Congreso and La Boca. We’d taken the ‘Subte’ and the local buses, chatted to taxi drivers and shop-owners and waiters and tangueros, dined on steak and pizza and pasta and icecream, and supped our first
... read moreBy the light of the full moon, the Garganta del Diablo looked eerie, mythical, surreal. Majestic, terrifying, unforgiving, relentless. Words simply can’t capture the noise, the immensity, the power. Water poured over the edge below, around and beyond us, an incredible stretch of foaming fury that, moments before, had flowed along its course serene and impassive. The travel gods had been good to us that day. Back in January, I’d booked us a couple of days at the Iguazú Falls as a fun place to spend Jo’s 19th birthday which would fall shortly before we began our overland adventure. That our arrival would coincide with the full moon – come to that, that there might even be “moon walks” to the Falls on the nights around each full moon – had not even flitted through my
... read moreIt was only an hour’s boat ride away. With ten days in Argentina’s capital before we joined the overland trip that should take us from Buenos Aires to Quito via Patagonia, it would have been rude not to spend just a few of them on the other side of the Río de la Plata. Uruguay would be Jo’s third new country in little over three weeks; at this rate, she was racking up destinations faster than I have ever done. “Montevideo” has an air of romance that I can’t quite place – as a setting for one of the Bond movies perhaps, or in sounding fictitious, not a real place in this world. For me, it’s up there with “Timbuktu” and “Mongolia” as somewhere I want to see for myself, to see what lies behind the
... read moreI first met Paulette last year. She is, without doubt, one of the most “good” people I have ever been privileged to meet. A retired social worker from England, she now runs La Mariposa Escuela de Español, a language school in central Nicaragua which is devoted to supporting, and putting every possible córdoba back into, the local community through a wide range of methods, from an extensive home-stay programme whereby students live with local families, to purchasing only locally-grown fruit and vegetables for consumption at the school, to funding all sorts of projects – including village wells, market gardens and local schools – in which her students often volunteer. She also does all she can to operate the school and the projects in which she is involved in as eco-friendly manner as possible. I was hugely
... read moreThe pages of my diary feel limp and damp. Fresh towels smell musty. Laundry dries, but only relatively speaking. The Calcutta-acquired Polos are soft and crumbly. We are kept awake by claps of thunder more deafening than any I’ve ever heard. Our movements to and from dinner are delicately gauged to try and avoid the worst of the downpours. My Mac waves the white flag and sacrifices its mouse-click capability, and the cursor develops a life of its own. The local football pitch resembles a lake; the boys play on regardless. Welcome to the early days of the monsoon in Kerala, or, as our sweet chatty host puts it the next day, the “pilot rains”, the actual monsoon being yet to come, so we’re told. We’re sceptical. A month later, I was walking down the street
... read moreStepping off the flight in Calcutta, I felt a twinge of trepidation. The only other occasion on which I’d been to this inadvertent icon of India’s romantic past and chaotic present I’d been hiding behind the tails of Prateek’s kurta. I had found the juxtaposition of even moderate wealth and poverty oppressive – street people asleep on the gorgeous staircase of his grandmother’s colonial apartment building – and the humid, dirty, grey heat overpowering. In an attempt to dress conservatively yet remain cool, I had bought a salwaar kameez in the market, but it was made of a nasty nylon-type material, the salwaar hopelessly short for European legs, and I had felt scruffy and over-cooked. This time was going to be different. After all, I was different. No longer the anxious junior lawyer on her hard-earned
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