Trudging up the hill, the only thing that prevents us becoming airborne it seems is the suction of our boots to the slop. The poncho that envelops us isn’t helping much aerodynamically, but beneath its shelter, shackled to my back, Kiva somehow manages to sleep. "It’s possible to experience four seasons in a single day in Patagonia", I recall, as a hail seeded wintry-mix swirls up through the valley gusting every-which-way, the sun's rays somehow penetrating the squall from a crystal-clear blue sky above; leading me to believe in the possibility of experiencing them simultaneously. Begun in 1976 by the late [View Full Entry]

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Every time the bus struggles to a reasonable start, the driver crunches around in a vain attempt to change gear, and we whimper to a halt. One too many for some of the passengers, who’ve been pleading with the driver to let them off for the last fifteen minutes, and are now practically forcing the door open. After depositing them on the side of the road, the bus staggers on up the hill, the driver claiming that once we reach the pass our troubles will be over. A bus approaches from behind, tempting more passengers to jump ship. Just as we [View Full Entry]

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That morning as the train jolted me from my slumber, I woke to spectacular chartreuse light which filled the carriage. Everyone was already up sipping green tea from glass jars, highlighted in the dazzle and staring out the windows. Our train came to rest on a viaduct and from beneath it yellowing green autumnal rice, illuminated in the rising sun, stretched to the horizon. There was no fanfare on our arrival that morning in Kaili, and not a solitary taxi driver awaits us as we exit the train station. We hop on bus #2 and trundle into town. Judging by the [View Full Entry]

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With an apartment still left to clean, garbage to throw out, money to change, and a whole wardrobe full of clothes to give or throw away, the task of packing our bags was pushed ever closer to our hour of departure. Deconstructing a year of fixed habitation in one afternoon, and stuffing virtually everything you own into the boot of an airport bound taxi, has to rank way up there in terms of liberating experiences. Yet we still woke up the following morning in China to the realization we were travelling with far too much stuff. Thus our first morning on [View Full Entry]

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Dawn was breaking as we drove from Iloilo airport past a solitary cow in its very own field. For the previous half year my spatial awareness has been unconsciously conditioned, my eyes unable to stretch beyond the confines of the grid patterned streets, or the all-pervading quarters that stretch to the hazy sky. If the eyes be the window to the soul, my enforced shortsightedness has doubtless left my spirit wanting; institutionalized behind the blinkers imposed by my voluntary servitude. The long and short of it is this; on that very same field in Seoul, you could build six apartment blocks, [View Full Entry]

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This is an apparent context If you’ve lived or travelled extensively in Africa you’ll be aware of something known as "corruption". It’s as old as the hills - or at least their colonial naming - and therein lays the problem. From the president and his cronies, through the police, all the way down to the lowliest civil servant. Everyone bemoans its existence, yet nobody seems to be willing or able to tackle it. Politicians, of course, are elected on the back of lofty promises to do just that, yet on gaining power, the bad apples are replaced and recycled by [View Full Entry]

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The clouds rolled in this morning whilst we slept, and encamped themselves between the mountains. They now cling stubbornly to the rooftops, heavy with monsoonal rain, refusing to budge until they’ve unburdened themselves of their load. There seem far fewer people out on the street this morning even though the same amount of people need to run the same amount of errands and the same amount children need to go to school. Our plans are clearly a washout, warranting one of those lazy days, reading books, picking from the menu and generally enjoying the leisurely side of travel. We’re not in [View Full Entry]

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Our coach tracked The Han River out of Seoul the forty odd kilometers up towards the North Korean border in the morning gloaming, and if you hadn’t known your destination beforehand, you’d still have felt The Sword of Damocles hanging over your head; as almost the entire length of the riverbank is fortified with razor wire fences and guard towers, lest the North Koreans attempt an attack on the heart of the nation. Ominous sights which certainly instill a sense of foreboding. Until ironically, we cross The Bridge of Freedom, to Dorasan Railway Station, situated right on the North Korean border. [View Full Entry]

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The rain is still coming down in sheets as I bound between the puddles, toward the hut. I cower under the overhang to avoid the cascades coming down from the roof and knock on the door. As the door creaks open, the hut draws in the damp night air, exhaling a cloud of pungent wood fire, through which a young lady smiles and gestures me to enter. There are no lights inside and through the haze I see a fire in the corner to which I am drawn. Two women hover over it, their facial features alighted in orange and black. [View Full Entry]

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The airport taxi drops us just as the ramp falls on the Likoni Ferry, releasing a flood of passengers streaming up the landing in their hundreds, reminiscent of some timeless migratory scene. Only vehicles pay for the short crossing that links the island city of Mombasa to the mainland south, which makes monitoring the exact passenger intake a tough call, I ponder, as we join the herd in replenishing the ferry, almost as swiftly as those departed. We find a lofty vantage point up on top deck and set down our bags. A boy of around ten engages us, asking where [View Full Entry]

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